Humidity and Honey Moon

death knight rap WIP

2009-11-05T23:27:00.004-05:00

[Intro]

[Girlish voice]

I mean, like, I guess I'll try arena

Arthas is just sooooo hot

I'm totally rolling a death knight

O M G look at my eyes

They're like sooo blue

What buttons should I press?

This one? Wow, that guy just blew up!

I have got to call my boyfriend!

[Changes to a serious, lower tone]

So I can tell him I've got a new hobby

I rolled Horde, darlin

Better watch your little gnome mage

Cause I'm going to make him my ghoul slave

So I decided I'd spec myself blood

My Heart Strikes cause an outright flood

of red pouring down the streets and staining the snow

And no, pretty belf, I'm not your Forsaken ho

Got it flowing through my veins

My little runeblade covered in brains

Immolate, conflagrate, chaos bolt, incinerate...

Chaos bolt is a favorite. <3

I specced blood and you're gonna die!
You Alliance fuckers can't deNY

That when your ass walks in the arena with your PVE gear

And those nelf ears in my face you get DEAD

article 2.0

2009-10-25T17:07:00.002-04:00

After the Civil War, Georgia faced the task of burying the Confederate and Union dead that lay across the state. Many soldiers had been killed in battle, such as the Atlanta Campaign, but numerous others passed away in hospitals from wounds and disease. Though most of the dead in Georgia were Confederates, a significant number were Union soldiers who died in action, from illness, or in prisons across the state, such as Andersonville.

Dead soldiers were moved to already existing cemeteries or to entirely new ones specifically dedicated to the Civil War. Nearly every sizable cemetery in Georgia contains individual graves of Confederate fallen or veterans who survived the war. Several have entire sections devoted to Civil War dead. A few cemeteries are still entirely focused on Confederate soldiers killed in the war.

In many Georgian Civil War cemeteries stone monuments or obelisks have been raised to honor the dead. Soon after the war, the United Daughters of the Confederacy placed iron crosses of honor on a significant number of graves. Later, soldiers' resting places were officially marked with regulation government headstones noting their service to the Confederacy during the Civil War.

Due to the devastating nature of warfare and the frequent inability to identify fallen men, many soldiers remained unnamed even after found. The condition of the corpses was often very deteriorated after battle because of wounds sustained and decomposition; many were initially buried near where they fell in mass graves. Frequently, fallen soldiers were left them without markers of their identities, causing their graves to be marked unknown.

Approximately 125,000 Georgians served the Confederacy in the Civil War, and around 25,000 died fighting across the United States. Inside the state itself, there were over four hundred battles and skirmishes that left many Union and Confederate dead near farms, homes, hospitals, and towns.

Existing cemeteries, like ones already established in Atlanta, filled with Civil War dead and had to be expanded. The following are Georgian Civil War cemeteries, though the list is not exhaustive:

Americus - Oak Grove City Cemetery - 129 Confederate with 45 unknown

Andersonville - Andersonville National Cemetery - 13,699 Union

Athens - Oconee Hill Cemeery - 12 unknown, 4 generals

Atlanta - Oakland Cemetery - 2,500 Confederate, 20 Union

Atlanta - Westview Cemetery - 347 Confederate

Augusta - Magnolia Cemetery - 300 Confederate

Barnesville - Greenwood Cemetery - 115 Confederate with 84 unknown, and 2 Union soldiers

Cassville - Confederate Cemetery - 300 unknown Confederate, 1 general

Columbus - Linwood Cemetery - 200 Confederate

Covington - Covington Confederate Cemetery - 67 known and 8 unknown Confederates

Dalton - West Hill Cemetery - 421 unknown Confederate, 4 known Confederate, 4 unknown Union

Forsyth - Forsyth Soldier's Cemetery - 299 unknown Confederate, 1 known

Griffin - Stonewall Cemetery - 500 Confederate, 1 Union

Jonesboro - Patrick R. Cleburne Memorial Cemetery - 600-1,000 Confederate

Kingston - Confederate Cemetery - 250 unknown Confederate, 2 Union

LaGrange - Confederate Cemetery - 300 Confederate

Macon - Rose Hill Cemetery - 600 Confederate and Union

Marietta - Confederate Cemetery - 3,000 Confederate

Marietta - Marietta National Cemetery - 10,000 Union with 3,000 unknown

Milner - Confederate Cemetery - 100 unknown

Moultrie - Greenfield Church Cemetery - 75-100 unknown

Newnan - Oak Hill Cemetery - 268 Confederate

Resaca - Confederate Cemetery - the first Confederate cemetery in Georgia

Rome - Myrtle Hill Cemetery - 377 Confederate, 2 Union

Savannah - Laurel Grove Cemetery - 1,500 Confederate, 8 generals

Stone Mountain - Stone Mountain Cemetery - 150 Confederates

West Point - Fort Tyler Cemetery - 76 Confederate and Union, 1 general

A sampling of Georgia's Civil War cemeteries:

Cassville Cemetery is named after a town burned by Sherman in 1864 after the fall of Atlanta and holds approximately 300 Confederate soldiers and 1 general who died in eight local hospitals. The United Daughters of the Confederacy placed marble headstones in 1899.

Marietta boasts both a National Cemetery and a Confederate Cemetery. The first contains over 10,000 Union soldiers, only 7,000 known, who died in the Resaca campaign. The second is the largest Confederate cemetery in the state, holding 3,000 soldiers who died in local hospitals, in battle, or in an 1863 train wreck. Wooden markers were replaced in 1902 by marble headstones.

Oakland Cemetery has 2,500 Confederates buried in its grounds as well as five generals. Alexander Stephens was briefly interred here. It is Atlanta's oldest cemetery, and soldiers began being buried before Sherman's March, having died by wounds and disease. Wooden markers were replaced by marble ones in 1890.

seasonal

2009-10-23T00:40:00.006-04:00

They had met once before, when the frost had licked at their eyelashes and the sky had burned bone-white.

Marivy was a slender, half-aware thing then, growing famous for his duels and sly smile that cost kings small fortunes. But he had not become the Courtier yet; he was certainly a man of the Blue Court, all silver and sapphires, but thus far he had not dominated the marble floors.

His dear opponent had just passed his final trials to knighthood. Somewhere the chaos of battle, an angelic soldier of the Eastern Nations fell under his blade. He took the elite's last words and letters, but not his wings. All he needed to do was return these to his Queen. A brief bow in her throne room sent his position sliding upwards with all the benefits his country could bestow. He was a knight, a man of the broadsword and plated armor, something unique and not to be tampered with. His intimidating looks did not mean ladies did not try desperately to seduce him and men did not cast stones and daggers at him during daylight and in the night.

The Red Court and Blue Court had opposed each other longer than the dragons had struggled for power in the seas. Sometimes the dance was dangerous and brutal, other times one might not even realize a struggle was occurring.

But this the Knight knew, and he was wary when the Blue Court sent an ambassador to visit the Queen for his ceremony. Of all her knights, he was the strangest looking and had received significant attention from his fellows, the Queen's courtiers, and other countries. Of his mother's four children, he was the second oldest and utterly pale. He had been gifted a white horse teasingly in his youth and a small albino cat after he passed his first trial. The Queen was rumored to be finding him a white drake he could put out in the fields or kill, whichever he preferred.

He did not have red eyes, like most albino animals, but no one could look at him and consider him normal. Rather tall, broad-shouldered, and yet somehow strangely off-white, he came across as a strange, wild stag untamed but for one lovely woman. The Knight took advantage of this; he stayed silent and strong. As an indicator of his desire not to be disturbed, he had broken a fellow courtier's arm when he was threatened two days before his ceremony.

He was outside in the wintry weather contemplating just that injury when the Blue Court's petite ambassador approached him.

Like always, the Knight wore a thick red scarf at his neck and his Queen-kissed sword at his side. In stark contrast to his shining, snowflake-brushed plate armor, the courtier of the Blue Court had on dark, tight clothing: a detailed black doublet over a much more flowing shirt. His equally hued breeches were tied to the doublet with fine, colbalt blue ribbons. His cloak descended down to his hips just as his hair touched down to his shoulders. He walked with casual importance, amusing himself looking at the sky turned white with snowfall.

He paused before the Knight as if the encounter was spontaneous, though it was everything except that. "Wonderful to see you here, Sir Asahel," he said easily, smiling for the first time at the Red Court soldier. It was a moment that would forever haunt the Knight, though he wasn't particularly aware exactly why during the first time they met. Nonetheless, something about that smile was a little too loose, a bit too crooked, dangerous like a throwing knife.

"I have not been knighted yet," the Knight replied, finding himself uneasy at the other man's knowledge of his name, very close to his truename. "But it is -" He stopped then started again. "The weather is likely more entertaining than what you see down south?" He stumbled almost immediately, wincing at himself. He wasn't ready for the inter-Court conflict hidden behind shadows, but the ambassador was there anyway, smiling like a streetside butcher.

The Blue Court courtier shrugged politely. "Oh, it is something to witness. All of this is." His eyes were on Asahel suddenly, and the Knight imagined that the heat radiating from his face had nothing to do with his heavy armor or the thick scarf at his neck.

"I hope to entertain you," he said without thinking.

Then his skin truly flushed, so he stared right over the ambassador's head, wanting a Blue Court knight to turn from the green-stripped woods to run him through.

Whatever the courtier's first reaction, his second was more noticeable and could not be ignored. He bowed slowly and sweetly and, upon rising, introduced himself plainly. "My name is Marivy."

As the Knight looked at him, the courtier's eyes flashed up, ferociously icy blue, a kind of color no one in the Red Court had. Asahel fell into fascination without even moving physically. He stiffened and saw straight through the man before him, into shadowy danger, political unrest, assassinations, seductions, all that came with being a true, utterly royal courtier.

Asahel had no time to react: in a second, Marivy had stepped forward, and, even though he was shorter by some length, the courtier stood on the front of his feet to reach up towards the Knight's face. His lips were abruptly by Asahel's - pale, cold lips that breathed betrayal and murder and soft nights on silk sheets.

"But you can call me whatever you want, Knight."

Asahel glanced down so stiffly he thought his armor had frozen over. Marivy's eyelashes glistened with frost, and his blue eyes burned darkly. His smile was the most dangerous thing the Knight had ever seen in his life - his mouth was inches from the courtier's. Everything and God urged him on to kiss the other man, though he had rarely felt any attraction to anyone since his trials started, but still he could feel his body responding, moving forward, to claim those enemy lips.

Marivy's bare hand pushed against Asahel's plated chest, not to move him but to remind him of reality, and the courtier was like the snow, slipping away past him without the slightest remorse.

Blinking slowly, it took Asahel some time to realize he had encountered his first true opponent and possibly his very last. He did not turn to watch the courtier go, but he knew the man was walking away only with the intent one day to return and harm him however he could.

That day Asahel became the Knight of the Red Court.

Marivy's own induction to the Blue Court came after the Red soldier's ceremony, a few more days before he went back north. In that time, Marivy slept with one of the Queen's handmaidens for mild gossip about her mistress and then poisoned two royal cooks, causing a third of the Court to complain bitterly for the next few months of the spicy, overdone nature of the lamb and beef. It should be known that Marivy's Prince took great comfort in irritating his rival politician, even the most minor aggravations. So when the young duelist returned home, his Prince brought him fully into the Court, giddy with gossip and murder, and, within no time at all, Marivy was called the Courtier of Blue.

Barely six months had passed before the Knight and the Courtier met again, now in springtime on the cusp of summer, where the sun baked souls and startled men out of their normal wary ways.

idea 1 - courtier/knight

2009-10-22T10:25:00.003-04:00

Our knight is albino. Yep. I said it. Let's just go there. Like, fuck it, let's just go there. White hair, pale eyes, super pale skin, should have died in the wild sort of deal. To add a splash of color to our dreary world, he's going to wear a banana sort of thing around his neck. None of the special little patterns, just straight up bright red.

Possible slash times

2009-10-21T01:21:00.002-04:00

Idea 1:

A sort of Dark Court - I have a good vision of a courtier in the crowd watching a new knight approaching the prince/queen/ruler. To make it interesting, I had in my mind both sides being evil - no one is good in this world. However, I enjoyed the idea of having the knight have white hair or some other really "different" quality about him - colorlessness being an extreme indicator of that. The courtier is a manipulator, a spy, someone not to be toyed with but his power is all subtle, his strength subdued until the last minute. The knight is his opposite, easily: his power is outward, external, brute strength, sword, shield. Nonetheless, he falters at the sort of fight the courtier can offer. The first scene, the knight walks up to the ruler and there is a large crowd of courtiers watching, and our main courtier does something different, looking sharply at him or shifting or scoffing, something. The knight abruptly turns his head and looks at the courtier - and instantly the two realize that they are destined to have a power struggle.

The second scene is at the end of a castle hallway. The courtier is talking to a servant or someone of a lower caste at the end of the hall, by a huge stained glass window. The knight approaches, and it's not obvious at first he's heading for the courtier, but he is. He gets to the courtier and shoves the servant out of the way (down on the floor) without care. He slams his fist into the wall, and the courtier is trapped between the wall and him. The knight threatens him, saying he knows his tricks, etc. The courtier is at once fearful and challenged, and ends up with the upper hand, making the knight even more uncomfortable and wary.

Another thought was that the Knight and Courtier are from two different courts (red and blue? since black/white doesn't really apply...) but the Knight is sort of ambassador-ing. The Courtier is a known seducer/killer/de-powerer of these sorts of ambassadors. Imagine Versailles, beautiful gardens, lots of places to get lost, get killed, get kissed. Stripping of dark, velvety clothing and polished armor. Pushing against huge hedges, groping through cloth, panting, then having the other move away, totally in control. It could become a giant waging of power - whose in control, whose dominant, who will kill or kiss or commit a crime first. The red/blue could be interesting in a vague way, considering both courts are somewhat "evil" and very focused on dark colors / dreary tones (or white), not at all about color. That could be a turning point in the story, actually, where color becomes important. Maybe during sex, during killing?

Title opportunities range fantastically, but to a degree, I do enjoy the thought of "The Knight and the Courtier" or "The Courtier and the Knight."

Other alliterative possibilities (you know how they make me weak):

"Kiss Me or Kill Me"

"Kiss Me, Knight"

"Kill Me, Courtier"

unethical TA is unethical

2009-10-17T15:53:00.004-04:00

Taste of blood in my mouth and in the air

And to top it all off I'm losing my hair

Boy's still in bed, handprint on his ass

Tell him to wake up, that I'll see him in class

And no, I'm not bumping up his grade

Throw him a twenty, at least he got paid

Stole that President out of his pocket

He didn't deserve it, he shot like a damn rocket

Old Hickory can fuck it, bitch started the Trail

Do that nowadays, your ass would end up fucked in jail

Richard Lawrence should have checked the weather

Instead he rotted away in straps made of leather

Old Andrew Jackson got saved by humidity

But now we get to question his Presidential validity

I'd say that in class, but I'm just a grader

Don't look so incredulous, don't be a hater

I'm decidin' if kids get to keep their HOPE

"Ugly fucking handwriting, financial aid - NOPE!"

It's not about ethics or honor or some promise made to God

Please, for 13k a year, I'm sittin' in front of a firing squad

Trying to pay bills, buying books on declining gender and Foucault

What ever happened to George Washington and good old Rousseau?

Disgruntled, maybe, bitchy, yes, still going to educate your kids in four years?

Please, little metro rich bitch white wife, whine more, I feed on your fears

Until then I'll sleep in my office, grade until seven AM, fuck your son before class

Really, darlin, the only good thing about this job is slapping his sweet undergrad ass

all it comes down to seconds

2009-10-14T13:08:00.002-04:00

My life is about minutes.

How many more snoozes can I hit on the alarm clock? Each are five minutes. Five more minutes seems like such a good idea. Each. Time. I. Hit. The. Snooze.

Leaving at 1:45 to get there at 2:15... or what about 1:52 or 1:55 or 2? Could I make it at 2? My professor starts 15 minutes early and holds us over about 10 minutes each class. Minutes of my life I want and want back.

What about 3:30, then? Leave at 3:15? Is that too late? Am I going to be a minute late and have to knock on the door? Or should I leave at 3:08? Or is that too early? A few minutes of conversation with my colleagues? What does a few minutes of talking do? Do people like me more after those few minutes?

Then it rains. And the rain keeps coming, endlessly. I can't even count minutes there. It's just forever and ever. Need to appreciate that more, probably. :P

Generation ship idea

2009-10-14T02:19:00.003-04:00

I decided she could be like an Archivist - a Gatekeeper - a Doorwatcher

So she is in charge of this huge building's keys

like they use cards not keys anymore

But she has access to everything in the building, down to the most tiny things, like cabinet doors and air vents, etc

So she's in the lowest basement looking for something because only she can go into this lowest level as the Gatekeepr

because no one EVER goes down there, as she's going through some files from a big metal bookcase thing, it falls over

then a door sort of appears after the crash, like it's been plastered over

she finds the card-scan thing and gets inside and is greeted by a very narrow, white hallway with one chair in the middle with a book next to it

at the end of the hallway is another door with another little card-scan thing

she goes inside timidly and there's no light showing up, and both sides of the hallway are mirrored from the waist up

they've got spiderweb cracks here and there on them

she looks at the book - it's something famous (we'd know it) but she doesn't recognize it because it's been so long since we left Earth

she goes to the end of the hallway and looks over the door but isn't sure how to open it up

then like all rooms on the ship, its memory-keeper AI comes up

a tiny, little mouse

and she interacts with it, trying to get information about the hallway and why it's there and why it was behind the plaster

she asks it to show her the last person who came in, and she realizes as it holograms out the video that it's her predecessor the last Gatekeeper for this huge building

he comes in a lot like she does and scans his card on the door she's facing now (the second door)

and it opens and he gets sucked inside and the door snaps shut as soon as he's dragged into the next place

She's like "um, guess I am not doing that..." and starts to leave, but as she does, the person who sent her downstairs to find the file comes after her to check on her

as soon as that person steps towards the hallway, the first door slams shut and she can't get out of it

then she realizes that the only way out is indeed the second door

and she asks if her predecessor ever came back

and the mouse says, "Yes, he did. In fragments."

and here I am tempted to show the predecessor guy returning but sort of a shell of a man, totally haunted, pale, absolutely unstable and unable to perform his duties

but not sure if it's creepier not to show him at all

plus I'd like the mouse to say something creepy

"Pieces of a man returned."

something like that.

Next couple of days / week

2009-10-01T10:15:00.002-04:00

7770: TA observations - OCTOBER 2

8040: Paper Prospectus - OCTOBER 2/5

7770: TA observation paper; discuss the strategies employed by the two TAs, and decide what you thought was successful and what wasn't; what would you have done differently if teaching the same material? - OCTOBER 5

8060: Moderate class on The Uncommon Man Too - OCTOBER 5

8040: Recasting Liberty report & review - OCTOBER 7

Meet with Berry today
Meet with Cobb hopefully tomorrow
Arrange meeting with Kwass
BB King
See Carrie on Sunday
Return movies today or tomorrow (see the Japanese movie at some point)
Finish Counterfeit Gentlemen
Read/skim my Gettysburg books
Read Recasting Liberty book
Pay rent today
Send out bills
Grade exams, grade exams, grade exams
Go the park a few more times...

right now

2009-09-30T03:13:00.003-04:00

Nearly October of 2009. What the hell happened to December of 2004? I remember that shit like it was just last year. What about October 2008? How have 400 days passed so fast? I remember stressing about applications, the GRE, senior year, like it was last week.

What compounds it all for me is that my memory is so shot. I have no idea why. I fear one day I'll get a brain scan and they'll find some benign tumor blossoming right into my memory center. But for now it's all about the pictures and blog entries. Otherwise I have no idea what the fuck I am doing a year later, a month later, a week later, a day later.

To document what the hell my life is like this moment, this is what is on my desk:

A Japanese movie from Vision Video Anna and I got because the guy on the front is hot
Persepolis from Vision Video Anna and I watched last week
A nearly empty box of tissues
A receipt from a book I bought on half.com
Cold-Eeze box with most of the honey cough drops still inside
A Gettysburg book
My dead Nano 2GB iPod
My medication
Five yellow notecards (3 for my book next week, two for articles due today)
Nail clippers
DayQuil + little cup
Pen container with lots of pens and scissors
Tall plastic cup with swirls and stars with water
My Agnes ring
My silver earrings
Mostly empty coke can on a coaster
A fine-tipped pen I'm using to take notes
My digital camera
My plate that had my nuggets on it with the fork
Anna's origami centerpiece
My thankyou notes
A box for an eco-friendly lightbulb
A dead lightbulb
A bunch of coupons from our mail (junk mail)
A corkboard coaster

clever

2009-09-30T01:25:00.002-04:00

woke up at 9:15
pressed snooze until 9:25
dressed
went downstairs
checked email
got email from student who was sick and missing exam
emailed her back
was late out the door
pumpkin followed me from the bushes to the car and looked pitiful
heartstrings pulled, damn my lateness, I'm sorry kitten!
arrive at the same time as SC-buddy to our meeting
talk jokingly/anxiously with other TAs as we put scantrons in the exams
last TA shows up late, didn't understand where we were meeting, yay English issues
we all walk down to the student learning center
put signs up on the doors
switch out bluebooks with the students
get two bluebooks from students that are already graded exams - WTF KIDS WTF
SC-buddy instructs them, I add my own two cents
we get started, hand out exams
make sure everyone has them
start the tons of bizarre, little questions
catch no one cheating but lots of like "what the hell is on the floor" moments for me
everyone seems okay...
folks started turning them at like 11:45
we have tons of people still out in the seats at 12:18-12:19
I stand over a guy (who is in my SECTION! who I grade!) at 12:20 and he finishes up
we scamper outside
separate bluebooks
walk back to car
take photos on the way home
get home
make chicken sandwich after washing hands ugh ugh ugh
pass out for like forty minutes or something
wake up with a headache
do skimming of theory reading
totally leave my notes for the articles like a dumbass at home
drive back to school
walk onto class
talk with JT as I rush in
admit not finishing my antibiotics ahahaha I'm so screwed
theory class starts
Cultural History day, oh let's hope my not reading one or three chapters isn't noticeable
not so hard
my question is valuable and we talk about it a lot, sweet
we end on my question
much awkward with some questions / other students from other cultures...
I'm thinking how fucked I am when I moderate
eat my lemon zest luna bar
drink my week old coke that lasts until literally right this moment
get home
fuck off the next seriously six hours
watch bones marathon
get into several tussles
tomato soup
mint chocolate chip ice cream
vegetarian nuggets with cheddar cheese
not enough to drink like always (exaggeration here)
start to stress out
decide to make a list to calm down
listen to new rap songs thank god for youtube
write this blog

quotes from my reading

2009-09-27T18:53:00.003-04:00

From Natalie Davis's "The Rites of Violence" in Society and Culture in Early Modern France:

The game was to go with some women after a party and get one or two Protestant prisoners from jail, have the ladies chat pleasantly with them as they walked to the Saone bridge, and then drown them.

So in Meuax, where Protestants were being slaughtered with butchers' cleavers, a living victim was trundled to his death in a wheelbarrow while the crowd cried, "vinegar, mustard."

And the vicar of the parish of Fouquebrune in the Angoumois was attached with the oxen to a plow and died from Protestant blows as he pulled.

culture

2009-09-25T14:06:00.010-04:00

The veranda stretched on seemingly endlessly, beautiful white-painted wood going forever around the elaborately-carved mansion, and yet at the southeastern corner, two finely dressed ladies rested in small, white chairs. Their skirts spread out tremendously over and across the wood.

The mistress of the house was more petite than her friend, and the pale blue cloth poured brilliantly across her mocha-colored skin. She was slight and young but was usually so busy strangers could see the muscles under her dress and an expression that sorely demanded no one get near her. A little niece from another plantation had ventured up to her once and tugged her skirt in one of those ferociously busy moments.

Her mother had assured her daughter later the fine white lines that had come in as scars on her cheek would only accent her beauty. But the mistress of the Obnixele Plantation said nothing to the girl at all.

She had a few friends, though, even if her own sisters were afraid to have their children near her. Of course, her own daughter admired her and considered her flaws merely specks of rough diamonds she would polish in her own personality. But the Obnixele lady had gathered a few good companions through her brief years as mistress.

There was the mistress from the plantation beside Obnixele, Plantation Little Orange Blossom most often shortened just down to Plantation Orange. The mistress there was young as well and facing the same adulterous husbands and mulatto children destined to be working the fields one day . These mixed children were noticeable beyond words. Shorter yet still floppy ears with darker skin that didn't shimmer in the moonlight. Taller than an elf but much smaller than a human. Both the mistresses of Orange and Obnixele were too young to see these half-elvish, half-human children in the fields, even if their husbands may not have been.

Orange was even younger than Obnixele - indeed, a few years younger. But her husband was nearly a decade and a half older than her. She was his second wife.

The first had died in childbirth and was buried under a weeping willow that swayed in the wind like a woman neglected.

Sometimes, like now in this moment, the two women arranged a meeting so they could drink pale red wine still twinkling with sugar and comment about the direction of their future between sips and stares at the busy plantation.

Obnixele's cotton fields drifted behind the house, to the north, so they could not see the workers, just the darkly silver-skinned men and women who worked the stables and tended the livestock. These slaves had more clothes on, leather garments to protect against stray kicks and heat from the smithy. They kept their hair much further back than the field workers, pulled back in neat little buns regardless of gender.

The only stableboy who defied the tradition was Better, who had big black eyes and a sly smile famous on the plantation. He never showed his teeth, only smiled wide, crinkling down his eyes and ears in this roguish expression elvish girls swooned over. He kept his white hair at his shoulders tied back in a pony tail held away from his face by twine. Stray strands breathed into his face with the wind and when he toiled most roughly at his tasks.

He was trotting along one of the plantation mares - a darling thing recently acquired for the petite elvish overseer who monitored at night - when Obnixele and Orange spotted him hazily in the noonday sun. Obnixele sipped on her wine and sighed, running her fingers over the last bits of her black hair covering her chest. Orange, however, was nowhere near as laid-back: she leaned forward in her chair, placing her glass down, and tilted her head, following Better with her eyes.

Without warning the other plantation mistress, Orange stood up gracefully and walked over to the railing, giving a rather lady-like semi-shout to get Better's attention. He turned instantly, his silver equine-styled ears perking high at the noise. He saw the mistress and smiled his devilish, humble smile. Handing off the mare to another elf, he came to the railing and stared up, all huge black eyes and delightfully interested expression.

"Yes, sen-yoria?" Better asked quietly. He used the familiar mangled version of "senora" and the elvish word for authority "arhia" that most plantation elves spoke to the mistress of the house. The two words sounded terribly beautiful when spoken as Better did.

Orange kept her black hair back in a wide African ivory clip, denying any girlish twirling or sexual tossing, but she had enough sensual curve about her shoulders and exposed throat she could captivate any man. "Tell me, elf, do you like Lady Obnixele?"

Better's eyes glistened once. "Yes, sen-yoria."

"Do you think she works hard for you?" Orange asked in a playful jest, looking back at her friend. The mistress was watching the exchange carefully, having put her wine glass down in a gentle manner. It was at odds with the mildly stressed expression crossing her face. Orange didn't notice or didn't care as she persisted. "Do you think she works hard, elf?"

The elvish slave nodded firmly. His gaze slanted to Obnixele sitting higher up on the veranda. "Yes, sen-yoria. She works very hard for us."

Orange's lips quirked into a smirk. "And do you think she's pretty?"

At the statement, Obnixele startled out of her composure completely. One hand clutched the small chair's white arm, and her pale blue dress shifted as she nearly stood up to snatch the other woman back on the porch. "Menlina! Don't ask him that -"

Better, however, answered promptly, his black eyes never leaving his mistress's. "Yes, sen-yoria. She is very pretty."

Orange produced her white, lacy fan in time to giggle behind it. Further back on the veranda, Obnixele went still, her eyes somewhere between her friend and her slave and the blue sky.

The mistress from the other plantation, still behind her fancy imported fan, smiled in a particularly amused, malicious way. "You know you could be hanged for saying something like that, elf. Right now, right away."

Better did not look at her and instead bowed in the style of a Southern Spanish gentleman, perfectly copied as if he was one of the masters or their sons. Orange momentarily was taken aback by the gesture, forced to think about her own husband as the elf bowed. Obnixele raised her chin and settled her vision on her slave.

"I would rather die than lie about my mistress's beauty, sen-yoria."

Just as Orange stifled a gasp, Obnixele firmly stood up from her chair.

"You may go back to work, Better," she said cleanly. The elf rose his eyes to hers and smiled that low, long smile that had made him famous with the female slaves. The plantation mistress watched him silently as he returned to his mare with a mixture of a soldierly step and a gentleman's walk in his gait.

As Orange turned to look at her friend, Obnixele was already inches away from her. Her black hair had swept slightly into her pretty face, but her angry dark eyes were unavoidable and easily seen. The younger woman had no room to step back as she was pressed against the railing.

Obnixele's voice rolled out boiling and clear. Her promixity was as dangerous as her tone; they were nearly bosom to bosom, their noses inches away from each other. At her side, her hand shook in barely restrained rage. To her dear friend, she simply but scathingly warned, "You speak a word of this... I will claw out your eyes."

After a few more seconds of pinning the woman in place with her eyes and physical presence, Lady Obnixele moved into the house, leaving the beautiful door somewhat open. Her friend stayed at the railing for a moment, glanced at the elves training and grooming the horses, and scurried inside, preferring familiar, dangerous company than a strange culture she found unbearably incomprehensible.

cough cough

2009-09-23T11:42:00.003-04:00

The journey of having a cold is sort of painful - for obvious reasons as well as the never ending question of when is it going to get better.

I got my cold on Friday. It started as a sinus headache with inflammation like mad.

By Saturday it had neatly progressed into congestion with tissues becoming my new friends.

By Sunday I was hopping around with a sore throat. Coughing raw. Dry. Deep.

By Monday I was much better. Little cough.

By Tuesday it was sliding back. The cough was getting a little harder, deeper.

By today, Wednesday, I can't cough without it going like to the bottom of my lungs and then out. My throat is swollen. My lymph nodes are like HEY DO YOU SEE ME? And I feel fatigued as hell.

As in, I cough like a few times in a row then want to pass out. Like head on my desk pass out.

My lungs and chest cavity and ribcage are just not big enough for coughing. It feels like my lungs are pressing against muscle against skin against the air and nothing wants to give. Plus there's the rough, dry, fire pouring upwards swirling at the back of my throat. It gets out when I cough but starts back again when I close my mouth.

Sleeping is great, except when I wake up at 4 AM going "oh my sweet merciful Messiah, I need something to drink." Cue walking out of the room, down the stairs, across the living room, into the kitchen. All this is good and easy. What's bad about that? It's all good and easy. As in, I'm wide awake (like let's take a jog! wide awake) and can see everything (as in "oh I should clean this place tomorrow morning" vision). What the hell. Is my cold making me supernatural?

My head feels heavy, and my throat seems to have like a lukewarm lead pipe with two molten-hot screws where my lymph nodes are stuck down at the back of my throat.

Mmm, what can you say. It'll be over soon. All colds go away at some point.

starting the sixth week of year one

2009-09-21T00:04:00.002-04:00

I've encountered an inescapably large amount of strange things since I started my graduate school program six weeks ago. August 16th was the first day of classes. My graduate classes meet once a week for three hours each. The class I TA meets twice a week for an hour and fifteen minutes.

My cultural history class has about twenty three students in it. The rest have about fifteen. The class I TA for has three hundred. The sex ratio is even. There are few people of color. Very few. The few there are mostly are foreign, and do not speak English well (they came to America because of the University's graduate program). These individuals tend to be Asian - Chinese, Korean. Very intelligent and make good points, it's just very difficult to understand them. I think the language barrier is there and hampering, and that's frustrating for everyone (we all would like to hear their opinion, after all).

People are from very different backgrounds. Some people have their Master's and are going for their PhDs. Some folks just have their Bachelor's and are aiming for their Master's. Some pups, like me, have my undergraduate and are going for their PhD.

I've realized very quickly that I need to assess what I want to do with myself at the University. As simple as this sounds, it's horribly complicated for me as an individual and student. I am on a PhD path (a fast track, skipping my Masters).

I have three basic options:

1) Continue to skip my Masters, get my PhD at the University

2) Reign back my PhD path to a Masters path, get that, then apply to UGA, get reaccepted, then get my PhD at the University

3) Reign back my PhD path to a Masters path, get that, then apply to other schools (including the University, see where I get accepted, go where I want to for my PhD there (which could be the University)

Folks don't seem to transfer between places without getting their Masters first. So I need to decide soon whether I am going to get my PhD at the University the short or long way.

I enjoy where I am living and the area. It's a very good town. I enjoy the familiarity, the weather, the people, the downtown, the terrain, the classes, the professors, the students. I like that my family is close more than I thought I would. I am absurdly relieved to be somewhere I know and driving around there. A lot of my friends are still here, and I theoretically could hang out with them (I've done so to a degree, just not incredibly much yet).

I have to wait and see more, but it's a matter of time before the decision will have to happen. Nothing would be so dangerous. If I drop down to a Master's level, my work changes towards doing my Master's thesis. I can always reapply to the University, and I will likely make it back in. I may make it to a better school, but then it becomes a concern if I want to go somewhere else, away from the familiar grounds, to a metro area or a very scholarly area, and try to establish myself there while working in likely much more difficult classes with tougher professors. The University does not come across as particularly easy, but I will definitely have to see.

I mean, after all, I have no specialty right now. Much of my thoughts have centered on the Civil War over the Vietnam War, which is stupidly typical of young and old historians in the South.

I'm interested in the aftermath of the battle, which is a newer topic than much of what is normally discussed, but there is an established historiography for it. I am intrigued by the interdisciplinary cross-sections of psychology / history and the long history of PTSD and war wounds, but I'm thrown as to what to do. All that specifics has almost nothing to do with the fact I am very interested in simply teaching history to people, making it more public and letting the public understand how history works and the tougher, tinier parts of American history.

Only on my sixth week, and they've got me questioning my very career path. Well done, PhD program. I haven't been challenged this much since my first year of college when I took nine classes in a year, each in a different area, except for my second-year-level advanced Latin courses. Well done, indeed.

due dates

2009-09-20T20:38:00.003-04:00

2112: FIRST EXAM - SEPTEMBER 29

7770: TA observations - OCTOBER 2

8040: Paper Prospectus - OCTOBER 2

8060: Moderate class on The Uncommon Man Too - OCTOBER 5

8040: Recasting Liberty report & review - OCTOBER 7

8040: The Wool-Hat Boys: Georgia's Populist Party report & review - OCTOBER 21

8060: Encyclopedia article on CW Cemeteries - OCTOBER 26

2112: SECOND EXAM - OCTOBER 29

8040: Turn Away Thy Son report & review - NOVEMBER 4

7900: Moderate class on Memory approach - NOVEMBER 10

8040: PAPER DRAFT DUE - NOVEMBER 20

7770: Preliminary teaching philosophy paper in one page; what is the duty/role of teachers in the field of history, and how will you go about fulfilling these goals? - NOVEMBER 30

8040: Paper critiques - DECEMBER 2

8040: 12-15 page historiographical essay; final Papers (with historiographical family tree) - DECEMBER 11

2112: FINAL EXAM - DECEMBER 12

7900: 20-page-long review essay on one precise question; analyze interpretations and approaches; which is the most useful, why? - DUE DECEMBER 14

8060: 20-page-long literature review; cultural history; push limits - DUE ??

battle

2009-09-20T19:27:00.004-04:00

Leaning over the railing, cigarette held hard between her fingers, she didn't mind the rain on her head or shoulders or feet. Her light blue pajamas dotted with Japanese Lucky Cats were soaked up to her ankles with the water pooling on the walkway. She drew in smoke just as a slick, little silver car rolled around the corner past the pine trees into her vision. Holding the smoke down in her lungs, she tilted her head, shifting her body, feeling her bones adjusting, her muscles moving. Soreness in every inch. Anatomy class was making her too aware of how her body was nothing but a common thing easily dissected, easily destroyed, easily put down.

She didn't disregard the man getting out of the car, but she certainly paid him very little attention. She exhaled, and the smoke flattened out in the rain. The sky was white-grey and seemed flat like a painting, like if she reached far enough, she could touch it and feel God's strokes against the canvas. Her eyes followed the man up the staircase. He was around her age, her height, her educational level. He had vices like hers. His cigarette butts were neatly in an ashtray, hers were scattered in front of her welcome mat and in the bushes below. He glanced up at her, all violently distinguished blue eyes and sharp cheekbones and dark hair cutting sideways across his forehead. She stared back, remorseless, unrepentant.

He reached the top of the stairs. In one smooth move, he turned his hand over and gave her several pieces of mail. She found her gaze fixed immediately down on the letters and realized they had been misplaced in his mailbox but were indeed hers.

Her fingers weren't shaking because of the cold or the rain, but they were trembling regardless when she took her mail from him. He stepped up towards her door and inadvertently closer to her.

He had cologne on, something dampened by the rain and the weather that had been plaguing the city for days. The faint husky, delirious, perfect smell still floated in the air between them, battling her cigarette smoke. She almost winced when he pushed his fingers back into his pocket as she studied his attire - dark, business clothes, white crisp shirt under a black jacket, with a midnight blue tie wet from the rain. At the same moment, he seemed to be admiring her clothing, and she did wince finally, pulling back towards her door.

He watched her retreat. The briefest of tactics had occurred. He advanced on someone entrenched, and with his might, merely and mildly wielded, had forced her out of her position and back to her home base. She almost wanted to scowl, but instead she felt a flush coming up her neck and into her cheeks.

Her neighbor stayed in place, though his left eyebrow quivered then quirked up in clear question of her backing away.

But she really couldn't answer.

She was already back in her apartment when she realized in the exchange of her mail from his hand she had given him her still lit cigarette.

Had she lost the battle? Oh, completely.

misc romance ftw

2009-09-20T16:20:00.004-04:00

Share the joy of our femininity - m4w - 55 (NC)

Hoping to find a tall, lean and athletic (like me) women to share dress-up and intimacy. I can be a very attractive CD at times and a real handsome macho man at other times. I have been dressing up since I was very young. I am cultured and over educated. I love art, ballet, hot fashions and enjoy all kinds of erotic and sensual costumes, hosiery (I have drop dead legs), heels, exotic makeup, theatrical scenes. I am creative and liberated from the conventional as you assume by now, healthy and sane. Are you experimental, can we celebrate the joy of our femininity, all the artistry and the magic. Please use code #777 in your subject response for a reply.

Bored, Married, and IN NEED of CHANGE - m4w - 25 (Vista)

Look I'm not gonna go into much detail here on craigslist because your either gonna respond or your not. If you are then I'd love to get to know you. I'm a good looking white guy who is just tired of his situation. I can't just pick up and leave right now or else I would have believe me. I'm looking for some female companionship that is very spontaneous and random. I'm not looking for several different women, but just one. The random part wont be forever because when this marriage is over I'd like to have a relationship. Hit me up to chat.

I appreciate pics, but conversation is just as good on the first chat.

Couple here looking for another female to be in a relationship with us - mw4w - 21 (North SD)

We are a male(21) and a female(22) couple who would like to meet a female, between the ages of 18-35. We would like to have a strictly male, female, female relationship. Both of us are for this, but it's super hard to find someone that wants this type of thing. xD Would like to meet for hot cocoa or tea to get to know each other better. Potentially, we would like it to be more. We don't want to pressure someone into an uncomfortable situation, just want to make sure you are the right person for us.

If you're interested or want to trade pictures or know any other details then feel free to contact us. Please be disease and drug free.

FREE TOTAL BODY MASSAGE - mw4w - 28 (SDSU/MISSION VALLEY)

Hey girls, how would you like a free, one hour, four hand, nude massage? My husband and I are looking for a woman to come over and enjoy a relaxing massage with no strings attached. You will be the center of our attention and we will totally spoil you. We will have snacks, beers, and cocktails available upon request. We have a nice house in a safe neighborhood with a brand new hot tub. If the chemistry is right you will be welcome to stay and have some more fun, or you can leave right after the massage, no questions asked. We are a good looking white married couple, average build, 28 & 32 years old. I attached a couple of our pics below. We are not concerned with age or race so don't be shy. If you are interested, or you have any questions, please send us an email and include a pic if you have one. Hope to hear from you soon.

[Attached are a picture of a topless woman with her face blacked out and a picture of a man's erect penis, probably six plus inches - both are white]

Anyone else with a corset fetish? - m4w - 29 (San Diego)

I am very interested in knowing if there are women out there who have a corset fetish? I think a corset is the sexiest thing in the world, and I would love to chat with women who enjoy corsets as well or might be interested in modeling them for a cute, friendly, professional, discreet guy.

Karma - 31 (blah )

You opened it, Good luck. Tonight at midnight your true love will realize they love you. Something good will happen to you at 1:00 PM - 4:40 PM tomorrow, it could be anywhere. Get ready for the shock of your life, a good one. If you break the chain you will be cursed with relationship problems for the next 2 years. Karma. If there is someone you once loved (or still do) and can't get them out of your mind, repost this in another city within the next five minutes. Tonight at midnight they will remember how much they loved you as well. You will get the shock of your life tomorrow, a good one

well done missed connections

2009-09-20T16:10:00.002-04:00

we fucked in my jeep in escondido after we had some beers - m4w - 28 (north county)

---YOU HAD Cat Food in the elevator, u gave me directions - m4w - 25 (downtown)

you were amazing - w4m - 26 (o'side):

josh you gave me the best sex of my life please call me i think of you often

Dom looking for his lost sub... - 50 (Up North)

There were some phone issues and your number was lost. You; 5'4", blond, completely sexualy submissive, completely into it and having the most exciting and amazing time of your life! So, if you see this, I'm ready to continue teaching & training....
Daddy

Beautiful girl on Nobel last night around 11.30pm - m4w

I thought you were soooooo drop dead gorgeous. I would die for a woman like you.

You looked gorgeous while shopping at Henry's - m4w - 35 (Encinitas)

I felt lucky to have noticed you in the bulk food aisle. I was in a rush and really had a hard time breaking the eye contact with you. We had a short, simple conversation as my mind kept me moving past you and away to the checkout entirely against the will of my body. I was pretty surprised to feel such an immediate attraction and thought I noticed the same in your eyes. Could this be true?

Tattooed Barista - w4m (Mira Mesa Starbucks)

I know you only use Tagalog to be cute, but I wanted to thank you for perking up my days with your compliments.
It's been a lousy week and it's good to have something to smile about again.

Do you like fires in the summer? - w4m (the beach)

Did your heart just skip a beat? Do you miss me as much as I miss you. I said I would not contact you and I will keep my word. I don't want to be deleted completely when I know you will want to contact me. I want to lay in your backyard at 2 a.m. with you again. I just don't understand why you don't want to be with me if you care for me enough to want to have a baby??? My heart is breaking and I need you to heal me.

some warcraft shots

2009-09-12T19:51:00.002-04:00

friends

2009-08-31T01:02:00.004-04:00

Shoeless but not hopeless, the elves picked cotton.

The overseer trotted by periodically. His mare's chestnut coat was wet with sweat, but he rode on in wide laps around the fields, tugging down his hat and scratching at his badly shaven neck. He had a long whip, standard for his profession, that danced behind him like a waving urban drunk.

Almost all eyes were on the crop, not the man. The shimmery-skinned elves sweated differently from the horse and the overseer: their flesh went from pale luminance to something much more dull with hints of their typical granite-like speckles turning darker. Every slave had their skin transformed by this point in the day. Their hair, incredibly lightly hued, had stuck to their necks and forehead hours ago as the sun blazed overheard, clouds briefly and barely giving them respite. They were short enough to snatch up the cotton, their fingers more slim and delicate than men's to avoid the pain of picking the crop.

But their feet still grew calloused and bled when struck against rocks.

Polish sucked in a harsh breath and doubled over, cursing in his native language. His right hand swiftly went to his big toe, and he stared hazily at the wound. His nail was spread back in one ugly push. The offending rock was wedged in between the rows, mostly covered with thick red clay. He looked between the stone and his foot. His pale blue hair - that everyone teased him about, including his master and his mistress - ducked into his vision, wet and sticking to his speckled cheeks. He slapped it back and winced when he stepped aside, trying to test out his injury.

It expectedly hurt, but not more than the aggravated shout from the overseer which came closer than he thought.

"Boy, whatcha stoppin' for?"

Polish looked up, realizing he probably was wearing a piteous expression, but he was not fast enough to pull it off his face. Elves naturally expressed themselves in almost exaggerated ways: men pointed this out usually in reference to how they were like dogs, big eyes and mouths showing everything.

The overseer, Erick Rowin, stared down at him, mixed in disgust and confusion. Polish couldn't point out his toe, Erick wouldn't be able to see it from his vantage point even on the mare.

He pushed the large bag fluffed with crop to the side and said loudly, so he could be heard, "I stubbed my toe, sir! The nail's gone!"

In that moment, a variety of people heard and understood Polish's call. His fellow elven slaves perked - some of them glancing up, others even stopping their work for a moment, several hearing but not pausing in the slightest. His closest friends remained still as they considered the situation from numerous diverse spots in the fields. One girl started towards him but was firmly rebuked by a nearby older woman, who shot her an expression with her eyes, mouth, and ears that sent the younger slave back to her spot, worrying her lip between her teeth.

Polish's best companion, Royoa, was not too far away and came trampling over before the overseer could even stop him. He didn't disturb the crop, typical of elves in the fields, and kneeled down to assess the wound by the time Erick Rowin finally formulated a command to move back to his spot.

"Course, sir, of course!" Royoa shouted brightly from under the cotton plants, his fingers spreading over Polish's injured foot. The overseer knew when he was being put off, but he valued his authority, so he allowed a few moments for the elf to figure things out before the whip came out of its grip on the saddle.

Royoa glanced up at Polish with excellent, dark eyes that were like sickly puddles after a stormy rain. His white hair was shaved almost all the way off but was slowly returning in a short buzzed style not uncommon for field slaves. He had a faint golden bruise around his left eye from where the other overseer had punched him not long ago for speaking back, but it only accented the few colors in his otherwise bland garments.

His fingers found the snapped toenail and touched it in such a way Polish nearly kicked him. His hand tried to find some control over the situation by touching Royoa's head, but his friend smiled up at him, dark lips curving up with his eyes showing fondness.

In a yank, he removed the toenail.

Polish made a high-pitched sound somewhere between his throat and his lungs, and his fingers came away with tiny bits of white hair from Royoa's head. He shakily stared down at the other elf, whose concentration was now turned utterly to his foot, and then up at Erick, who teetered between being captivated as usual and frustrated as hell. Elves always did this - shit you could barely understand but in the end it was most often best to let them work it out.

It was, of course, another case where the elves could handle it better than the men.

Royoa muttered a few lines in their language, took a small pouch from his pocket, spread the crumbling herbs over the fresh bleeding wound, and leaned down.

Regardless of the filth, the cotton, the clay, Royoa kissed his friend's nailless toe in the field.

He stood up, smiled victoriously at Polish, and was toppling back towards his spot in an instant. He resumed picking cotton before practically anyone else who had stopped did, initiating a mass return to the plants from the now more relaxed field slaves.

Polish nodded at the overseer, Erick, who drawled out in irritation, "You good, boy?"

The elf nodded again in confirmation and grabbed the rock from the clay, the red staining up his already reddened fingers. He tossed it out of the field with a easy, casual throw away from anyone. As his hands touched the white fluffs of cotton, desperate to remain attached, Polish glanced down at his once wound.

The toenail was back, looking cleaner than all the others. However, in a few moments, it was wet and slick and dirty with clay, just like the others, as Polish progressed onwards down the line, picking cotton for a master he likely wouldn't even see that day.

tenuch

2009-08-30T12:55:00.000-04:00

I mean...come on. I'm sitting here in jean shorts and a college shirt from a college I don't attend, listening to Sheryl Crow. Pretty sure I'm not a ladykiller.

elven slavery ideas/images

2009-08-30T03:34:00.001-04:00

A cute, short, very droopy-long-eared elf in plain brown dress with pure white skin speckled somewhat with dirt and naturally so, looking up with big dark eyes at the human master on the front porch - he's smoking a pipe, has suspenders, tall black boots - and he's nodding slightly at her, saying through his pipe still in his mouth that yes, they are allowed to go celebrate the harvest, and she smiles faintly, but is all shimmery and excited, and bounds off to tell the others on the plantation, and he removes the pipe and blows the smoke out and says quietly to himself "The little things..."

One of the shimmer droopy-eared elves tackling another into the mud and them struggling getting covered in gross wet thick mud and then through it a flash of metal as a knife is pulled by one of them - these fine, thin, very white skinned, pale-haired men fighting in mud, one taking out a weapon so swiftly.

gd interesting books

2009-08-29T13:00:00.002-04:00

Black Union soldiers put their own lyrics to "The Battle Hymn of the Republic:"

We are done with hoeing cotton

We are done with hoeing corn

We are colored Yankee soldiers

As sure as you are born

When Massa hears us shouting

He will think tis Gabriel's horn

As we go marching on.

random thoughts in four minutes

2009-08-26T13:40:00.002-04:00

- I love my new perfume, I love smelling it, it lasts forever and makes me feel wonderful

- peanut butte and jelly sandwiches are divine, particularly with M&Ms

- need to put more of my diet green tea IN the fridge

- need to buy another thing of crunchy peanut butter

- the kitchen should be swept ASAP

- visit the library to get my Roll Jordan Roll book - cry when I realize how long it is

- classical music is perfect background music for reading how Thomas Jefferson was an asshole, a conflicted asshole

- my life is reading books and more books, I should write reviews in my blog

- want to write daily snippets every day of a certain genre but am afraid I'll fail

- have been daydreaming of an old series I was creative as hell with, interested but scared to write about it

- now off to class :3

monday monday

2009-08-25T09:50:00.004-04:00

- delirious waking up to alarm, set around 10ish

- decide I'm not going to freak out this early, sleep in more

- wake up for real around 11

- get everything together, do some research on mailboxes

- decide to leave at 1

- stop by beechwood post office to buy stamps (I now own a lot of stamps)

- park downtown super close to the arch

- talk to adam lawrence for like a minute, he gives me my letter

- put letter in envelope, walk up the street

- investigate the mailbox

- put letter in the mailbox

- return to car and drive to my parking spot

- sit in car to pass some time

- walk and nearly die on my way to the hall

- sit outside class, finish up epilogue

- class begins, and we start the same sort of dance from before, though people are easing up on the quoting theory assuming we all know about it

- three/four/five males dominate the conversation, though more people are definitely talking today

- a few more female voices in the mix, but these two old men dominate like hell, and aren't even on topic

- I eventually two and a half hours in get my statement in, and it's awesome, and people like it, and I'm like "yeah so shut the fuck up sometimes" in my head to the dominating guys

first week complete

2009-08-23T23:41:00.002-04:00

I slid into the doorframe, glanced in, saw other students, hung up my call, ran into Strawberry. We both went inside and sat down, talked minutely. She is quite nervous, such a big smile though. I notice the male to female ratio and contemplate who is the professor. It only occurs to me as 2:30 comes and goes that no one here is the professor - he is late. Southern Culture class: timing is always, always off.

Dr. Caduceus (Dr. Cadu for short and for the purpose of this blog) came in and impressed me the first words he spoke. I have no idea what they were at this point, but I was amazed. He spoke like a god, an utter wordsmith. I listened to him talk and found myself thinking this is exactly what a history graduate professor is like.

I introduced myself first out of everyone. I was right red. I know everyone saw me blushing, but I went on like a pro. An embarrassed pro. Dr. Cadu responded to my speciality with a tangential explanation of early 19th century coroners reports. I thought he would do it for everyone; he only did it for me.

I wish I had read more of the recommended readings, but I hadn't, so that was sucky. Six males dominated the conversation, mainly three, two of which were older and one younger, two of them being first-year incoming students in my class. It was frustrating and embarrassing and challenging and horrifying and simply invoking. I was determined to speak. I said something about a statement the author made in one of the articles (about Balinese cockfighting), I got a response from Applachia, another incoming student, and we went back and forth for a few seconds. I wouldn't realize until days later who he was, and then I was so relieved when I did figure it out. Dr. Cadu responded to my statement, not awesomely, but he did. Class adjourned. I ranted on the phone for an hour, went to my next class.

Teaching Assistant class: the instructor is a fifth year PhD student from Sweden. He seems nice but almost ignores me, and I wonder briefly if it's because I'm female. He starts everything to his right, who is a male, the PoliSci kid whose in a lot of our classes. The course seems simple enough. Good all around, glad it's with my incoming class and them alone. Nonetheless, until 7:40? Lord, I hope not.

I arrive before everyone else. I stare at the door. It is covered in the professor's name. No one else is there. I'm on the phone and have to hang up when my professor appears behind me without warning. The other TAs eventually come in. I listen intently, get the syllabuses. Strawberry comes in with Dusty Clay and Ye Xian,we all sit and pay attention to Dr. County.

Rick comes in late, but it's pretty apparent why: he hasn't navigated the wheelchair elevator thing much yet. We don't mind that he's late at all. Dr. County listens to his advice, we seem to possibly use it. We all split up and venture down a hill towards the giant student center where we'll have class. Strawberry goes far away from us to the other doors with some syllabus, I turn my syllabus over to Dusty Clay. Ye Xian moves around, holds open the door like me.

The students coming in are immense. So many people. So freaking young.

Class begins after some settling with the equipment. Somehow I become the technology girl over the next hour and a half. It breaks down a few times, I'm the only one who helps. Rick can't, obviously, and Strawberry, Dusty Clay, and Ye Xian stay up at the top of the class. Somehow I become the most assertive and most essential. Awesome.

Second class of the day is Theory, and it sucks. So hard. I do not want to read these books, and the talk is boring already. Dr. Plain wants to move classtime. We all freak out. Omg, no! I try and make an excuse for no Friday classes. Poor Rick has to commute so long, he gives an excuse for two days. We all are hoping and praying this shit remains the same time.

Dr. County, undeniably, is a good guy. Absent-minded but good. Unfortunately, I fall asleep during his lecture after we run through the syllabus. Lots of books to read here. Good God, save me from words and text this year, these six years.

I sit with Rick. I type my notes on my laptop. It works well.

I have to warn a student not to use her laptop. I feel somewhat insane but okay as I do this.

After class, I get my university card. It's baking here. I can feel my skin melting off my face.

Next four days are reading and writing my assignment. I do screw off on Friday somewhat and Saturday a lot, mainly to see my parents.

Today is their 29th anniversary. We celebrate with individual pieces of cake - chocolate for me, german chocolate for dad, and coconut cake for mom. She's restless and moves things around, cleaning up, to avoid passing out. Dad's briefly angry with me for not getting seasonal student tickets, but I'm glad because I don't want to go online. Still, we're all bondy and happy, and I miss them.

I edit my writing assignment, read one chapter for my class tomorrow, ignore my "Talking Shit About History" book due on Tuesday. So damn boring it hurts me personally.

Write in this blog.

dust from the grave

2009-08-21T13:25:00.003-04:00

The excellent beauty one found in the city of Undercity could not be measured normally.

The home of the Forsaken, former Scourge, former human, had burrowed downwards from its former glory, which existed once above ground with towers and markets and stone reaching to infinity. But after their King fell to his son, after that son turned into something horrible and evil on levels no one could comprehend yet, after he turned on his people and made them undead, there was nothing to admire from the ruins that existed above ground. Instead, when that man - that man who twisted his people into undead to stock his armies - had his power over his soldiers shorn from him by the Dark Lady, those once citizens returned home and built downstairs.

One could question if She, the Dark Lady, had anything to do with the very design of the building, but in all honesty, the Forsaken probably created the whole thing themselves as some strange collective agreement that likely went mainly unspoken.

The son, now known as the Lich King, had expanded the dungeons and catacombs while lording over the Scourge, but the Forsaken's claws and tools made the Undercity their own. In the very center, the heart, of the city sits the bank, one of its tellers a ghost flitting open vaults and boxes by request. From here, walkways go up and down: down one can venture out into the other quarters, so long as he avoids staring too long at the green liquid moat standing stagnant in the center circle of Undercity. Up, he can witness the cold character of Forsaken as they chat on the topmost ring of the city, even though barber services, a flying bat travels dealer, and a chilly innkeeper all exist here, just waiting for business. This is known as the Trade Quarter, and here there is trade in gold, in body parts, in cockroaches the size of an orc leg, in cloth, in herbs, in anything one could cross in his travels.

All around the center stretch out huge enclaves carved into rock and boulder, chiseled into dreary stone. The War Quarter, the Magic Quarter, the Apothecarium, the Rogue's Quarter.

Southeast sits the Rogue's Quarter, where the living and undead alike may found their pockets more empty and their throats more slit. Thieves train here, as do assassins. Poison is sold openly beside a storefront dedicated to selling bandages for all stages of training. All day, all night, Forsaken sulk here, offering their trade of leatherworking, skinning beasts, and engineering dangerous things to passerbys most determined.

Southwest reeks the Apothecarium. The Forsaken that come here may linger, but few living do. Of all the places in Undercity, this is perhaps the most unwelcoming to outsiders, as this dark quarter is where the Royal Apothecary Society makes its ugly, unethical home. As they seek to eradicate all existence of the living from the world, they do so here first in the Apothecarium. Underneath the top level amounts to a torture chamber meshed with a complex laboratory, a place of unbelievable disturbance that radiates an evil not unlike the Lich King's. The comparison is not unreasonable: here the Apothecaries control things, shape things, break things, and it worries not just a few to linger here, even when turning in reports. Potions gurgle and explode along side the wanton destruction and compression of equipment into their basic parts, like breaking something down to its soul. In a mockery of life, a Forsaken here can teach you to pick flowers and herbs - and then use those things to inscribe runes into skin or discover elixirs that can boost morale or kill a man right out.

The War Quarter stems directly north of the Apothecarium and can be walked through with a different sort of worry. Here the Forsaken military trains, and only a few moments of study can easily show why one would not want to start a war with these people. Warriors slam and cleave and break training dummies while priests expertly spin the Light to heal their wounds, all in a weird dance of their former selves, their time as humans that happened not too long ago. A Forsaken blacksmith works here, as does one able to direct trainees in how to mine and where to go to find ore, all looking like emaciated versions of a world uneasily found in memory.

Across from the military burns the magic men of the Forsaken, in the aptly titled Magic Quarter. Cloth rules here, not plate or mail armor. Whether it be explosions of flame or ice or the complicated control of fel and Shadow magic, the Forsaken here take their skills seriously, though the consequences are less considered. If one fears crossing paths with demons or death, he should not strike through the Magic Quarter, he will see or be visited by either or both. In the midst of it all, a master tailor spins out robes and other gear for the nude, wasted Forsaken still asleep in the crypts far off in Death Knell.

Back towards the Apothecarium... there is one hall that anyone can venture down but only should with a mission in mind. It is the Royal Quarter, where the Dark Lady herself stands, sometimes bored, sometimes full of a passion that could destroy kingdoms. Her deathguards protect her, dangerous Forsaken, the most elite of their people. She is ringed by battlemasters, who direct forces to specific battlefields across the world to assist the Forsaken and the Horde.

One can admire and worship the Dark Lady here all he wants. He just needs to know he will occasionally be pushed down by her and may be killed by her deathguards.

But even this adds to the beauty of the Undercity. Moving corpses, the Forsaken, and motionless corpses, the living they have dragged here dead, among all the construction and work put into creating the city. Explosions of magic and might decorating as far as the eye can see. The shouts and cries and murmurs and roars of the Forsaken echoing the stone, crescendoing to denote their return to this world.

Sometimes, floating beside dead rats and scattered body parts, in the moat of Undercity, one will notice something else.

Delicate paper ravens tirelessly built from handmade materials dance on the green death river. Pink things with blue flowers etched into them, crimson birds with orange suns and black stars, midnight blue crows with silver walls and towers touching up their wings... flying softly, sweetly, by, through Undercity, darting past ambitious Forsaken freshly returned to existence, dust from the grave still thick on their shoulders.

streets

2009-08-20T19:38:00.003-04:00

Crowded streets. Strange smells, horrible smells, enticing smells. Elves, both pale and colorful, covered in red blood, green once-blood. Tauren barely giving anyone room, pushing past. Gnomes sneaking by, punching people in the shins who don't see them. A variety of wild mounts and trained steeds - simple things sometimes, pretty horses and excited hawkstriders, but often not, like crazed-eyed black bears and outrageously large mammoths and silky-coated tigers - moving through the crowds just like the rest of them.

In all of this, there's the usual issues with crowds. People getting too close to each other causing fights, pickpockets lusting after fat purses and dumb soldiers of the Horde and Alliance, and a noise level that registered like a small epic battle with armies whose numbers range in the thousands. The Dalaran guards barely patrol at all, but they are strict as hell when Horde or Alliance ventures too close to the other side's sanctuary.

Strict as hell may be an understatement.

Tailor was carefully making his way through the absurdly diverse crowd when a night elf suddenly toppled into him, thrown down the street by the way-too-well-armored Horde guard protecting their sanctuary. He thought briefly, absently, as he was crushed into the street, if he had been human if it would be hurting more or less. He honestly couldn't tell. The angry crunching of his bone against the stone touched his ears, and he knew he should feel a higher level of pain than he was experiencing. He struggled to sigh, but the night elf was heavier and more aggressive in his determination to get up off the other man.

The elf's hands accidentally found themselves half-trapped in Tailor's robes, and the guttural sound he made over him caused the Forsaken to startle into activity. His claw went straight for the Ally's throat while the other pushed him hard on the shoulder, so much so the night elf simultaneously whined and growled, a peculiar combination that only sent Tailor moving faster. The bones that were what was left of his hand tightened around the elf's throat. He staggered around on the floor of the street, ignoring the loud sounds of hooves, paws, and claws hitting around him as people continued uncaringly past.

Finally, he got himself into a position where he was relatively above the Ally and looked down at him with the most disapproving stare he could muster, all disheveled, surprised, and demure as he usually was. The night elf was turning a light shade of lavender but had his hands still caught in the thick of Tailor's robes, unable to pry them away to grab at the Forsaken's wrists to pull him off. His striking amber-glowing eyes were fixed on Tailor's face. A thin line of bright red blood was inching down his forehead, through his brilliantly dark green eyebrow, curving with his cheekbone. He looked unnervingly more surprised than Tailor.

The Forsaken dropped his throat with a not-exactly-gentle push and moved his hands to the night elf's, working to remove the other man's fingers from the delicate but complicated laces tying up the front of his garment. Apparently several of the elf's rings had become quite friendly with the cords and cloth, and he had only made it worse by struggling, basically becoming trapped like those old tricky gadgets where pulling actually caused more trauma.

In the few moments he was avidly working to free the elf from his robe, Tailor tried not to compare his bone-fingers to the the Ally's thicker, radiantly-colored ones but the contrast was too stark to restrain his mind. He plucked one elven finger free, holding it gingerly between the pointed tip of his index and thumb, and stuck his own hand within his robe's front to try and engage the complex tangle from the inside. The confusion was immense, and he spent some time assessing the elf's various rings as he pulled and tugged. A platinum thing with one big blue oval-shaped sapphire, thin pieces of cross-wire metal looking worn and rusty, a spiky stitch-like ring stained inky black.

The last of these caused the most trouble, and Tailor murmured low in irritation in Gutterspeak as he pinched the threads of his garment from each stitch. He was still holding the elf's other hand in the air with one hand as he toiled with the other stuck to his chest.

He happened to glance up, not really caring in the least what the night elf was doing, just that he needed to be unattached to his robe as soon as possible. The absent-minded look was his first since getting on top of the elf, which he realized as soon as his gaze turned from his newest project.

He had managed in his firm shifting of position to actually move to straddle the night elf, his more prominent hipbones stark against the slight leather-bound curves of the man below him. His knees were pushing against the stone through his robe, which was straining in the front because of the weird pose and tension. His bone-fingers were holding the elf's hand in midair between them, totally unthinkingly on his part.

However, for the night elf, things in the last few minutes had been quite different, and that was apparent by his expression.

Tailor recognized embarrassment as he easily could as a Forsaken, but it was momentarily confusing why the night elf would be looking so flustered.

Those amber eyes had stayed on him, though, and slowly turned from their hands in the air to the Forsaken's features instead.

It was Tailor's time to feel somewhat distracted and nervous as their eyes met. He was aware he no longer really had eyes but the sockets where they once were now glowed a disturbing, bright yellow not unlike the sun. He paused in his complex struggle of the rings stuck to his robe as they looked at each other in the face for the first time.

The night elf was... without a doubt... something he could have spent many hours staring at. The scholar in him suddenly lusted after the idea of it: keeping the elf in his laboratory as a beautiful case study, making him move in certain specific ways so he could examine the definition of the muscles underneath violet skin, turning his sketchbook heavy with ink as he drew out different stances and poses as he showed him how night elves fought and cast spells and slept, running his bone hands through the elf's long hair marveling at the ease of the two together, discovering slowly, quickly maybe, if his body responded to brief touches, to sincere touches, to direct touches, to erotic touches, to hard touches...

The lights in Tailor's eye sockets went out in surprise, his body's imitation of a blink.

The night elf was staring at him, his eyebrows narrowly moving in something akin to a quiver. His lips were alternating between being firmly closed and opening slightly. The skin high on his sharply defined cheeks was noticeably darker, like a blush.

Tailor immediately dropped the elf's hand and stood up. For a second, the night elf had no choice but to go with him, least he rip the fabric or lose a ring. In the end, he lost the stitch-styled ring to Tailor's robe, and he fell back, looking startled and a bit bewildered.

The Forsaken stared at him. His chest was rising without him wanting it to, and he found his fingers drumming by his hipbone as he gazed down hard at the night elf, who was in turn watching him intently.

He couldn't even manage the shortest of apologies in Common, which he knew, or in Darnassian, something he had begun to learn recently. Instead he turned on his heel and tried to go back to where he was heading, but he honestly and completely had forgotten why he was there let alone where he was going before he ran into the elf. Or the elf had run into him. All that he knew was he wanted to go to his laboratory and drown himself in his work, immediately.

Even though he was beginning to suspect for the next few days... all his focus would be on a particular race of Alliance... possibly even just one member of that race.

It was nearly four hours later he realized he had unintentionally stolen the elf's ring, and that night, with the white stars distant against the deep black sky, he seem to stare at it endlessly.

without time in mind

2009-08-20T01:28:00.003-04:00

The slope of his jaw always intrigued her.

So many of her own people - not humans, she no longer... really could associate, acknowledge them as hers, she meant Forsaken - had so little definition left to their jawlines. Some had even go far as to staple or slam or cement metal against their cheekbones to make false jaws; she had seen a few without the lower portion of their mouths, tongue hanging out as they wrecked havoc on the landscape. She knew, personally knew, a warrior woman with the skin of her lower jaw completely gone, like she had spent her time as Scourge screaming so much there was no flesh left to remind her of civilized conversation.

So the blood elf, with his strong jaw, intact with slightly tanned skin without a noticeable flaw and frighteningly smooth except when she caught him accidentally in the morning, had in turn always intrigued her. Even the times she had walked into his room in Silvermoon City to ask about their next arena battle or request assistance in battle, he still had looked good. Disheveled, embarrassed, clinging his sheets against his bare chest, she easily could tell he was still just as intriguing. The dark scruff around his mouth and on his cheeks and throat only registered as something more attractive.

However, as they crossed through swirling violet lines in the cavern deep in Tanaris, she watched his face transform with utter surprise.

His features turned stronger and less subtle. His skin darkened considerably, the color of mud after midnight, and his hair flitted once. His long blonde locks started to spiderweb black from his forehead, then poured backwards like water pouring over a sudden cliff. His brow shortened violently, which amused her the most. Those long, flexible, cat-like things swept down to just bushes over his now very brown eyes. Similarly, his ears went in immensely, curving now, no longer pointed like thin equine knives.

He was blinking rapidly. His red-armored mount had yet to change and wouldn't, she knew, their steeds remained the same through the illusion during their stay in the Caverns. But his stance was different on the horse, as was hers on her strange steed from the Outland.

His gaze was turned just on her. He had yet to assess himself. His eyes - normal, warmer, more telling - fixed on her body.

She felt no embarrassment and smiled widely at him. "Get off your horse," she demanded mildly, and he obeyed, still struck by the change that had come over her. She dismounted without care.

"You're human again," he echoed hollowly.

She had to giggle and pushed his shoulder. She could feel the thicker muscles and fat and stronger bones under her incredibly heavy plate armor as she moved as such, and she enjoyed it as much as she could, knowing it was an illusion and that she once was like this but could no longer remember it.

"You are human, too," she told him, and his expression blossomed into confusion then shock as he looked down at at himself for the first time. His hands went for his helm strapped to his hip, and he slammed it on hard enough the metal clanked and spread throughout the cavern hallway.

She slapped his neck - the only non-armored part of him she could reach now - and snapped half playfully, half in real aggravation, "You take that off! You look good as a human."

He shook his head in genuine humiliation, but she would not take no for an answer. She shoved his armor again, her death knight glove causing his paladin's armor to ring unhappily as the contact between unholy and holy. "Take it off, or I am leaving now."

He paused uncertainly but removed his helm uneasily finally, looking displeased at the change from lean and pretty to rough and gruff. She shrugged at his expression and patted him on the cheek, momentarily marveling at her own now-human hand. Though she did not notice it, he relished it, leaning into her touch so softly it would have been hard for anyone to realize it, let alone her of all people.

In her mind, her view, her assessment of him, she found his new jawline just as intriguing as his elven one.

snip snip

2009-08-17T20:57:00.001-04:00

They met on the field of battle.

The pale green grass underneath sabers’ paws and horses’ hooves barely mattered to the soldiers gathering, though far ahead of the impatient units, a lean but broad-shouldered night elf was petting the ground with one open hand. Beside him a dark-haired man with enough scratchy hair on his face some might call it a beard waited for his assessment of the earth below their feet. Over three rises and three matching slopes, the soldiers could see the opposing, waiting army standing on a tall hill strewn with jagged boulders and ogre bones.

As if it could not grow any more bizarre, a Tauren was sitting noticeably on the ground far, far ahead of them with a scowling, pacing Forsaken circling her. The duality was dumbly apparent, but no one on either side cared: they were there to fight, not to compare motivations or life stories. Easily enough, the rage from years of abuse came up to the surface seeing their enemy so nearby.

Nonetheless, both druids on each hill spoke inaudibly to their leaders, and each general responded in fairly similar ways. The human in his heavy plate armor threw down his helm and stormed back to his men to explain the situation. The Forsaken merely stood her ground near the Tauren for a few moments before nodding quite slightly then moved to her soldiers. Her gestures were absolutely mild compared to the general across the way; he looked like his undershirt had caught on fire whereas she simply gestured once, then twice, then her unit split up to make camp.

However, the Alliance had long grown restless through the hours on the highlands, and not all followed orders to set up tents and start fires for dinner.

forever a nub

2009-08-14T13:15:00.000-04:00

love this so much

"Forever a Nub"

dear person

2009-08-14T11:58:00.007-04:00

dear person,

so you said this to me yesterday:

As someone who was attracted to me, and is now dating one of my good
friends, I think that more or less covers our relationship >_>

so I am fairly sure you said this because you're an asshole, which like everyone has told me, and I'm sort of sure that I should have ended any communication with you after the numerous bitchfits you've thrown over the last few months, but I was persistent and thought underneath the anger, the bitterness, the casually demeaning insults, there was something to enjoy and be happy with as a friend.

now if you don't want to spend time talking to me, sure, I get it. I'm not going to talk to you if that's true. but guess what, bitch? you're the one who always responds to MY contact. ALWAYS. so don't act so elitist and like you've got a thousand buddies chilling on the sideline wanting to talk to you. you don't. you alienate people. you isolate people. you make MY friends furious with you. you have made MY friends angry at ME for continuing to talk to you because you've hurt my feelings.

short story, you ain't go no friends, and I have always been able to see fucking why.

when you say shit like that, that little textblock I quoted up there, it makes me feel bad. not because it's true by any means, as it's not. I am not just a vagina or a pussy or a dumb slut without other interaction with you that "I like you" and "now I like him" - I know this very well and there can be no argument ever made to convince me all I am in this life is "I am here for the men to fuck!"

but to think that you believe that? that does hurt. that does make me realize/think that our relationship is much more surface than it is anything. I don't know if you're trying to make it that way, which is probably true, you're probably trying to force distance, when I know for a fact you've fought to keep talking to me (your ass should have just shut up and played nice). but yeah. you're just saying shit that makes me feel bad that you would even see me that way, that simply or that crassly. you know I am not just a bundle of hormones, and yet you say stuff like that, trying to make distance.

well, good job. you did. you're an asshole, and even if I enjoy talking to you and think underneath the hardass heartless exterior there's a really good guy, for a second, for more than a second, I felt like nothing more than a dumb whore to you, and I'm not willing to put up with that. you can go to hell. yes, I said it. I know you balk when I cuss or stand up for myself. I'm not always going to compromise and try and persuade you into a friendship.

sometimes I'm going to say, like now "if you think I'm so simple there's nothing about me or our friendship except who I want to be laid by, then you go to hell, sir, and never fucking call me from those fires chowing down on your man-bits."

oh, let me make it more simple, because you are essentially an insecure, jealous, bitter, furious young man alone without friends lashing out at me because I want to be a platonic companion (and god forbid that happen) -

hey, fuck you. with a two-handed axe with many spiky points on the end, as hard as possible.

signed,

someone who you've yet again unintentionally insulted and hurt the feelings of, who really fucking ought to leave you alone to your misery but is far too fucking full of blood from her bleeding heart to do anything more than just not speak to you for the next week

PS - if you somehow managed to JUST ONE TIME, apologize to me, I think I would fucking die of shock. I would seriously call 911. paramedics might not be able to save my life.

out back, out front

2009-08-13T19:37:00.001-04:00

the joys of TA TA TA

2009-08-13T19:09:00.002-04:00

I am incredibly struck by the casual nature of being a teaching assistant / been a graduate student. Whether or not it's my work ethic shining through or what, I have no idea, but I can definitely sense and see that I am not as similar to the next person as I thought. Yes, I am just as anxious as them, if not moreso, and I'm not arguably more intelligent, but I have a feeling my work ethic may just be a bit more firm than several... hundred... other teaching assistants.

TA Orientation was quite fine overall. It was wildly informative on many levels though nothing specially deep to be honest. It was just good to see what was going on from an actual TA perspective. I will have to see how things go next week during class with the other TAs for my section with my professor. So time will tell, is the story.

woke up at 7:15 after three hours of sleep
did not take shower, did get anxious-sick
wrote long post for guild on guild forum
got moving, got a call
parked in confusing parking garage
wandered around totally disoriented
forced person on phone to look up information
found the place I needed to go just as person on phone found information
filled out registration paper outside room
went inside, parked my butt way in the back of the room
realized quickly that they lied to us about the start time of 8:30, it really begins at 9
texted person about how many many many people were coming in
the room filled up entirely, they made a new room for overflow
educated white men gave us introductory speeches
split up to get coffee & tiny muffins before breakout sessions
first session sat alone, syllabus creation and first weeks
got secret info from graduate student who happened to be in my field
ran into another one of my classmates, bonded with two more
went to second breakout session about undergraduate teaching styles with the classmate (who we'll call strawberry)
had the same asshole from the very first room who was aggravating the woman next to him end up magically sitting next to me
he had a comment for every little thing and I wanted to ask how insecure he was about his masculinity and control over the situation
this second breakout session was fun - worst and best teaching examples
the two graduate students were casual, fun, worked awesomely together!
strawberry and I went to our third session, mandatory for our sort of TAs (grader/office hours TAs)
ran into the rest of the history TAs for our class
we all sat vertically from each other in room, surprised entire group when asked if there were history peeps
I start to seriously fall asleep at the end of this
am totally delirious, nodding off, omg omg
finally get to leave, ask about next orientation tomorrow, get my ass out of there
pay 8 dollar parking ticket
go home, change clothing, get chicken sandwich
pass. the. hell. out.
comrade comes home, talk to comrade
comrade goes up to sleep
surf web
write this blog

oneline

2009-08-12T23:10:00.001-04:00

"Remember, petite frame. No breaking."

"How about almost?"

First Day, Orientation Day

2009-08-12T16:44:00.004-04:00

stayed up until 3 AM ish on skype
woke up at 7:30 AM groggy and nervous, tummy hurt but not like normal
took shower between 7:35-7:45 AM
found clothing I wanted to wear after hard contemplation of pants (black slacks, khakis, or jeans)
blow dried my hair to auto-tune the news
put on makeup (just mascara and lipgloss, then some blush then some powder)
go downstairs to get wallet and keys
got call that lasted me from townhouse all the way on my 10-minute ride to the parking garage
walk up and find the hall I need to go to - door is open I didnt think would be
finish phonecall with flourish
get free bag with info in it
go to the far right and sit down in aisle seat
eventually am joined by a woman but shortly after a male who sits to my left
this male I realize bites his nails and is tired - just like me! I am totally reassured
another woman sits beside me, more fashionable
I am struck by the myriad of smells of cologne and perfume and deodorant on top of the building's natural scent
a salsa band is playing, I am pleased with the sound
things get started nearly 15 minutes late
dean talks, followed by a long line of people who speak for five minutes
even though I think I'm aware, I dont think I actually am all that much
I fixate on table 12 so I can go pick up my information for my T.A.-ness
when things disperse, I move quickly to the information fair and am fast in line to table 12
I get my packet easy and turn around to see 100 or so people in the line behind me
I slide out the same door I entered and make my call
drive home discussing things
am totally distracted by shirtless young men in short shorts who run across the road in front of my car
make it to my townhouse
change back into PJs
take a 1.5 hour long nap
wake up deliriously to phonecall
go make chicken sandwich
change back into clothes
another 10-minute ish drive to my parking spot I'll use all year
made a call
walked across the red-wooden bridge across the road
hiked up the incline to the history building
went in front doors, discovered I was on the second floor
found staircase, went down
looked around, finally found where I was supposed to go, ended phone call
room was about 15 people with two administrators - very interesting bunch
I feel nervous but confident confident and go in and sit down
they offer again to us cookies and drinks, folks move to get them, I go and get an orange drink because it's the easiest thing and it'll keep me awake
the graduate coordinator speaks, gives us good info
an admin lady speaks, humorous like coordinator, explains T.A. forms
I'm all "oh lord must do this asap" in my head
the librarian moves in from the hallway, she's humorous too and informative
she leaves, two graduate leaders come in (president of PhD and Masters)
they're informative to a degree, seem a bit unsure what to say, but humorous
the male (phd) is more bitter - he's in his fifth year, but he's strong and gives good warnings like he should be doing
the female (masters) is much more cooperative and cares about our opinion more strongly, wants us to be welcome - blonde, in her second year, only one year under her belt
I ask two questions (what recommendations do you have for us in our first few weeks? and are most of the classes late?) - they aren't sure what to say to the first one (be close to your buddies here, figure out athens, and don't procrastinate) but say yes to the second and explain why (professors have other classes, etc, they will go as late as 6-9 PM sometimes)
the oldest man there who got his phd or masters in astrophysics in '65 asks a lot of questions (he's already bought -all- of the books, something they suggest not to do)
they discuss gutting, something I already know about and do - this was explained to me by a professor in my undergraduate and I'm already fluffy knowing that they dont need to explain it to me!
I realize I am the only person from athens, and am so happy for this <3
I go and turn in my blue note of information to the admin lady, she says my name clearly without hesitation and I'm sort of shocked as I walk up the staircase and out the front door back down the incline
make a phonecall on the way out, discuss going to camp as kids and my day thus far
ride home is easy and I get more excited the farther away I get from the university
write in this blog

tomorrow

2009-08-10T00:05:00.004-04:00

1. Pay rent

2. Do inspection of townhouse

3. Turn in inspection of townhouse

4. Figure out bus system

5. UGA Card?

6. Liquor

7. Print off schedules

8. Post schedules, etc, on fridge

9. Go downtown to Junkman's (Buddha statue!)

10. Ask apt. manager for mailbox keys >.>

will add if more comes

Gotta Work to Play: Part 2B

2009-08-09T12:28:00.005-04:00

My Top Ten Lessons I Learned from Being a Sales Associate...

I went to Belk thinking I was going to be a temp, someone who didn't make it past the initial "omg fucking unpack everything now now now" and I left a part-time sales associate with my name on a silver nametag determined never to come back for my last paycheck.

This is what I learned, selling shirts to the women of America.

_________________________________________________________

1. I don't know what the hell's going on. My parents have always said that I have no idea about fashion or clothing. I was horrified in high school when my mother told me I dressed conservatively. Me?! Conservative? You should have seen the mental scar that developed from that simple description of my style. Well, admittedly, I like plain things, plain comfortable things. You know, like blue. I like blue. We can stick with blue. Working at Belk, I realized sharply, very sharply, I have no idea what's going on with fashion. Yes, I knew there were trends, but I didn't realize there were trends that were established and that we will God damn follow and that because we are putting it out there it will exist. I understood that we had something to do with fashion, but I had no idea what that which we extend to the customer will become fashion. We establish and create fashion, like gods. Me, plain freaking Jane, a fashion god. Somewhere there are skinny women in pink hot pants screaming blasphemy.

2. Gift wrapping is effing hard. You have no idea. People who ask for gift wrap aren't nice people. They're lazy, and they're also usually elitist and bitchy. Gift wrapping costs extra unless you're in a certain bracket of spending with Belk. Understandably, some people want gift wrap, but few people want to pay extra or wait. I gift wrapped like... three things the entire time I was there at Belk. It was horrifying. As soon as someone said they wanted gift wrap, it was like all the blood gushed straight from the new bullet hole in my heart down my black slacks and pooled around the cash register. It is hard to slickly gift wrap something unless you have lots of practice and, um, know the procedure. Which we didn't. They showed us once in person. Cue much waiting for customers, and it not being perfect. The waiting was the horrible part. Feeling faint, you'd work on the thing for maybe fifteen, twenty minutes... no joke. No freaking joke. It wasn't just me, it was all the new retail people. Um, hi, can we get a Customer Service department, please? Let's not overwhelm the already way-too-busy associate. Please. Please. Please.

3. When you get behind the register, some days you will never move from it again. Want to escape? Nope. Another customer. You haven't checked the changing rooms in thirty minutes? Too bad. Momma needs seven shirts. You can see the model doesn't have any pants anymore? Awful, but you gotta help this teenage girl get some new jeans. Thought your shift ended ten minutes ago? Nu-uh, sister. It's still your time to ring people up. And it will always be, cause you stupidly got behind the register when and where you can't see the other associates in the women's department. You're screwed. You will never be able to leave. They say "when it rains, it pours" - in retail, this could switch over to "when the customers want to buy, they will fucking buy." Sales days or not, you will be ringing up until the register breaks or another associate saves you. She will not want to save you, but you will fucking leave as soon as her feet touches the mat. "Bye, Miss Jackie, I've got to check on the changing rooms...!" And then you run, you run, God damn it.

4. Sales associates aren't doing their jobs when the changing rooms are overflowing = this is a false statement in some ways and vaguely true in others. The above situation happens at retail stores, particularly in the ladies' department. The associate gets trapped selling things at the register. The clothing in the changing room piles up. Theoretically she shouldn't have to even be bothered - people should respectfully put their shit up. If you are taking twenty-five things in, you should be prepared to put it up. However, people are lazy, think it's the associates' job to pick up after them, and leave whatever the fuck they want behind. This is discourteous and bullshit. Yes, associates should keep the changing rooms tidy. It is okay when one or two things are left behind. But, no, you shouldn't carry so much shit in you have no ability to bring it out. Retail stores don't put enough associates on the floor to begin with, if they get trapped, they can't check the every thirty minutes you're supposed to. Considering the layout of the Belk I worked at - two stations, four registers, five changing rooms - you can imagine what happened. There were times where four associates would be trapped at the stations, or three, and the one was running around doing what she could. The overflow from the changing rooms just would make your toes curl and your voice hurt as you growled to yourself, restraining a scream. Not. my. job. to. be. your. mother. Pick up after yourself, American woman. Good God.

5. Unlike other industries, retail wants your ass out the door as soon as it can help it. Associates clamor to leave, sure, but the actual store and its managers want you to leave at the end of your shift more than you want to leave. Some managers care more than others, and they want the store to be pretty damn clean. But others are like "hahaha get the fuck out!" an hour after closing regardless of what's left to do. "Morning shift will handle it," they say. And you have no unawareness suddenly why day/night shifts everywhere hate each other. When a retail store closes, you close out the remaining registers. You count all the money. You put it into the register. You put aside the checks, put those in. You throw away any gift cards, coupons, but you keep Belk reward dollars, for whatever reason. You leave $100 in the drawer for the morning. They will be checking, so don't fuck up. The machine judges you - it tells you if you're off or have too much. I'd look down and see I missed a penny all the damn time. Fuck counting those things by hand. While someone is doing this, closing registers, the other people are cleaning out the changing rooms and putting up everything. At some point, some associate is vacuuming if they haven't already and going through and straightening every fucking thing in the whole department. This blows for one reason. There's usually two associates closing. There can be ONE. And yes, I have closed the entire women's department on a SATURDAY night. It's days like that I am happy I have forty minutes to get home. Turn the music loud, go seventy-five on the way home. Stare at the stars, imagine something better.

6. Subway is a gift from Jesus to sales associates (aka... me). The Belk we opened was in a brand new shopping center. It was us and a giant pet store and a tanning bed. After quite some time, there opened a McDonald's that never was slow or without customers. But for a while, it was us and the highway. Down the highway on the right was a Subway, and I frequented that place like a shaky, sweaty man in a ragged suit trying to find a whore to cuddle with after unsatisfying sex. The only change, of course, to that metaphor is that Subway -never- disappointed me, and I never disappointed Subway. Foot long white, salami only, cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomatoes. Two things changed. Most of the time I got carrots, until they discontinued carrots while I was working at Belk! Initially I also was getting mustard, but... wow, no, Subway associates do not know how much mustard to put on. Having worked at Subway, I know this is because Americans are effing gross and want a lot of condiments. I do not. I am afraid of mustard stains more than anything in the world. So I cut mustard from my sandwich routine early on, and I never looked back. I would eat half of the sub before I got back down the road to the next light. The other half of the sub would be gone before the end of my hour lunch break. It was good, always good, and I never felt bad in the least for spending my money on it. I can't remember a better series of lunches in my life.

7. My special sales are totally coincidental. I am not a salesperson. "Will you be paying with your Belk card today?" Oh, I said that sure. People said no. I said okay. They said "credit card / cash / etc" and I said okay. And that was that. You're supposed to go "Do you want to sign up today? *explains benefits of Belk card*" and be all like :D omg, ma'am, you haven't had the opportunity yet!! here, let me help youuuu. My sales I made, signing people up for Belk cards, were coincidental. If a woman wanted to sign up, I signed her up. Nothing more. We got paid for that, in cash, signing people up for Belk cards. Yes, I got money, and I appreciated it. But nothing enough to force the card on people. I specialize in being sweet, and there is nothing remotely sweet about explaining Rewards Dollars or avoiding our 22% bullshit interest rate. Much confirmed later in 2009, I am not a salesperson. I'm customer service through and through.

8. You live in the country, but you got money. Don't judge by the accent. Early on, in training, one of my coworkers, this huge butchy woman who had a six inch knife in her pocket (like the sort of knife that could serrate arteries and tear into bone), said that we should never judge our customers. Well, of course not! But she explained further. She'd just gotten thousands of dollars from selling cattle and came into a store in Atlanta, boots, dirty jeans, looking probably a lot like she did while we were unpacking clothing - meaning ragged and country. She got snubbed by the associate hardcore, couldn't get her attention, was talked down to. Other women watched the exchange. My coworker snapped at the associate, saying she was going to throw down $5000 on a coat there, but not with that sort of service! She left, and so did the other bystander women. Of course, for me, my focus was on the "$5000 on coat" but I got the picture. And it came quite in handy. Our store was in the country, and the women who came to my section... were country. But they had money, either on credit card, Belk card, or cash. I had two women, very memorable, pay me in cash when our credit card system was down (they didnt know about the system being down, they were going to pay in cash anyway). Both paid over $100 which they just pulled out of their wallets with total ease. It was a mixture of the economy being bad (only spend what you have on you) and just pure simplicity. Yes, we have money, and yes, here it is. There's a Belk Card that's black with gold writing on it, it's called the Belk Elite card. You have to spend $5000 a year to get this card. We had some Belk Elite cards, and, boy, you wouldn't assume these were the folks who had spent that much and were going to spend that much. But they did. Don't judge on the accent, just take the cash or card and go.

9. You will acquire a Southern accent working in the country. First day of training I sure as hell didn't have a country accent, and I didn't say "ya'll" too much. By the time I left, I was twangy as fuck, and said y'all like every other sentence. My Southern belle broke in and took over my vocal cords for several months, and now she still has her fingers strumming the muscles, just barely. I turned into a sweet little thing, fluttery eyelashes, utterly demure, thank ya'll, ya'll come back, how are ya'll doin today, do ya'll need any help? Ma'am...... Mayum. Mayuuum. That's where it got me. I said ma'am maybe four times minimum every encounter with a female customer. Ma'am can be said straight up, no accent. But if you're swinging sweetly, as a sales associate, it will turn Southern, and you will develop a twang. Months after leaving Belk at my telemarketing job, people called me on my ya'll and ma'am all the time. Damn the country, overwhelming my civilized sensibilities, breaking the vocal patterns my parents were so proud to develop. Snuck in and took over so I'd be better at customer service when I wasn't looking...

10. Sales can be a lifetime job, but it is political and conflict-driven. Retail is like the military: there are lifers and short-timers. I was the latter, knew my ass was getting out of there at least by school time. Many women were there who had been working for Belk for years. One had owned her own boutique shop but had moved onto big public retail because of the economy. She was older but super fashionable, sweet like a mint julep, and knew everyone in the damn county. The other two women who worked in the department who were old veterans to Belk had these sour, stale attitudes. Bitchy, greedy, elitist, arrogant, all dented and made dull by years of sales. They could seduce an old woman into signing up for a Belk Card one second, slap you with tons of work the next. I never had too much trouble with one of them (she worked the higher-end part of the department) but the other...

It all came to a head one day when I was the ONLY one doing the changing rooms, which happened quite a fucking lot, doing circles around the department, signing my name every thirty minutes and taking out clothes and putting them back. I grabbed a bunch of shit from the pretty work part of the department and put it down on a table - our manager had just demanded I go vacuum and get rid of other clothes in another changing room - the table already had clothes on it, but it was not organized and I was like "omg, must down clothes." The woman turned to me and said "No, no, no, you cannot put that there." And I said "oh but I have to, I have to go, Manager told me I have to keep moving." She snapped I had to move it, and I said again I didn't have time, she could move it if she thought it was going to be a problem, I had to vacuum and keep getting the clothes out. It should be known she was one of the women who never moved from the register, not because she was trapped, but because she wanted to sign people up for cards, which got her extra money. She was NOTORIOUS for this.

Next time I made it back to the station to drop off more clothes, the woman was looking concernedly down the hall, and I asked her what was up. She said she didn't have to tell me (there was a customer involved, who was standing on the other side of the register), but that all the clothing was now my to put back, because I had messed up her area by putting down the clothes earlier. I was to put back everything myself. I went still and stared at her. Tingles of rage were building, and I could have swung the metal folding table into her face after a few seconds of the fury turning in my stomach. She said this in front of a customer who was now looking at me like I was some dumb bitch teenager, when I was the one working my ass off to keep the department clean and following orders! I snapped something off, to the key of "I don't have to do anything of the sort. I was just doing what the manager told me to do." I turned on my heel and went and found the fashionable ex-boutique owner woman and she told me not to have anything to do with that side of the department the rest of the night. I didn't. From that point, I never spoke to that associate again. Just ignored her presence entirely.

Driven by politics and conflict... that's only one dynamic between two people out of dozens in the store. Everyone hated on someone; squabbles and fights were common. Female associates breathed hostility and gossip was rampant. It didn't matter if you told the manager about someone's shitty attitude or refusal to work, she wouldn't do shit. Threads of racism (against white people!) were readily apparent in my department; ageism and sneaking suspicious of classicism and an aversion to the young and educated (against short-timers, basically) were subtle but strong at many points. The country accent and customer service smile doesn't hide it all. But for some people, that's their life. I'm sure I could go back today and see the same people doing the same circuits around, cleaning out dressing rooms, and dueling bitter fights before selling credit cards to customers.

Bonus! 11. We have bullshit ideals for women. Some customers complained to me that things didn't fit them in the size they were used to... this is a horrible lie they tell themselves. Our clothing is HUGE. Absolutely enormous. I was stunned to discover in every one garment, it came with one small, two mediums, three larges, three extra-larges. Our petite section was fine, but everything else was made for the ever-fattening American woman whose beltline is getting more and more notches. I have nothing against bigger women, but the fact the entire department - every single clothing - was tailored to this whole idea of the big woman bothered me. The two betrayals of the system were the plus-size and young women's sections. The teenage section - right across from the plus-size - was ... just fucking absurd. 0s and 1s were all over the place. It never went past size 11. The common number was 3-5-7 or 4-6. And they meant what they said, no bullshit like the adult women sizes. Girls, it seemed, were meant to be ferociously skinny, wearing complicated things that screamed femininity and sexual appeal, ready to buy whatever was necessary to show off curves and skin and give delicate touches at the throat and thigh.

Right across the way? The plus-size section? ... It was called "Today's Woman." As in, women today need x1, x2, x3 clothing. Directly across from size 0 shorts with HELLO KITTY in pink written on the ass. Yes, bullshit ideals for women, HELLO, HOW ARE YOU?

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Retail is a jungle of bright colors and brand names, birthday gift wrap and employee discounts, clocking in and clocking out, foot long salami sandwiches and water bottles behind the register, system failures and long calls to the corporate headquarters to get approval for credit cards, furious women and silent women, young women who flirted with me and older men left sitting outside changing rooms, the nice ladies in Lingerie and the happy old man in Fine Jewelry and the chirpy Bridal consultant.

When I walked out the doors for the last time, I didn't say goodbye, because I didn't know it was my last day. I just clocked out and went. There was nothing more to say or do. I had cleaned my section as best I could. Nothing had gone wrong.

I quit by calling in. It was the first time I'd never left a two week's notice. I got the dark-haired woman who had interviewed me, who never failed to be nice and humorous with me. I said I wasn't getting enough hours (9 or 11 hours a week, forty minutes away...?) so I was going to get another job. She asked if I could take her with me. I laughed, she laughed. I said sorry, she said it was okay, and that was it.

I teared up hardcore when I hung up. I'm fairly sure I cried for a minute there. It was sad. I was leaving my job, everything with it, and the manager who I answered was just the right manager. God provided me with the opportunity, and he let me leave just as easily.

Next time, you see the shitty job I went to after Belk. It was something else. It lasted two weeks, but I assure you I learned a fucking lot, and I'd love to share it with you... so I will.

Gotta Work to Play: Part 2A

2009-08-09T11:59:00.004-04:00

"One of 75 from 1500"

Spring 2009 , I'm jobless, the economy is tanking. My life is wishy washy, and I'm sleeping late, playing WoW, going to bed late. I get a death knight to 80. I've seduced my former roommates into playing with me. I'm running a guild. I'm isolated in my game. My relationships are wonky, and I don't want to live at home.

My parents push me to apply to jobs anywhere I can, but my motivation is dead. Still, there's an ad in the newspaper for a Belk opening up in a rural area nearby (40 minutes or so away) and my parents wake me up somewhat early one Saturday and tell me to go. I put on a cream turtleneck and black jeans and a huge, beautiful coat I have, and go on my way.

The drive is hopeless in a way. I listen to music. I'm nervous but casual cause I don't think I stand a chance. My dad heard about it from the other Belk he visits but didn't tell me anything about it, just to go.

The community center has been taken over by Belk. Nearly fifty, sixty applicants are waiting inside. I cheerily sit by myself and fill out the in-person application (I filled out the one online already). My name gets called. I go and shake hands with a nice black man, we talk, I make him laugh and nod and smile. He asks if I can stay around for a second interview, I say of course. I go sit down and am called in not long after by a long-bodied, dark-haired woman who I engage gracefully. I ask her how she likes her job, how long has she worked for Belk. She seems pleased. She says she'll possibly call me back for another interview. The possibly is a strong possibility, I sense, she generally implies. Cool. Go home. Tell parents. They're super proud.

I get the call in a used romance bookstore, my partner standing near me. They want to hire me as a part-time temp for six weeks. I'm balking, but I say yes, fine, whatever. It means money, and my parents off my back.

The days and weeks wind as I go into training at Belk. For the first few weeks we mix unloading clothing with training for way too specific happenings that I am intrigued by. The other people are genuinely themselves and are a heavy mixture of "never been working retail" (a few, like me) and "I've worked at Belk since the 80s." People keep thinking I'm 18 and cute and hardworking. I don't know if I have a future yet, I haven't gotten any word from graduate schools. I applied in November and December, and it's March, and I'm going slowly crazy.

It is still, however, a self-esteem booster on the first day of training. We sit by the future break room in the future lingerie section facing the future kid's section. The manager of the store announces from a podium surrounded by "Belk Idol" fanfare that we are the 75 people they hired from the 1500. We are special. We had what they wanted.

Me, in the back, my name on my chest, next to women with country accents but fashion style hidden under hardy work clothes - I wonder what it was that I did or said that got me here.

I said the truth: I love helping people, I love teams and team building, I just graduated early from college, I am available 100% anytime, I am hardworking. I made each person laugh, though my third interview was by a hardass. I realize when I get to my first day the dark-haired woman and black man are -leaders- at the Belk: the woman leads the entirety of the crew who takes in merchandise and the man is the manager for Shoes and Accessories. I persuaded and swooned managers. I get a fuzzy feeling that briefly overtakes my anxiety.

My confidence, sense of humor, work ethic, friendly attitude, and devotion to whatever is at hand got me here. Allright. So maybe I'm not going to fail at life like I was feeling...

In the next two months, I receive my acceptance letter from a university. I get the notice they're going to be giving me a teaching assistantship - I won't be paying for college, basically. I'm going to get my PhD.

I tell one person, the Bridal consultant. She's so happy for me I leave work that day more giddy than I came in.

Bits and Pieces 2

2009-08-07T19:10:00.002-04:00

A pretty wicker basket sat on their porch.

The child had her nose pressed up against the window glass, staring at the basket covered with a plain red cloth. She had already called for mom, but her mother was finishing up baking bread, so she was intently watching the new arrival until things were done in the kitchen.

The cloth squirmed, and the little girl began to fidget in excitement. Without looking away from the front porch, she exclaimed, "Mom! Please, come heeeere!"

Finally, her mother appeared, washing her hands on her apron. She was smiling and opened the door, and the child bolted out to the basket but stopped short of touching the cloth or the wicker. She turned up and looked desperately at her mom.

The older woman laughed and kneeled down by the present left on their porch. "What do you think it is?" she asked lightly. Her daughter shook her head wildly, totally at a loss but thrilled enough she couldn't speak.

"Well, let's see," her mom relented and pulled the red cloth off the basket.

Four kittens popped almost right out. They were all of the same litter but looked different, particularly the jet black one next to the multi-colored calico with spots of orange, black, and white. The remaining two were pale red with little tabby stripes. All started mewing upon seeing the two females. Many paws were raised as the kittens begged to be held.

The little girl almost cried in excitement. She hovered over the basket but did not touch the kittens. Her mother finally smiled and pulled the calico out and handed it to her daughter gingerly. The child held it carefully, eyes absolutely huge, smile wide enough to start the sunrise.

"Do you know what kittens mean, darling?"

The girl glanced up at her mother and shook her head slowly.

The woman leaned over the basket, and at once was the most beautiful thing her daughter had ever seen in her life. Long, gorgeous brown hair sweeping across her serene, pale face, as she put a delicate though calloused hand over the wicker basket, resting it tenderly on the side. Her voice was sweet and soft as she explained gently, "Kittens mean love."

"Who loves you, mommy?"

Kind brown eyes smoothing down to look at her daughter. "You love me, don't you, Le?"

The girl nodded fervently. "Yes, mommy. I love you."

The woman smiled slowly and spread her other hand over her daughter's head, pressing back some stray hairs behind her ear. The calico kitten had gone limp on the girl's hand. "Well, you should give me a kitten to show that you love me."

Automatically, the calico was clinging to the woman's lap, where the child had put it immediately upon request. The mother laughed quietly and placed the kitten back with its siblings in the basket. She pulled up the wicker present, her child following.

"Who gave you the kittens, mommy? Who loves you?" her daughter asked, tagging along.

Her mother looked down at her with kindness in her eyes, but she did not respond, simply looking back across the apple orchards towards the small dots of civilization at the horizon.

Did anything surprise you?

2009-08-07T02:22:00.002-04:00

Yes.

I was surprised when I was a server at how fucking blessed I was.

I see my life in visuals, tiny details, and these are the things I always will remember:

my ugly black shoes I bought from Wal-mart covered in mashed potatoes
my hands stained with High-C Fruit Punch
melted chocolate ice cream pouring over bowls onto tabletops
asking women who didn't speak English for birthday cakes
gummy bears smashed into red carpet
staring out the window at the construction across the highway
stealing rolls, putting them in my apron, hiding them in the back room
scooping huge cups of sugar into a giant bowl for sweet tea
asking Peruvian boys for help getting boxes from high shelves
giving puppyeyes to old black man cooks begging for tin foil
people asking me for butter which I had to get from the buffet bar - huge chunks of butter
cleaning ketchup tops with rags, over and over, every night
smoothing my Beatles tie under my apron
eating cinnamon rolls with Lyz in the backroom on Sunday lunch
moving entire booths to sweep for crumbs
refilling the ice bins, flinging ice cubes everywhere
confusing diet cokes with cokes with diabetics
washing my hands enough the skin was peeling off
getting a couple of dimes and nickels and pennies as my tip
looking for a tip, finding nothing, cussing in my head, going to the next customer
being asked if I'm in high school, is it legal for me to work there

More, obviously, to come. But yes. I am glad that is not my life.

Bits and Pieces 1

2009-08-06T00:56:00.003-04:00

Her laugh was empty except for ice crystals. It struck the air and froze anyone who heard the terrible sound.

She was standing as stiff as steel not on the field of battle but in the practice ring, black but wet with blood. The other woman was strewn brokenly on the ground but her faint breath showed she still unfortunately lived. She wanted to die, but the death knight towering over her only laughed.

The fallen was draenei, the victor, Forsaken. Both soulless now, mindless, bound to the Lich King, who was at this point mildly directing them to kill and follow the orders of any of his officers. They had been told to fight, but only the Forsaken took it to the fullest, cracking skulls and spines and any other bone that got in her way.

The Forsaken Knight stood over the draenei woman, the lights in her eye sockets long turned icy white blue. Her voice was as thin as the tundra air. "What did he even see in you when he brought you into his ranks?"

Her metal boot shoved far into the draenei's chest, cracking ribs noisily. The woman huffed an ugly, rough sound, unable to speak coherently, though she said something stumbling in her old language.

The Forsaken laughed again, eerie and emaciated. "He must have wanted me to remove you from the service to spite your delicate existence - again." Her icy blues went wild, licking out of her sockets like flames. "And I only live to serve..."

Her runeblade swung down far too easily from her back, and she had the thing in her grip in an instant, all strength for just being reedy muscle and seemingly brittle bone. The Forsaken forcefully pulled up the sword and grinned widely, all sorts of repugnance shining with those bright teeth. The weapon hit the hard ice on the other side of the draenei's neck with a fine, pleasant crunch. The Knight kept the huge blade there, watching the crimson blood try to find its color among the black tundra surface.

Yet as she finally placed the dark runeblade back in its leather holdings, the death knight was laughing again, filling the practice ring made sloppy with the corpses of other fighters with the unearthly, malicious sound of her mindless joy.

night hound

2009-08-04T22:09:00.005-04:00

In the middle of the night, the moon was sneaking into his tent just like his captain was.

Cross had fortunately accidentally woken up a few minutes before; he had shifted on top of one of his daggers and prodded a rib with the knife hilt. Normally he wouldn't have cared, but earlier in the day, during practice, the captain cracked him hard in the side and he hadn't been able to block. The bruise was as golden yellow as the sunset, and it hurt horribly when he bumped into his dagger in the night.

He was touching his side sadly when he heard front flap of his tent rustle.

A curious raccoon, a malicious wolf? Cross had his hands on the offending knife in an instant, and he was moving slightly forward, altering his stance into a crouch.

His captain glanced up at him as the moonlight caught the exposed metal of the dagger. Sandy blonde bangs covered most of his expression, but his mouth was visible, sliding up into a pale smile. He was on his hands and knees, and the blue-gray of his shirt was just as distracting as his amused look.

Cross remained still in his crouch, blinking. He could feel the eyelid over his false eye push against the cloth covering it and shook his head in disoriented dissatisfaction at the feeling.

"Captain...?" he intoned, watching his roguish officer carefully.

The answer was playful but infinitely dark. "Cross...?"

existence, explosion

2009-08-03T18:34:00.004-04:00

She was bait, and that was quite fine with her.

Even though she could conjure enough food and water to save some small kingdoms, Luna often found herself in the hot, ugly terrain of battlefields out in the open, alone, as bait for the Alliance.

She nervously tucked one loose strand of blonde hair smoothing about her face behind her ear, touching the several gold piercings there before bringing her hand back to her side. The beach was devoid of any other Alliance, though several pale-skinned death knights had sunk back behind boulders and trees waiting impatiently for the Horde to arrive. Thrall's ship was out at sea currently, rolling with the waves towards their fortress. Not a few hours earlier, the Horde had fought a rough battle in defense of their own keep, though they had ultimately failed.

Still, the Alliance recognized the might of the newest string of soldiers and devised the same old trick of ambush, putting her out to die. She was, again, quite fine with this, as it happened frequently and she was slowly making friends with the spirit healer women who brought her back to life so easily.

The Horde ship landed at the dark dock. With them, seemingly, terrible weather. The clouds had grown fierce and dark and were black against the pale white sand. The wind that had been sweeping her midnight blue robes was now whipping against her skin. She avoided crossing her arms over her chest to warm herself, knowing how vulnerable she already looked. She wasn't about to appear any more like a victim... not for anyone, Alliance or Horde.

Most of them were already on their steeds: a bunch of beasts she only saw in the strangest of circumstances. Colorful hawkstriders with sharp beaks and worse claws, huge storming kodos trampling the wood of the pier, stolen horses turned into blood knights' mounts, sharp biting wolves salivating for more meat, voracious raptors aiming for battle, incredibly ravished skeletal horses pawing flat not knowing why. She barely even had time to consider those riding such violent, ravenous creatures before they were charging at her.

She saw the very slightest glimpse of one's eyes - some Horde's eyes - before she was caught up in all the long legs of former horses and horses, avians and reptiles and canines, all magical and monstrous and riding up to her desiring her fast, bloody death.

Luna was prepared to give it. She had one spell to cast to freeze them all in place so the bombs would go off and the guns had a nice, small space to unleash tremendous bullets. It was easy and simple, but it would cost her.

Her hands moved plainly in the process of the spell, her eyes fixated on the Horde raging towards her. A massive troll dismounted easily in one huge, sloping leap off his raptor. Black dreads, pale sky blue skin, red markings wrecking his face, a greataxe nearly half her size swinging up towards the dark clouds overhead to sweep back down to behead her. She could feel the frost swelling in her chest, in her soul, spreading out across her arms, touching the very tips of her fingers. She was unintentionally leaning back away from the giant weapon, the troll was grinning wide from underneath his black mask.

Lightning rushed in the background. His concentration broke as the Horde ship cracked under the might of the storm, but hers remained. The ice hit the pier, and the various Horde rushing towards her snapped into place instantly. Shock and rage filled the wooden docks as the ship behind them flitted strongly with fire.

Luna waited a second, expecting one to get free and kill her, these huge surprised furious Horde, all dark, ugly, massive, murderous.

But instead something snuck through them all like a shadowy snake and clasped her hard in the chest, crushing down against her cleavage and pushing up from her abdomen. The soft skin there was pinched, but the magic snatched harder onto her soul. As it pulled back, Luna found herself flying through the air, the trapped Horde watching her in surprise and receding fury as the bombs suddenly crashed all around her. Explosions dotted the pier, wood fragments began shooting through the muggy air, blood splashing up from the now horrified Horde.

The hoarse, deep voice of an orc roared through the confusion, and the briefest of glances back allowed her to see him charging past the fiery explosions and the clutching ice to the real field of battle. Tauren and troll alike followed him, elves and undead quicker and more silent in their anger.

Luna stumbled to a stop at the very end of the pier by the burning ship. She stumbled forward and found plate under her hands and an unmoving weight against the right side of her neck. Heat blazed from behind whatever she was against, but the armor was licked with frost.

She knew what had happened finally. Any blood left in her features faded. She numbly looked up with a slow pace that betrayed her understanding.

A frightening but familiar mace was pressed against her neck, the wooden portion causing an easy bruise against her skin with the thick knot of metal far over her shoulder. The black armor she was clinging to in a unwilling embrace led up to silver skin and an metal-blue pair of glowing eyes that were staring down at her.

Her lips parted in surprise but she could find nothing to say.

The death knight stayed still then slowly one of his near-white eyebrows rose up in an unspoken question.

Her mind was trying to come up with a response as her body did some work without her wanting it to: she leaned forward, still stunned from the shadowy pull, further into him without warning and with much of her weight behind it. His spare arm came around her, steadying her against him, naturally without him thinking. Her eyes did not fall from his, and she could clearly tell his sudden though faint embarrassment for doing this. His white brows quirked, and his pale mouth twitched. His arm tightened, however, around her waist, and she was pulled even further against him, so they were firmly in contact at the chest, waist, hips, legs.

She wasn't sure if it was the fire, the battle, or something else, but she went even weaker to the point he was gripping her almost roughly to keep her standing.

The ship behind them finally had enough. She saw something spark, then a new hissing sound hit their ears. The death knight's expression changed dramatically: fear rolled across his features, and his weapon spun off her shoulder down to her waist, where he wrapped his other arm even tighter than the first. He glanced back not even able to see anything then quickly back to her, his brows knitting in sharp, unbelieving confusion. She blinked several times rapidly, trying to figure out something to say, but he moved without needing to hear anything from her.

They hit the cold water a few seconds before the ship exploded. Pieces of plank darted past them, and dull metal bits wicked hot shot through the mess like falling stars. The death knight's armor weighed them down swiftly, but he held onto her with an insane grip she didn't even dare try to escape. His eyes fluttered momentarily as something must of struck him. She saw the sudden trail of blood in the nearly clear water and instinctively moved her face closer to see where the wound was from, even in the water and the chaos. Her gaze found the blood pouring from his lower back, a jagged piece of metal sticking from his dark armor.

The action had taken her from nearly a foot from his face to dangerously close to touching his neck with her chin. She realized this dazedly and began to pull back, but an abrupt push from a huge chunk of the ship knocked her solidly into his cheek. She saw his features wince, and she went to pull away again but instead he turned to her, looking hurt. The space wasn't enough, and her lips softly dragged against his jaw.

She suddenly discovered that death knights, though at least dead possibly undead, could still replicate a blush. The former high elf's eyes widened, his mouth fell open slightly. She could feel his chest push against his armor, and at least one of his arms shook against her waist.

The weight of the water forced her to close her eyes as they were swept farther away from the ship and the dock, both now engulfed in flames. She had no preparation for what followed.

Something pressed against her lips. She needed barely a moment to realize from the cold but tenderness of the touch that it was the death knight's mouth. His kiss became more insistent, and she found herself going even weaker, her lips parting to his push. A flicker of frost against her warm lower lip, and his tongue was touching hers without tentativeness. A second passed of this, then she felt something absolutely new.

The death knight, though not needing to breathe, was pushing air into her lungs so she would survive their insane underwater tumble through the explosions and storm.

And Luna held on for dear existence, doing something between kissing and taking life from a former servant of the Lich King and a once member of the Alliance now soldier of the Horde.

dried roses

2009-08-02T21:34:00.002-04:00

Soft, small gasps. Hands gently pressing against his chest. Her eyes aren't courageous enough to reach his yet. His fingers hold her hips hard. His eyes, unlike hers, are bold and moving quickly to take in everything about her. It is not that she is weaker than him; she is holding back for what could happen and could come of the situation.

Her lips find the bravery, the recklessness, and kiss his collarbone. The power switches hands just like that. His confident eyes melt, and she has him entirely, touching his neck and throat with her slightly parted mouth.

His back discovers the wall, and his arms hold onto her as the two sink to the floor. Her kisses continue, and his hands move up to her hair, threading deep.

waiter waiter

2009-08-02T20:32:00.003-04:00

Looking back, when did you know it was over?

When I was crying in IHOP over pancakes and people were staring and inside my head I was repeating over and over: I have turned into one of those women crying in public and everyone feels so bad for her and hates the man she is with, the one making her cry that she will never leave ever. That is one of the moments I now see as the finishing strokes on my relationship. Yes... over pancakes, in an IHOP, crying, but still being kind as I could be to the waiter.

Gotta Work to Play: Part 1

2009-08-02T17:56:00.005-04:00

2009, I have worked four jobs thus far: substitute teaching at a rural high school, sales associate at a retail giant, waitress at an Asian restaurant, and a "business consultant" at an in-bound telemarketing center. They each were mindblowing and interesting, and I am glad I am no longer working at any of them. They each also deserve some attention individually, so I am going to tell you what I learned at each, in the standard "top 10" format.

We'll start with substitute teaching... let's go chronologically on this bitch.

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Top Ten Lessons About Substitute Teaching

1. Getting the call to substitute teach is not like it once was. It's high fucking tech. You put your name into this system after you train for one-day in a crowded classroom with other young people from the surrounding area. There are older people that train to sub, too, but it's striking to see the other young people, in jeans and chewing gum and texting. I may look as young as the kids I'm going to teach, but I sure as hell don't dress like them. Back onto the main point - you put your name into the system and the system doesn't call you. No, you need to check a website every day to see if you have a new assignment. The only time they call you is last minute "oh fuck" like at 8 AM when school starts at 8:30 AM. This happened to me... two or three times. I said yes two times, no one time. Otherwise, you check this website and need to do so to see if you've got a job coming up. People heard my dad had a daughter looking for a sub job, and they signed up hoping it would be okay since he's a good teacher and person. They would tell him "Hey your daughter is subbing for me" - he would tell me - I would check the website to confirm - and then go the next day or the next week. Complicated system is complicated....

2. What you wear to work determines who you are. I look eighteen-nineteen. There is no doubting this. Even in my best makeup, I kick it up to my age, nothing more. Slide on a black jacket, some black slacks, a sweet shirt, earrings, some black fuck-you shoes... I may look twenty-five. A very young twenty-five. Nonetheless, hearing the click-clack on the linoleum as I sauntered forward with a "please bitch" look, it was pretty apparent to me that I had grown up since high school. I can do this look with my eyebrows and mouth and eyes that pretty much assures that I'm not eighteen and you should please not try to undermine my authority. That plus the clothing I wore to work? Yes, I can be whatever I want to be, that including a substitute teacher.

3. I am an incredibly easygoing person; most substitutes are not. I never cared in the slightest if the kids wanted to talk their heads off. Do whatever you want. Just don't get my room noticed, some of you do your work. Don't eat in my classroom, don't get on your cell phone, don't fuck around too much. I had numerous students comment to me that I was the best sub they've had, because I let them talk. "Most subs yell at us to shut up," one girl told me. I asked why, and she said she didn't know. I don't honestly care if they all talk their asses off. Just so long as they seem to do their work and don't fuck up the classroom, why not? That's what I wanted to do when subs came - or that's what happened regardless of the sub wanting to happen. I'd rather go the easy route than stress or struggle with adolescents.

4. I am an incredibly bitchy person; most substitutes are as well. This happened very rarely, but when it did, I was like a furious wave of ice sliding and slamming into the classroom. When I was subbing for my dad, and his students were watching a documentary where some high school out West gathered paper clips to represent those who died in the Holocaust. It was boring, admittedly. I said they could do whatever they wanted, even sleep, just don't talk. That was my only rule besides the normal "don't eat, don't text." And trust me, sleep some kids did. But one boy in his first class was chattering among several others, making them talk. I watched him seriously; other students watched me watching. Finally, I had it no more, after I had warned the class as a whole again. Click-clack went my shoes on the linoleum, and in a moment I was next to this boy in the darkness. I have no idea what I said anymore, but it was sharp and bitchy and basically amounted to "how about you shut the hell up?" One of the kids had his back to me, and I demanded he turn around and I said "You understand?" and he looked at me in wide-eyed, angry surprise and said yes but he wasn't talking. I said I didn't care and sat down. The boy and his friends shut up, even more so in the next few days when I told my father that he'd continued to talk. Honestly, do that shit when you know I have a connection with your regular teacher? Goodness. The room went so silent and cold after that you think I'd hit someone.

4. I will not be taken advantage of. My easygoing nature as a sub was provoked nearly every class that I subbed in. The most common thing students do is try to go to the restroom without me signing their agenda. I must sign their agenda. Period. "Go get someone else's." "But Mr. So-and-so doesn't make me..." *shrug* "Go get it." The second is eating in the classroom, which people always try to do, and I always have to say firmly no. No teacher lets you do that. If they do, they're ignoring several rules put forth by the administration. I don't care if I look just a little older than you and am letting you talk, there's no reason to test the boundaries every single time. This leads me to my next point...

5. Talking back to me will make me remind you of how very young you are. One math class I was subbing four students walked together towards the door without talking to me. I spoke up and asked what they were doing. They said they were going to get poster paper for a project. I asked why it took like five of them to go, and one of the girls piped up all snarkily and said there was only four of them. Losing all expression, I very tightly replied, "Well students, it only takes one of you to get to paper, so the rest of you sit down now. And whoever wants to get the paper needs to bring me their agenda to sign so they can leave." I said all of this unmoving, glaring with that "fuck you I'm authority" look I told you about earlier. Talk about disappointment and abashment. One girl slunk forward and gave me her agenda and the rest moped down to their desks. From that point on, oh it was "yes you're sixteen, shut the fuck up" from me for that class period.

6. Students nowadays have better technology but the same shitty assignments. Teachers always left the same things I did when I had subs at my school: worksheets that had the answers in them, reading assignments, reading and question assignments, mathematics question sets, finish up your work from yesterday, turn in the project you need to complete, do the work you've been doing all week. The same boring thing they were doing four years ago. The problem is the kids have better technology, and I don't just mean the ability to text their friends. I mean they have computers and know how to use them - and these computers are in the classroom. I never had a class where kids didn't scramble for the computers (something some teachers allowed, some didn't, but NO ONE ever told me where they fell in this in their instructions they left for me). Kids knew how to use PhotoBooth, hack into the system to get to music sites, figure out how to get around blocks to go to other websites, play games on the newest sites to avoid the walls keeping them off limits. I can only be happy I never saw anyone getting on video chat with some other student in another classroom. It reminds me of http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGCJ46vyR9o in the worst way.

7. The things we are forcing our kids today to do is simply bullshit. I asked several students over my days subbing about tests and the like. They have the EOTC (end of the course test) which is 15% of their grade as well as their final exam which is another 15% of their grade. Between TWO exams, 30% of their final grade for a class is decided. God and Jesus and all of their friends forbid you are not a good test taker. Lord also forbid you have a bad night's sleep or a stressful week. Kids looked hollow-eyed at me when I asked them about their grade in class. One or two would blankly say that they were waiting for the EOTC to come back, then they would know if they were going to fail the class or not.

8. It doesn't matter how rural your school is, almost every student you teach will have something like an iPod, let alone have a cell phone. Nearly every kid I saw had a mp3 player, which almost every teacher allows to be used when they are doing their busy work. This is something so foreign to me I was thrown for a whole 360 degree loop when I first saw it happening. I did not have my iPod until college, and I had just gotten my cell phone my senior year. Freshmen at the high school I subbed at had cell phones and were without any contest much better at text messaging than I would ever be. The realization that by the time I start teaching college that students will have had an utterly different experience growing up through elementary, middle, and high school was so sharp I bled a little internally.

9. Entire schools will mourn when a student dies, even if they barely knew the student. I had subbed one day at a time until a three-day assignment by the chorus teacher. It sounded fine, though I was absolutely nervous about it. I got sick the first day of subbing I was so worried. Why? Because the day before a student had pulled across two lanes to get to the other side of the road - and had been struck driver's side by a tractor trailer. He died on the scene. His passenger did not; he was in the hospital. The driver was a senior, African-American, a top athlete, a top student academically, very popular, had several siblings at the school. The passenger, who lived, was also a senior, white, a loser athlete greedy with the ball, a failure at school, well known but for bad reasons. The rough thing dancing in everyone's mind was not asking why the driver had died, but why had the passenger lived. I set up my spiel on the first day after watching my freshmen women's chorus class communally cry by saying that they should do whatever they wanted to do because this was an unusual day. They took this to heart, wrote on the chalkboard like it was the Vietnam War Memorial, and cried until class ended, then went and prayed next door. The rest of the classes were better, but still much crying. It was hard, feeling a twisting sensation in my torso, depression sinking and climbing with every sniffling girl and blank-faced boy. The following two days were better, but from that point on, you could tell the school aged and darkened and grew up faster than it should have. He was the very first student who had died while still attending the high school, and I was subbing during the first three days the student body knew. I will unabashedly admit I mourned right along with them. Anyone who says substitutes aren't a part of the school system has never been a sub.

10. Substitute teaching is unfulfilling. The pay is fine for what you do, fifty dollars a day. You wake up early, get dressed, get your assignment, go to your classes, maybe have a planning period, leave at 3:15 with all the kids. But you yourself can't make any calls or text anyone; you can't get on the internet; books fail you almost as soon as you open them; writing suddenly is the hardest thing you've had happen to you in years. Your computer doesn't have enough to offer. The kids are yelling, not doing their work, don't want to get their agenda, someone's opening chips, that girl's texting, did he just say "fuck you" to that other boy?, oh whose calling the classroom... ah, hey dad, yeah, everything's fine, sure let's get lunch. I should have brought another book from home. Let me edit all my pictures on my computer. Oi, let's try writing something - oh god, that fails. Another class change. Tell the kids the same spiel. Yes, you can talk. Just don't scream. Oh hey, you, I see you and your friends not doing your work, yes I am writing that down to tell your teacher. No, I don't care in the least about you. I care about leaving detailed notes for the teacher, and actually I won't be struggling with you at all. Did I mention I get paid fifty dollars for this? You should be happy I'm watching to make sure none of you choke on your adolescence... There's no personal investment, the hours tick by like slow songbirds of death, and the whole thing borders on some mental disorder as you're looking for cookies, cell phones, and crazy outbreaks from students. You're left heading to your car at 3:30 after signing out in the front wondering if this day helped anyone at all. Even when you get your paycheck a few weeks later, you're still not sure what happened. Substitute teaching is deeply unfulfilling, and that is all. If you really want to teach, go to graduate school ASAP.

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Next on long-winded lessons from work (aka Gotta Work to Play: Part 2) - retail sales associate in the ladies' department where I opened a store in the countryside, one of 75 chosen from 1500 applicants.

white paint

2009-08-01T16:30:00.002-04:00

Something as simple as a coat of white paint alters the whole damn thing.

You could have a piece of furniture that you've known for years - hell, it was your grandmother's mother's and she loved that damn thing, let's call it a table, though you've always thought it was something less than a table because, well, let's be honest, it's sort of short and squat and barely fits a coffee mug on it its so thin - in any case, you could have this table of your great-grandmother that had been sitting in the front foyer for ages, like decades, like since World War I, which you imagine at least one of your relatives was in, but you never asked, because that just seems pushy at this point, I mean, they're really old, and you don't even know if they'd remember that, so why bring it up anyway? The table has been sitting there for eons, like centuries, and you could put a coat of white paint on the thing, I mean even though it's small, you could paint it, you can paint like anything: I once saw some hippie like a Woodstock hippie sort of old guy painting a rock out by a creek at that park down the road, you know the one with the pond and the ducks like the pair with the ugly red marks on their face, well he the hippie guy was painting this tiny rock and putting them on the sidewalk, these little colored rocks like rainbow dewdrops on the cement. So anything can be painted, I just want you to know that. So the white coat of paint on the furniture is freaking huge, fucking huge if you don't mind. Alters the whole thing completely, like Lucifer switching down to Hell from God's grasp. Your great-grandmother would pass by that thing without knowing it was hers - your grandmother would, too, and let's not talk about your practically blind mother, she wouldn't even remember that it was in her foyer except for it would probably be in her way, because your lazy ass wouldn't move it back to the right spot after painting it. As a matter of fact, you'd probably betray the whole experiment by leaving out the paint in the driveway. Really, you need to get your shit together. That ruins the paint, and what if someone knocked it over? Where would you be? Surely not there to pick it up. You know you wouldn't, and then it would be all over the driveway, and do you even know how hard it is to get paint off cement? No, you don't, cause you've never done a day's work in your whole life. Don't act surprised or insulted - you know as well as I do even when you quote working hard unquote you're not doing shit. Maybe 80%. Well, fuck you. Some people do 130% all the fucking time. What are you doing? Probably sleeping. Sleeping your ass off. How fucking shameful.

But, yes, paint does wonders. You should try it sometime, if you get the chance. Though maybe not your great-grandmother's table, she really loves that thing, for some ungodly reason.

exhaustion

2009-07-31T23:04:00.002-04:00

New Day bustled with the sort of activity most courtesans and prostitutes of the district weren't particularly pleased to have. It was the Festival of the Falling Leaves, which mainly occurred in the north part of the city though business poured south like a waterfall gone wild. Without any focus, aristocrats and tourists alike ended up swelling the streets of New Day, almost to the point of pushing and shoving. As an added precaution, the police were out, and several rough fights had ended already in bloodshed and trips to local hospitals.

The House of Mien leaned against an arching structure that once served as a highway of sorts. Even though its exterior exclaimed definite neglect, the old red shingles and absolutely fanciful golden gate protecting a too-lush garden in the front yard drew attention from passerbys.

Clara likely assisted as she sat daintily by the koi pond. One long, lean leg was dipped just barely in the water, and she seemed to have a permanent soft smile gracing her fine, pale lips. Her whiteness, albeit it strikingly pure, would have been a turn-off for many, but her military frockcoat, a truly antique and unique thing from the Civil War nearly a hundred years ago, nearly glowed it was so blood red. She wore no trousers or skirts, only the frockcoat, which ended sharply at her midthigh.

Her mistress, the mother of the House of Mien, had marked next to her eyes with bright crimson, pulling upwards like little sparrow wings soaked in blood. Her cheeks also were dusted in a vibrant blush though her lips remained almost devoid of color.

Only brave men approached the gate, and only the most courageous of these opened the door to approach Clara.

The very, very few who made it past Clara had a world of amazement ahead of them.

However, it was quite rare for a man to pass Clara, even though it happened on a daily basis. Anyone in New Day could identify her from her red frockcoat and creamy thighs and long legs and dainty, dangerous makeup. She never left the garden. Some swore they would see her in one day there at sunrise, noon, sunset, midnight - though few admitted they passed the golden gate that often without going in.

When one got to the point in the garden that he was even with Clara, it was only natural, instinct even, to look at her. His perspective had changed with the angle of his new position.

It was generally then that men stopped in their tracks. Some ran back to the gates, some backed away slowly. It was even possible for a man to stand there endlessly for hours, frozen in surprise. Clara would not move to move him, and the sight of a person in the yard often caused more business for the House of Mien, anyway.

For you see, even though gossip and grapevine discussions were rampant in New Day, one of the darkest but most open secrets lay on the other side of Clara's body, the portion not clearly seen from the golden gate.

No man could resist the desire to touch those white, clean, long legs or stare at the red feathers darting up to her hair across her fine features from her beautiful eyes. But once he turned slightly and saw the right side of her face... he was easily lost.

Half her cheek had dissolved entirely, exposing the prominent bone of her face and many of her teeth though white strings of skin threaded across from under her eyes down to her chin. It was a horror to see and even worse to contemplate what it meant. Could such a stunning beauty possibly not be... among the living... anymore?

The confirmation was her arm, if the man stayed long enough to see what was there, which was actually nothing at all for most of the limb, just simply white exposed bone. Her hand was fully intact, gorgeously manicured, but forearm up to her bicep was nothing but the barest parts of a person not meant to be seen on a moving creature. A man could see more the ground through the splinters and natural intertwining holes of the bone than he very certainly wanted to. His eyes might be drawn to the faint hints of her bosom or the long lines of her legs, but nothing could truly distract from the exposed bones in her arm and face that declared quite firmly she was of the unliving. The sexy, alluring, frightening, mortifying unliving.

Clara was a strong, harsh, lovely hint of things to come. Those that were still interested and still brave kept on walking up to the second door - a simple, dully red thing - and entered a world of bewildering options and unrestrained sensual variety.

stomach

2009-07-27T07:38:00.002-04:00

Wake up and smell the opportunity: black and white sheets like tiles laying across a mattress, silky light tan couch cushions, hard sloping white plastic in the shower, broken sliding door dividers, coarse beige carpet, sweet low misty kitchen floor, pale gray cement, clipped short thick green grass, black super-clean car interior.

Stay awake and seize the opportunity: music haunting the halls, matched with softly rumbling dryer noise; silly music and strange music and techno music; movies both cute and horrible, seeping down the carpet to say hello to sleeping residents; in the morning the stirring of Cheerios in bowls and shaking apple juice to make it ready for pouring.

Maintain mindfulness and grasp the opportunity head-on: ignore the pain snatching at the stomach, don't think about vodka or anxiety, just go ahead and type and stay awake. Somewhere between Buddhism and Christianity, somewhere between East Coast and West Coast, somewhere between self-involvement and outward-focus, somewhere between consciousness and hard fast sleep. Keep the mind alert. Everything around contains not just itself - there is no self of these things - they all contain everything else. The couch is not a couch: it is hands sewing shut cushions, machines pushing the stuffing inside, the sunshine heating up the surface, the water that kept the whole thing moist and fluffy and ready to be shipped out so one day it could hold a sleeping man or semi-conscious woman.

Vodka and anxiety, turning stomachs and terrorizing sleep. Keep awake. Stay awake. Maintain mindfulness.

a gentle fanfare

2009-07-26T03:34:00.003-04:00

When all else fails, just go to crowded places, sit down, and watch the people go by.

All else failing can be you losing a limb or your mind or your creativity. The worries seem to go away. Each person a story.

This works well anywhere, but if you have the chance, try Yosemite.

I assure you, one of their 7-day passes and a rough drive to the parking lot later, you will be contemplating something other than your lost leg, mental capacity, or imagination.

How people react and respond to the park is simply truly something else...

night sky, water on the mind

2009-07-24T13:00:00.004-04:00

Tiny pin-point of light, something so minute I shouldn't even be able to catch it with my eye, but it's there, distant and tiny and twinkling so slightly I pay attention to it.

Around me, the typical chaos of any park nowadays. Mostly naked women, men without shirts; all sorts of interesting body shapes, things you couldn't imagine until you see them swimming on the winding, pushing river around the water park. All sorts of bikini bottoms - with little bowties on the hips - pink, yellow, blue, mixed colors, striped, dark muted colors you can't identify in this lighting. Each top seems tied differently, and I wonder hard if and when they come untied. Mine certainly did, on one ride, and, while I caught it quite fine, it does make you consider how many lifeguards here have been flashed a wondrous, wondrous amount of times.

A man with a thick cross scar over his left breast makes me curious to what surgery happened, but he seems happy and for a second I think he notices I'm looking but doesn't react at all to the vague stare I'm giving him.

There are younger men, with six packs and with bulging tummies and with hair trailing down happily and with no hair at all obviously shaving for whatever reason. Attractive in the face, unattractive in body, vis versa, over and over, switching for each man, each boy. Swimming trunks that don't fit, that fortunately do fit, that should have never been bought, that should have been bought much sooner than they were.

The visitors to the water park, I realize, shivering, alone, on the bank of the river, looking for my friends, are just like all the water tubes here. God only can imagine what has happened to these inner tubes - who has grabbed onto them, who has cried on them, who has screamed into the rubber, who has pushed them against friends and strangers and cement walls, who pats them once after the park is closed like a good house-pet having done the day's work. Only the little life-rafts themselves can identify when they came into existence, and they have yet to discover their own demise, still floating and saving lives and having humans cling to them in fear and thrill and joyful agony.

People are just like that. Just by looking at them, you can't tell what happened to them - who has grabbed them, cried for them (or on them), who has screamed at them, who has pushed them away and against walls, who pats them at night before they go to bed. Just because they can tell when they were born, that does not mean they know when they are going to die. They just keep on floating and saving lives and having other humans cling to them in all sorts of emotions barely understood.

By the time my friend comes back to me, my teeth are chattering, and I'm shaking from my feet up to my ears, and I grab onto him, trying not to compare him or me to a rubber inner tube drifting down a river in a water park, though it is undoubtedly inevitable for me to do so.

national championship game

2009-07-22T22:07:00.000-04:00

Continually going down... The Hawks were soaring to nothing but some assorted hellhole, and David March was leading them like some sort of disoriented general pointing over the opposing ridge from their location on the battlefield. It was brilliant and sad to watch. Millions of Americans tuned in to watch the crash. The cash was being raked in. And David March was diseased with guilt and turmoil, and the Hawks were on fire, bright red wings flaming in the crazy blue sky of the field.

That's why when the final few minutes were counting down, continually going down, very few people knew what was going to happen. The hope that had been there earlier in the season had vanished, washed away by a foul-mouthed hurricane, at least four different scandals (only one of which was about David March - he had been caught licking a prostitute's cheek in New York City on camera), and seventeen separate unique injuries (the worst of which was David March's right hand man 'Honeyed Andy' who had broken a pelvis bone in the locker room, found naked and clutching a defensive baton covered in blood). So the hope was gone, but all of the scary freakish failure was there to see and watch and discover and stare at.

When David March moved away from his coach - his red-haired coach with a violent mustard-yellow tie and a slick business suit that had seen better days - no one suspected anything but more tears and a mental disorder.

Yet David March had once been a champion. He would ultimately fail like one.

His hand reached under a nearby bench where some of the third string players sat, moping. For a moment, the cameras caught him locking eyes with a particularly petite athlete on the opposing team: one Brandon 'Thin Man' who was best known for a large scar he had turned into a tattoo across his face, otherwise creating a larger image of his rather skinny self.

David March perked a long, lean brow at the other man, and Brandon's own eyebrows rose slightly along with the corners of his mouth. He elegantly leaned forward and nodded to him like an absolute gentleman, spidery and thin and scarred and tattooed.

The Hawks' leader returned the gesture much more strangely. His hand reemerged and produced a small contraption. Over the news networks, Americans listening and watching heard casters and anchors turning their focus from the game to David March. What is he doing? What's that in his hands? Is that a gun? Is he going to kill himself? God, that would be amazing... on live TV, in front of millions...?

Somewhere, some news anchor felt his groin perk with intense joy as his cameraman got a better shot of the item in David March's hand.

Somewhere else, an otherwise demure-natured scientist at a major, public university stared at the object from his leather couch and shot out of his seat, gaping wildly at the flatscreen TV in front of him.

David March pressed just one button.

And half the stadium he was standing in exploded in flames and metal and pieces of humanity.

It was the only national championship game to date that the leading player caused his team to default to defeat by literally killing a thousand plus individuals and at least three-fourths of the opposing team and one-third of his own.

But it was also the only national championship game to date that the leading player went down proud as hell and refusing to be defeated by mere bad circumstances. No, David March had made it thus far - he would be defeated on his own terms, none of this bad shit surrounding him, media enforced, mafia enforced, mainstream enforced.

He forced his way to the top.

He would force his way back down.

And so... he did.

its M&M time

2009-07-21T13:00:00.000-04:00

twelve-year old boy passed out against the wall of the plane

they think him insane

got his iphone on his lap

they think he's a sap

but in all honesty, he's probably going to rule the world

got a blackberry in my bookbag

a puppydog on my leg

my world of warcraft has bad lag

this camera makes men beg

wireless internet is my sweet, sweet, sweet friend

737

tomorrow

2009-07-20T03:24:00.000-04:00

She was ragged already - young by human terms, average for Forsaken - but her skin bore the burns and cuts and bullet holes from battle differently that day.

Dead hair drying against her forehead, her expression was fluctuating between pain and satisfaction. Her black armor was drenched with draenei blood, human blood, elf blood. Her gloves had Tauren hair stuck in the tight creases of the metal. Her mace was almost clogged with torn up blue flesh and blonde hair, and her greaves were leaving crimson footprints on the pale stone of Silvermoon City.

She could see three ribs protruding through her black plate and briefly touched the white bone as if contemplating pushing it back in. But her hands flitted from her side back up to her face and prodded her cheekbone - cracked in half by a greatsword - then went back to counting that day's arena marks, tiny red and white things the goblin gave out.

Not bad... Her eyes, blue lights at this point, flickered upwards to cross the many gathered blood elves. They ignored her entirely, and she barely recognized that they should have possibly glanced her way. Instead, she was intent on passing their lords and masters, sparing one minute second to gaze in almost artificial lust one of them, a mask covering half his face.

A few moments later, she touched the transportation orb and was walking the roads of Undercity, where she was quite at ease and not a soul looked at her with strangeness. The Forsaken there smiled and grinned, smirked and cheered, and eventually she made it to her warlock, who was finishing sewing a particularly darling elven-styled hat.

Several firm salutes later, the death knight leaned against the stone wall and said with a long, curving smile, "You and I ought to try the gladiatorial arena together... I would love to see you in combat beside me."

She extended a hand before even letting the warlock respond, but the other Forsaken closed her cloth-gloved fingers around the metal glove without pause. "Yes, we should. Let's try it soon."

The death knight's smile rose. "Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow..."

bikini

2009-07-18T11:08:00.000-04:00

"Fine ass."

"I don't like her thighs. Too... jiggly."

"You never look at the right places. What a rack."

"You can practically see the scars from here."

"Ugh, don't look for those! Just ---"

"Look at those creepy guys."

"Aw, I don't think the guy on the right's all that weird."

"He's looking at your tits, like, right now."

"Um, no, his creepy ass friend is."

"He hangs out with that guy, so, like, by extension, he's creepy, too."

"So am I a dumb bitch by extension then?"

tonight

2009-07-18T00:31:00.000-04:00

Lacing his fingers in hers, spreading his fingertips over her palm.

Where they've been, neither really knows. His hands on a lukewarm beer bottle, hers on a tiny martini glass. His fingers cracked in half in a truck door, her fingers four inches into a open bloody wound on her leg. His palm trapped under the butt of a gun, her palm slapped across the cheek of her father.

In a slow moment, they realize the scars there, slightly above the skin of their hands. It is a mutual moment, and his eyes draw carefully to hers, and she only flicks up her gaze, long lashes dark in the sunlight. He's more reluctant than her suddenly, but she brings her fingers over his and accepts the bruises, the burns, the broken bones all in a neat few seconds.

His mouth moves slightly in surprise... and, from that moment on, she's there with him forever.

it all depends

2009-07-17T10:45:00.000-04:00

"Breathe harder for me."

His voice in her ear - she turned sharply, seeing nothing. She inhaled roughly, raggedly, her hand going to her throat, leaning against the brick of the wall. The street was slick, ugly, wet with rain. Her pink shoes, slender ballerina things, were dotted with black dust and dirt. And, above all, she was haunted with his voice, his words whispering through the wind, through time.

Dark brown leather jacket, bright red tie, white collared shirt: he haunted her right on the corner of her vision. Shady, unclipped hair and a mouth that slid in a smirk far too easily... he ghosted in her mind unlike anything else. She had fallen that day, in the studio, fallen hard enough to hear a bone groan angrily and cause a bruise to spring up almost instantly. Her instructor had looked at her with disgust for a second - maybe thinking she wouldn't see - before swooping down in concern. She remembered the man's instruction for a second before he came back full-force, soft words filling her thoughts.

She shouldn't have gotten into the limousine... she shouldn't have tugged off his vibrant crimson tie... she shouldn't have nearly lost one of her prized, little, pink shoes pushing against the rich leather seats... she shouldn't have remembered what he said through all the alcohol, through the exhaustion and seeming billions of years of labor dancing... she shouldn't have wanted to see him again...

But there she was, outside his townhouse. His townhouse. This man who picked her off the street with a simple beckoning call from a rolled down window in a long black limousine. She had felt surprise when she realized it was just him inside, holding a simple glass of scotch. His tie was already loose around his neck, and his mouth was wet with liquor and desire and fatigue. But his words - those words - that's what haunted her the most.

"Why would a girl like you cry...? No, don't stop. Cry all you want."

His lips on her wet cheeks, him hovering over her in the limousine's soft floor, his dark jacket engulfing her, his hair flitting over his face in a way it wasn't styled to do.

Him kissing her tired, sad, pained eyes.

She closed her eyes then, finding no comfort against the brick wall. Haunting her...

"... tell me, how can I save you...?"

She was leaving, pushing off the rough stone grabbing at her sexy, slender, sad frame, when she saw him, standing on his staircase, looking almost exactly the same. The exact same leather jacket and white collared shirt with dark trousers, messy but luxurious hair dancing across his forehead, lips shifting into a strange half-smile of recognition. This time, however, his tie was a silky, smooth dark blue and there was no scotch in his hand but a small black umbrella.

He made it across the street so fast she barely had time to breathe.

His lips were on hers in an instant, and she didn't taste alcohol this time.

Only desperation, only love, only worry, only fate.

before phd starts...

2009-07-16T11:51:00.000-04:00

1. Consent form to landlord

2. 3 Deposits (drop off water in person, credit check on monday with electricity, talk to landlord about cable lease switching)

3. Need to get empty boxes for packing

4. Bring things down from attic

5. Pack what need/want to bring to new place

6. Seriously consider books/DVDs to be moved

7. Pick clothing for vacation

8. Stress about vacation in a myriad of ways, question your faith in humanity

9. Pick all the extra things to bring on vacation~

10. Buy present A (Hobby Lobby? Junkman's?)

11. Buy present B (peach stand, Petland)

12. Get eyebrows waxed

13. Get manicure

14. See main best friend

15. Think about seeing lady best friend (only if she calls you, you guess)

16. Pay UGA bill

17. See about when officially enrolled

18. Get those forms mailed to health insurance and loan people

19. Research more about Obama loan changes

20. Cry into hands about the failure of our economy at a prime time in your life

21. Figure out parking a bit more

22. Plan out orientation days

23. Buy some notebooks/pens

24. Start primping more

25. Get a haircut before getting busy into PhD

26. Make another list like this with assignments for class

27. Start learning Spanish...

28. Figure out budget/bills

29. Watch roommate dissolve under pressure, support her with vodka

30. Tweak thesis over and over

31. Write 5 lists about the top ten things you learned from each job this year

32. Continue to write snippets, don't pay attention to their flaws

33. Walk more

34. Work out at Ramsey with roommate

35. Drink as much fluid as you are now at work

36. Gain some weight. GAIN SOME WEIGHT.

37. Work out schedule with main best friend for his classes

38. Keep up weekly Globe visit with secondary male best friend (SMBF?)

39. Fire a gun...

40. See about sleeping more

41. Balance relationship with schoolwork

42. GAIN SOME WEIGHT

43. Get a kitten

44. Name that kitten

45. Walk that kitten on a leash

46. Finish this list of things you need to do in 2009...

falling man

2009-07-16T11:13:00.000-04:00

Hand grabbing his shirt, yanking upwards, knife pressing against thin layers, black-brown eyes wide with anger and fear and a desire to run home. Some shuffling of feet, a dance he never thought he'd do. His fingers are gripping at the chest, dragging down as the knife jabs him again, trying to find skin. He's wearing gray, ragged gray; this other man is in dark blue, like the night. No sympathy, but nearly every other emotion, yes. He finds his hands tugging at the Union soldier's waistband as the knife finally gets up to his throat. A dangerous pause; a standstill suddenly.

Two young men in the woods, panting in fear and exhaustion and labor. The Confederate has his hands halfway down his foe's trousers, and the Union has the knife hot against his jugular. One of them is twitching, shoulders inching up, in wild anxiety. The other is all stiff, unable to move, only the tiniest bit of skin on the back of his neck rising in goosebumps. Death sits nearby, polishing some dead man's gun, waiting, waiting.

But the Union boy isn't ready for this, and he can feel warm fingers on his bare stomach. He moves the knife away and pushes hard against the Rebel's chest, sending him stumbling back across the crinkly, pale leaves. A second shove knocks the Confederate youth over a fallen branch, and he sprawls out on the ground, gray uniform against equally mild debris. The Union soldier steps back once, watching him, seeing him in that vulnerable pose. His hand shakes, the one with a knife in it. He could fight here, and kill here, so easily...

His feet turn, and he's moving away, stumbling without even being touched. His camp wasn't too far away, and he hopes, darkly, dumbly, confusingly, that the Rebel leaves the area.

Behind him, the Confederate touches his throat, a line of blood weeping down his neck. He can't say a thing, even though he knows they speak the same language, were once of the same people. The Rebel only stands when the Union boy is over the ridge and dips out of view. He walks away slowly... he's not sure what he wants and thinks for the smallest of small moments that he could have... would have... should have pressed more against the Union soldier.

He shakes his head and is gone off the field of one battle and into another as his mind begins its own, terrible, new war.

the motel

2009-07-15T19:17:00.000-04:00

You can tell the difference between sincere civilization and that which has been abandoned by the variation in gravel and grass. Your feet on the weeds, your sandals not saving your skin from curious insects and irritated ants. You can move just a few inches to the left, and there you'll notice the difference quite clearly, even though nature has taken over, licking and winding its way back over human's horrid touch. There, just a foot over, you can see the white gravel amid the too green grass. Straining, not even that hard, though, you can discern the once road shoot straight ahead perfectly past the pine trees and cream-gray ruins to the ocean behind a long rusty fence.

The yard to your right - which likely once held some sort of sign designating the place, but only shows wild green now - exposes nothing new to your eyes. It's been taken back. Nature ate it all in just a few short decades and its leafy maw is aiming for the short, tight, little motel stretching directly diagonal to your position.

You turn slightly, facing the ruins, crossing your arms. What's there to see now? Not a bit of kudzu, it's too north, and the ocean weather snaps up the humidity that makes that invasive plant sweat happily. Nonetheless, there's vines everywhere, some sort of plant you don't the name of, but could identify by sight at this point. It's climbing and constricting like a python, cracking and crumbling the plain frame of the one story motel.

You approach without timidity, ignoring the bites on your feet and the few thorns dancing against your bare ankles and calves. Standing at the first room, you wait outside the door, unwilling to venture inside. Here, you look easily right, trying to envision what once happened here. The memory isn't yours to conjure, but the images flick up through your brain into your mind's eye as simple as it was yours to remember.

There's a black boy in blue trucks, shirtless, knocking on the door. His feet are sandy on the cement, and his skin glittering with droplets from the ocean. The room's sharply plain white door swings open, revealing no one to you, but everything to him. His grin is sheepish but magnificent, and a long arm reaches out and pulls him inside, after saying his name in amused scolding.

You follow the imaginary cement sidewalk to where you're standing, interposing the weeds and the soil on top of the white-gray stone that must been sinking below. You see again your sandals, ignore the dots of blood, and raise your gaze to the room before you, the first on the block of six, seven rooms the little motel offered.

There's no door to push open; it rotted away over the last few decades, was stolen, pushed aside, melted in a hurricane, you're not sure. But it is no longer there to even examine. Instead, the room is revealed in its utter simplicity, and you're left wondering dumbly where guests slept as you scan the small room. The door frame is barely a foot over your head - low, very low, like they didn't care about the build of the people who stayed there just about the dollar bills in their back pockets. The room seems much the same, like guests were not supposed to sleep there, but just use it to get to the ocean.

There, of course, is no cot left, not a hint of a bed, and you cannot even imagine where it would be. The room itself seems to be about ten feet by ten feet, though you've never been good with measurements. Now there's no floor you can really see, though the carpet peeks through, not a color anymore but a texture in contrast with the dirt and wildlife. A branch from a old tree hanging over the motel has dropped down through the nonexistent roof and is resting halfway through the tiny room, its branches spreading out like decomposing memories in the small space. Your eyes are drawn to the only two real things left in the room that cry humanity: the miniscule shower immediately to the left in the corner and the adjacent toilet still mildly white.

Your hands almost itch to strain out and run fingers over the tile of the shower. Small, square things, pale blue, robin's egg blue, sweet sky blue, not faded but evenly dusted with dirt, even up the wall. The tile builds up to the roof which no longer protects the room and extends down into a diamond with a inch tall ridge to contain the water that once lapped across the blue stone.

There - a series of people showering there - you can see them flit across time and space, ghostly apparitions of what once happened in this room. Summer after summer, winter after winter, spring after spring, fall after fall. While the green around you goes unchanging, you see it all: the shower pressure fluctuating from soft to hard, the water from hot to cold, the tile going through repairs, covered in sand, touched with blood, splattered with gunk and dirt and semen, slick with hard soap and expensive shampoo and grocery store conditioner and pale dye and painful bleach, different shades of hair, different lengths of hair, falling off from age and from disease and from stress and from natural change, clipped on purpose and cut from crazy.

There's different feet there - black feet, white feet, brown, red, and yellow, all different colors; so many bare, some in beach sandals, a few still in tennis shoes, even one in sexy strappy things; scars from running on asphalt and gravel and across fields and seashells, scars from abuse and from exercise and illness; bruises from work, bruises from falling, bruises from drug use; skinned knees, cuts lacing their way up calves and bordering fingers, open sores and closed scabs; toenails perfect, some painted, some manicured, some chipped, some dirty, some not even there just dirty open things from snapping them off at the beach by mistake.

Sliding up the apparitions wildly changing as you gaze up the blue tiles dusted with soft brown, tickled with vines choking the shower, you can see the thighs of the guests. So many black and white and all the shades humans come in; with dark pubic hair, with blonde, with red, with brown, with nothing there, with too much there. Your eyes moving, you can see the stomachs of those who stayed in the room - obese guts, beer guts, scars from pregnancy and surgery, thin things ribcages showing, strong abs and twisting hips. A white woman pressed against the tiled wall, a dark-eyed man touching her sides sloping to strong curves; a young athletic boy leaning down, pressing a sore kneecap with spidery fingers; an old man shuffling across those tile with tired World War I feet; a lady with wavy red hair, fingers threading through loose locks; a weak-souled fellow brushing the alcohol off his lips as the water strikes his shoulders.

You're leaning against the door frame, watching all this. You can see the clothing come on, and off, and on again; men and women and children walking across the small space, taking garments out of the drawers that were long ago stolen from the motel, lifting them off the bed, dragging them off the floor. White hands, black hands, brown hands, women's hands, men's hands, the hands of children drawing cloth across their skin, shifting and struggling to put bathing suits on, skirts on, shirts on, jeans on, khakis on, shorts on. Sandals sliding on, tennis shoes, black professional shoes, high heels, bare feet walking out the door, directly where you stand, through you, past you. You look over your shoulder at the jungle outside, and that's that. The apparitions fade from your imagination, and you're left with the angry insects and far-off ocean breathing back and forth and the sweet sigh of history surrounding you.

The branch fallen in the once-roof, the giant square width that leads to the sky, prevents you from going any further inside, but you've already seen it all it seems. All around you, the previous motel guests are walking and running to the beach, to work, to the store, to pay bills, to lovers and friends and rivals and people they want to kill but can't. They stayed here, where you stand, decades ago, and it's obvious under the green growth and decomposing marks of the motel if you have the awareness, and you do. You have it, and you feel almost no comfort with what you're left with.

The boy from before is leaving the room, rubbing his arm where his mother grabbed him. He's got a dollar in one hand, and he's heading towards the busy asphalt road across the yard in front of the motel. Cars from 2005 and 2009 dash by, clamoring for empty beaches in national parks and private stretches of land they've bought after years of labor, desiring McDonald's and $29.95 fresh seafood buffets and apple martinis and cold beer, wanting to twitter and email and bring up Facebook and check news sources online now now now. The boy makes it to the road, looks both ways, and crosses into the street. A U-Haul speeds just barely by him, and you watch soundlessly as his apparition vanishes as a brand new convertible flies by to a three story condo with its own jacuzzi on a dark balcony and a sexy marble stone shower.

You don't look back at the motel room and head to your car resting on the gravel. This place hasn't changed. You disregard nature eating the building, snapping chunks off, cracking huge wooden and grass teeth over the plaster and cement. The motel has not changed since when it was in its in zenith, its guests still seek its shelter. Your hand is on the car door, and you dare to glance back, wondering if you can really believe that.

You can see the sky blue tile through the jagged pieces of glass that was once a fine though tiny window to the motel room.

You can believe that, yes. It will never change. Nature can and will take it back entirely, but you... you know it will always be there, be the same.