ACTION SEQUENCE

When I was in Ireland, my iPod wasn't charged enough for a four hour bus ride, so I wrote stuff in my journal instead. Inspired by the scenery and atmosphere, and also the lingering thoughts of the divided societies conference I was returning from is this piece of writing, that, LO and behold, contains a semblance of plot. I have only typed up some of it, because the other "chapters" are too rough still. Yeah, and some names are missing and/or stupid, but it's a first and a half draft.

--
Big things were happening in the world and she was stuck on a bus. Cell phones beeped with text messages and the driver was constantly murmuring into his Bluetooth, weaving the coach bus through back roads and shortcuts. The border closed in an hour. Was she going to make it, one of her friends had texted now fifteen minutes ago. Don't know, she replied, trying. SMS was the only thing that still worked. The latest damage to the satellites had wonked up the regular cell service somehow. She appreciated the mulled quiet it granted the bus. The driver's murmur drawled on, urgent and monotonous. She wondered who he had waiting for him.

The bus bounced along an old asphalt road; a few blurs might have been sheep, or cows, or hitchhikers. She pulled out a book of word puzzles to pass the time.

The bus driver blinked his headlights at a few slowing cars and edged around them. The headset cupped around his ear buzzed between police radios and his navigator. He had stopped heading for the official border twenty minutes ago, when the voice in his ear cursed and began to reroute him. There was no way to make it there in an hour but there was still a chance. He glanced at the mirror reflecting his passengers, all of them wide-eyed and using their phones―except the girl with the crosswords. She would make it, he thought. He returned his concentration to the road. Forty minutes, the voice in his ear buzzed. He turned a sharp left onto a better paved road and switched over to the radio channels. Still setting up traffic controls around the border, accidents and pile-ups dotting the near thirty mile backups. No mention of activity near him. He switched back to his navigator and listed his course, naming his next turns and destinations. The voice hummed in agreement and was quiet for a few brief moments.

The girl definitely didn't look [nnnn]. He wondered why she was trying so hard to get through when in a week she could pass through with ease. The only real question, he supposed, was whether she was going to it or from something else.

The girl's phone buzzed, which was odd, because the only person who would've cared to text her already had. She flicked it open with an absentminded thumbnail. Youre not gonna make it, are you The sender didn't even bother with punctuation. She frowned and set the pen down to answer.

I told you I would, so I am. Just make sure you're waiting for me.

The borders closing in forty minutes, where are you

Don't know. The driver's taking care of it. I'll get through.

A full minute went by without a reply, so she picked up the pen to work on the puzzle again. The phone vibrated on her thigh.

I miss you

She sighed and her head hit the rest with a gentle thump. The bus had turned onto yet another rough street that made her teeth rattle. She clenched her jaw to sooth them and read the message again.

Stay strong for me. I'll see you soon.

She tucked the phone away and resumed her puzzle. The bus continued to stumble down the pot-marked street.

The twins in the backseat had somehow managed to sleep despite the ride. One leaned against a pillow propped on the window, and the other leaned on his shoulder. Their hair was exactly the same shade of dark strawberry blonde. In propaganda they were the poster children of the [nnnn]. The photo shoots had brought in enough money to send them to graduate school in Alabesca, and they had grown into their adult faces in such a way that hearkened no immediate comparison to their past. Now those faces had ruined any chance of a future in Muben.

A man and his wife simpered to their feet and shuffled towards the driver, clinging to the seats as the bus continued its turbulent journey. They paused behind the driver and cleared their throats. “Excuse me, sir. When are we getting to the border? We don't have much time.” The bus driver didn't look at them as he answered. “The border's as good as closed. We're going in a different way. Please return to your seats.”

The couple stood still in shock. “A-are you mad?” Their voices carried down the bus, a susuruss of tension following in its wake. The girl looked up from her puzzle and the twins woke with yawns and sore necks.

“Sir--”

“A different way! The man is our only hope!” The man swung his arms wildly as his voice bellowed over his wife's. “If we don't make it through the border we'll be killed! All of us!”

The bus driver never once let his foot drift to the brake pedal or his eyes stray from the road. “Sir, if you show up at the closed border, you'll be a bullseye. In twenty minutes they start the purge. Would you rather be surrounded by trees or government police?”

The man didn't lose steam. “If you had stayed on course, we would be there by now--!” In his temper, he reached to grasp/grab at the bus driver, pulling his shoulder back and causing him to steer erratically. “Shit--”

The bus clipped a road sign, which tore through the right-side windows. Plexiglass and cold air spilled over the passengers. The bus driver struggled to correct the path but the front wheels dipped into a ditch at nearly 90 miles per hour. The passengers were tossed forward into seats, the bus driver into his steering wheel, the man into the windshield...

The leftover momentum of the bus broke the two front wheels at the axle, and the body of the vehicle skidded forward to bounce along the fenced ground. The passengers flopped back as it finally came to a rest.

The voice buzzing in his ear aroused the driver. The passengers were oddly silent but for a moan of pain. On the road, a car slowed to a halt. The driver switched to the radio stations and swore.
“Everyone! Off the bus! Take what you can!”

Anonymous protests rose. “Why don't we wait for help?” “We need ambulances!”

The bus driver leaned on the horn, sounding it off in three short bursts. “By the time help arrives, the border will be closed. What do you think the police are going to do with a bus full of [nnnn]?” The message settled, and everyone began to move. The bus driver switched back to his navigator. “Change of plans,” he murmured, and passed out.
--

The main characters are the bus driver, the girl and the twins, if that wasn't completely obvious already. The twins get more personality later (I hope). They were a last minute organic plot point in this installment. The next "chapter" deals with the aftermath of the crash, and survival! Maybe I will update with it eventually!

The Phoenix and The Witch (This Heart's On Fire)

I will be there when you die, your name burning hot on my tongue. I will be there when you rise again, my wrath leaving a paper trail down the aisles of your courtroom business. There will be telephones ringing. I will be answering them, diverting conferences and rescheduling contacts while you are gasping your phoenix breath over the scattered remains of the latest fling. It is bloody. You will eventually complain, when your lungs awaken, of the ruined PDA, the red-pocked faxes, and the waste of a perfectly reasonable high-back executive. But I will be justified, and you will know this. You always know, when that tingling starts at the base of your spine, when that new secretary lights up your eyes, when the casual lunch evolves into complicated dinners. That inevitability stares back at you during every shave. You will take these women and love them and sacrifice them in a graceful smile. Your teeth have always been perfect.

Jilted lovers! I don't even know.
Courtroom is supposed to describe the business in a way that implies wheeling-and-dealing, not anything law-related. Yeah...

I'VE HAUNTED HER STREET

Apparently Ludo has a new album out, which I have just acquired through legal! means. I do enjoy this band. The creepy songs are so delicious. I highly recommend them to everyone who is cool. It's more of a mainstream-rock kinda sound than I usually listen to, but the lyrics are interesting and creative enough to keep me interested. Hilariously, one of the creepy songs from their newest album, "Air-Conditioned Love," just popped up in my iTunes. Awesome.

This might be a boring post. I haven't written anything spectacular lately. I have started drawing again. I love ink. What I do not love is not being able to find my R4, which has my Etrian Odyssey game on it. I have started the second one without finishing the first, like all champions. I am a master.

Guh. I am bored with this. Here, have something crappy I wrote when trying to force myself to write about a really cool idea I had the other day:

Ward is eating an apple when the email pings into his mailbox. The laptop is awkwardly perched between his lifted knee and the sofa's armrest because halfway through his latest paragraph he decided to watch television. He expects the email to be from his thesis advisor and so is slow in opening it.

"Good morning Mr. Ward Gideon,

It has been a while since we last spoke. My name is Deera Montgomery. We met four months ago at the Humanitarian Conference in Spokane. We exchanged information after the night at O'Toole's, and I have kept you in mind as a possible research associate for the newest project…"

He takes another bite of apple and closes the inbox. Another opportunity. Books and papers and journals and too much reading and headaches and ibuprofen which makes Ward laze around watching cheap thrillers while ignoring emails from the one person who could stop that maddening rut of the past three years. His phone vibrates by his hip.

The text is short and cryptic, like most have been lately. "Baby greens and soft beer. 12091700" He grins and tosses the apple core onto the table, texts back a perfectly boring answer. He turns off the computer and television and showers, slick his hair back, and walks into Gruenblatt an hour later.

It's funny because there are no hints as to the actual story/character idea in this bit. How devious I am! chortle chortle chortle.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Jack always snuck into his father's workroom late at night. Michael (because Jack called him that sometimes, when it was prudent to be reminded this man wasn't his real father) had been drinking a lot these past months, and usually always had passed out by the time the moon rose. Jack dutifully completed any homework (or anything that looked like homework, and could render him basically invisible to Michael's eye) until he heard the grunting snores from the living room. Michael hadn't slept in his own room for any two consecutive nights since February. Jack knew why, or thought he knew why, but none of that had any impact on him now standing in the workroom, panning the flashlight around.

The jars were still lined on pristine oak shelves, each brandishing a thin, identifying paper strip, scrawled in a bizarre code Jack had yet to crack. If it was even a code, and not just terrible handwriting.

The flashlight changed the jars' contents from a purply shadow to a shape imminent in form and meaning. Jack had just started sex ed in 7th grade, so he knew what he was looking at. Why did Michael keep such things? They were a woman's business, and he remembered nothing about keeping them in jars.

At least four times a month (once a week), Jack thought about asking his teachers about these jars. But something always stopped him, and Jack was hesitant to call it love.

But Michael had saved his life. When he fell into the underfrozen river that cold January. When the Subaru ran the red light. When the doctors said only an expensive surgery could fix his heart. Somehow all these events held Jack's tongue, though he knew on a basic level that no one should keep these fleshy sacks in jars, mummified in a thick liquid that looked like cough syrup. He held a love in his heart for his adoptive savior. If he told anyone about the jars, he would lose him.
--

Some more stuff related to the whole fetus-story thing. This poor kid is gonna be so fucked up, if I ever get around to actually writing the thing.

I leave Germany in eight days. That is basically a week. I am mildly freakin' 'bout the shit I have to finish up before leaving, mostly in relation to finding my goddamn Hausmeister and checking out, jesus. Can't the man just be in his office once.

My past week started out meh, but then I bitched all over the stupid cold that tried to ruin me. I ate 5 apples, 3 bananas, a pomegranate, and balanced meals over the course of two days and learned that bug. Coughing up phlegm at 4am and drowning in multivitamin juice (yummm) might have played a role as well.

Eventually, sometime in my future, I can see myself going to graduate school. It just seems that everything worthwhile (i.e. rakes in the dollars) needs a master's degree. I don't know if I want to get a Master's in German. I still am really interested in computer science, and even education at this point. Loyola has a nice looking CompSci program (also a pretty website) but my god it will cost bare minimum $22 000. What am I going to do with a degree in just German? I was even looking at College Park's library science program, because hey I've worked a few years in a library, that should count for something...

I just spent maybe 5 hours reading a free book at Google, and I have since completely lost the steam and stamina to finish this in a productive fashion.

DO YOU HAVE TIME FOR A QUICKIE?

He sat down and tried to describe blood. From the television, dark-lit scenes of murders and betrayals. From the library, poetic nuances of slick. From his own head, nothing. He had never been murdered, shot, stabbed, beaten, victim to a horrific crime, a cop, at war, witness to a horrific crime, a gangster, a doctor, or a janitor. What right did he have to describe all the things a pool of blood entails? He had that same blood pulsing through his own body. But that blood was different from the kind you see in movies, on television, the front page, websites. Looking at spilt blood was like peering into a secret. The blood had something to hide, and when its secret became plastered on headlines, it could only hold its cards close and protest. No, it would cry, don't look! Don't be witness to my secret! But what secret, the boy wondered. Life!

AND I WILL BE GREATER--FAR GREATER

I am a big fan of making allusions. Mostly in situations where it makes no sense and has no direct correlation to the events happening, except for the tags my brain has given it. Ugh, I just used internet-speak to describe my brain. Certain situations remind me of certain songs, through subject, word, and god knows what else. If I ever meet someone who gets the above allusion I might have to be his/her friend forever. Rockin' it old school (lawl 90s is oldschool now).

I cleaned my desk today. I should've taken pictures of the before and after because Jesus. Christ. I have a few uninvited flying guests to deal with, but I have a can of Febreeze, and hell if it can kill a spider why not? I have finished all the requirements for today and now it is just music and internet without a sliver of guilt.

Lately I've noticed how I sorta miss literature analysis. It's mostly because of the short story class I'm taking this semester. Like, themes and foils and blah are nice, but I think when I say "literature analysis" I mean "let's examine every word and see why the author picked it." I can trace this desire back to yesterday night, when I was thinking out a little paragraph in my head. The sentence I was mulling: "There was a sense of something that had just ended, that they had just missed, and that would start again." Now if you make it this: "There was a sense of something that had just ended, that they had just missed, but that would start again."

Huh. That is the first time I have smashed a fly and seen blood.

Anyway! Awkward parallel structure aside, the choice to use "and" or "but" changes the meaning of the last clause in a subtle but significant way. The former implies that the ending and the starting are constant. Yes, it will end, yes, you have missed it, but (hilarious!) it will start again regardless. Also I think the "and" is bit more menacing. Meanwhile, the latter sentence is more forgiving? because the "but" signals, to me, a message like "it's okay you missed it, it'll happen again." There we go. I lost the thread of thought for a second. So. The first sentence doesn't care if you missed it, because it will happen again. The second sentence does care if you missed it, and so it will happen again.

In the end I went with the former sentence, and the paragraph it came from is this: "It was when the air still hummed with the resonance of the church bells that they found the body. There was a sense of something that had just ended, that they had just missed, and that would start again." Inspired by walking home from the train station and listening to the echoes of the bells. I have grandiose plans that this is the opening to a murder mystery. I had also played with the beginning phrase "it was when..." but I think that's enough overanalysis of words for today.

These past few weeks I have been pondering religion (derp derp). I'm an atheist, and of the general principle that organized religion is anti-intellectual (as are most of my parentheticals). But besides the logical, the emotional side of religion appeals to me, in some way? I have been trying to figure out why, for example, I can be moved by poems like those by Gerard Manley Hopkins, which are blatantly religious, but I don't believe in God. The conclusion I've reached is that for me religion serves a purpose as a literary construct. It is good fodder for stories/poems/etc because it is so rich in emotions and archetypes that shoot straight through logical thought. In that way I'll never not use religion, but I'll never be a user of religion. That's the easiest way I can describe it in mouthspeak.

Also surprise I still like anime. Just finished rewatching Majin Tantei Nougami Neuro and then I went and read all 202 chapters in a day or so. The series is nice and stands firmly apart from the manga, which knocked me flat with its ending. One, thank god for authors having the guts to kill off important characters in a serialized publication. Two, god damn. I would buy this series with real money (gasp shock) because it is magnificent. Character changes! Layers of plot! Motivation! But I still have an issue with things ending, those things being quantified as books/brain-involving media. But it's okay! If I buy it, and or reread it, the ending of the series becomes internalized, and then it is dealt with. I am getting better at this. Anyway omg omg fangirl lul.

And now to leave with a snippet/tangent piece of that story I started writing on my way back from Berlin. Warnings for spoilers! For something that doesn't exist yet!

Stepping into that other world, she closed her eyes and held his hand. The boundary passed through her body. For a white moment she experienced nothing, then it had moved onto her eyes, nose, mouth. Her throat closed like a serpentine vacuum, air clawing at the boundary to pass into her starving lungs. When it reached her heart and squeezed--oh god it squeezed--her memory went and she came back on a bed that was like her own but different. He slept lightly next to her and an arm twitch brought him awake and leaning concerned over her shoulder. "We've made it."

ANATOMY? SURELY YOU JEST

I had a nasty little image pop into my head this morning and I decided it would be wise to write it down and share it with the internet. So, um it is somewhat disturbing, and I didn't research anything related to the biology I'm tackling. In my defense, I always have fucked up thoughts after waking up and for some reason I was thinking of The Constant Gardener and the wife's death and yeah. I didn't originally mean for the character to be male but it just sorta worked that way.

Before he knew it the lady was dead and hung upside down and her eye sockets still smoked from the hot poker he threw back into the fire and her belly oozed purple tissue and curls of intestine and something small and shrimp-like caught his eye and there was his hand squelching inside and ripping through connective tissues and brandishing a tiny, heavy thing the color of a tongue and the consistency of an overripe banana as he squeezed his fingers around it experimentally. No real bones to give it solid form just pulpy tissue and

He reached for a jar.

Then of course I thought up a story to go with it which I'll probably not write anytime soon (haha) and it involves pseudoscience growing fetuses into babies and the complications that arise from having a kid when you're a fucking monster who still messes with preggers and their packages.

God, isn't it immature to constantly think of anything "noun and (possessive) plural noun" as a band name? Preggers and their Packages' new hit single "Just Shut Up and Go Away."

LIMITED TIME OFFER!

News flash: I have many coupons scattered about my desk.

So man, I'm for real going to Germany in the fall. Today my program sent me a handbook, sports bag, luggage tags (d'awww) and my International SOS card. I am so done with being nervous; one benefit of overthinking things is a lack of surprise (that is not the word I'm looking for) at new stuff. I suppose I'm confident enough to forge ahead, or, as I think is more likely the case, I'm not emotionally involved.

I've been pondering this to myself for a while now, because pondering is something I'm good at. There are two sides to me, the emotional and the rational, and I am a rational girl. Emotions are nice, but they aren't the driving force in my life. This would be why I appear to have no desires, I suppose. I tend to lean toward the action that gets me direct results. I picked German as my major because it leads to direct results of employment, i.e. translation, etc.

Being so rational makes it really hard to come home, because I've grown to believe that the people there are ruled by emotions. My dad is stubborn and quick to anger, my mom flies into tantrums, and my little sister is a teenager. I just don't really see the point of being angry, though I often am compelled to ire myself. I won't spout out crap reasons like "we have too little time on this earth" because that's not the reason I think that way. I'm really good at distancing myself from a situation and getting a smidgeon of perspective (sometimes that's all you need). I am most often angry when other people can't do this because to me it is so easy.

Blah. In conclusion, I am glad I know myself. I'm pretty happy with what I ken.

Friday is the library picnic! I am currently torn between two recipes, one for pink lemonade cupcakes and the other for blueberry mint lemonade. I had originally wanted to make something with matcha or Earl Grey tea, but then I didn't. I am sorta leaning toward the lemonade because I don't think many other people will be bringing specialty drinks, and I want to stand out. No salad from this enterprising holy shit I'm not a teen I can't use teenager chef.

Slowly starting to write and draw more often. There was a period of time after moving back when everything was still packed up and I was lazy. The latter still holds true, but my itch had to be scratched. I'm considering adding something else to my bookshelf comic, for as of now it consists only of the top half. I've been scouring through random poetry books I have, and I think I have enough stuff to slapdash a continuation together. And I saved all that acrylic paint from the dump-drive, so the materials and inspiration are there. Need the motivation and the lack of clutter. Maybe I'll be completely unpacked by the 4th of July. That is my completely sensible deadline.

Here, some word vomit that has a direct inspiration. It doesn't exactly express what I wanted, and it got away from me a bit at the end there.

When he played with the children, he was always the monster. It awoke something primeval in him, a rush of secretions and hormones that flashed through his brain in wave after wave. The children tried the usual tactics, the valiant sword fights, the yelling and screaming, but just when it appeared the monster had succumbed to their might, he rose again from the blanket-castle. They would learn eventually that not all monsters can be defeated.

Some stream of consciousness writing

Just some words that have been floating around my head in various incarnations and finally found a way into reality.

The oblivion wraps her in warm breaths and silken fingertips - should she give in? - she hasn't felt at ease since she first discovered her body was fallible. Everyone tells her it's just youth and that feeling of indestructibility will fade until talk of dying becomes just as faded and inevitable as one's first apartment, or love.
-and why should she give in? It is more painful and alive to fight. She rejects this oblivion. It does not reject her.

I always have an issue typing up my stream-writing because I hardly ever punctuate or capitalize or (in one case above) use the correct words. Oh well. Raw writing.

I have noticed lately my responses to certain phrases, lines of dialogue, slogans, etc are hyped beyond normal. These words hold a significance to me, but I can't explain why. Some of them have come from dreams, some are connected to unrealized stories, some are just there.
FIELD-STOP hotel
as touch forbids, so sense compels
It loses something in translation
work quickly; we haven't time
"I wasn't lying."
she's there to stop him he's there to play it down
the terminal hand
the outsider/the observer/the one-who-came-before
The Harbinger brings word of your brother's death, Marley! do you rise to the challenge?
he burned out at 30 'cause he smiled too much
Ambrose Gilchrist has a twin
in the moment we are monsters

Well, German class is going well. I have not doodled once, and it feels great to have an energy outlet. Also, learning a language is a sweet way to feel hella smart.

The Ghost

So remember that brain cancer story I wanted to write? I pumped out a preliminary scene last night because I had a lot of energy that needed an outlet. It's rough, as in I haven't added in much setting description nor decided on the narrative tone I want to take. Actually it's mostly just dialogue. I got to know the characters a bit better. My little "theme" one-liner that I had in the back of my head (and at the top of the .doc) was "She was haunted by the ghost of the person she used to be." I thought about using that as the first line, but then I didn't.

She woke up an hour later, a sizable ounce of her brain gone. The entire tumor had been removed, they told her, but she would still need a few more months of chemo and would she mind posing with the surgeons? Such a rare operation needed to be documented properly.

Joachim shuffled in after the doctors had gone. He still carried the paperback he had walked in with last night. The bookmark had inched its way along while she was under the knife.

“You were on page 137,” she greeted.

He smiled. He rubbed his eyes and sank onto the corner of her bed. “Yes, honey.” He rubbed his eyes again. “How do you feel?”

“Nothing, mostly. I don’t feel any different.” She shifted. “What page are you on now?”

“316. The doctors said that the area of brain they operated on dealt mostly with memory. They’re going to have to test you out, to make sure you’re still ok. I was talking to a nurse, and she said the tests are mostly word memorization and basic history, like Independence Day and 911.” She stifled a yawn. “But, ah, that won’t be for a few more hours. Give the brain time to recover.” He traced his hand over her cheekbone. “I’m so glad you’re ok.”

“I think I remember everything important,” she said. “How was your night? Did the book get any better?”

“No. No, it stayed about the same. I read when I could, tried to sleep, drank some coffee.”

“You do seem a little red in the eyes.”

A pause. “I was going to call your office, tell them the news. Any special messages?”

She hummed and tapped a finger. “Wish Angela an early happy birthday.”

He kissed her cheek. “I’ll do that now.”

The end. A horribly empty piece of writing. I have major issues with setting. I don't usually write any setting details until the next go-through, because otherwise I get super distracted and I don't finish writing what I had in mind. It's horrible and I get a lot of smack about it in workshop. I have to think about setting with a different part of my mind, and once I'm out of the writing track I am SO out of it. Like ugh. Also I think I have a thing for guys who ramble; it's so adorable to me.

Speaking of adorable, and soccer, since it is Euro 2008 season. I love love love love love it when soccer players head-butt a ball and fall on their asses. Like, when the goalie throws/kicks it across the field and some dude tries to knock it down and he gets a hit in but then just flails from overbalancing and plomps on his behind? POSSIBLY THE MOST ADORABLE THING EVER?

YOU HAS FORGET?

There is a competition and a drawing of matches. He gets the short and takes his place atop the shaky wooden bridge. He knows what he now faces and his eyes water until red and dry. It comes with a burp of air pressure and is nothing like what's expected. The air shimmers and rolls over the arena. This is the finality. He sees it lean toward him, all mottle-skinned and asp-like, and his fears leave him in the final second. He is swallowed in purity. It leaves him convulsing and screaming, raw animal yelps and deep sucking pants. The finality departs and the sun sets.
--

More examples of how I don't include many details and description in my writing. I live too much in my head to successfully transfer the imagery to pen and paper, and a lot of times I can't express what I experience in my mind because I'm untrained at conveying emotion. Or I haven't tried enough. I like writing tiny things for myself, which imply entire worlds. Most of my writing is a stepping stone that allows me to experience the events in my head. I am my characters because there's no way they could exist otherwise because I'm all that there is. My universe is myself and my interactions with other universes.


Her anger comes on too strong and she doesn't let up. The cupboards are rattling at the stiletto of her pace. She rumbles back and forth across the lofty kitchen. The cats are curled in their window perching, flicking ears at every footfall.
--

Well I thought about continuing that, because I've got another page or two in my journal, but it is mostly bad. Some of the phrases in the first paragraph are cute, so I'll share that. It's a fascinating trip to read back through my journal, because I find tiny gems. Tiny as in maybe a sentence or two. I like writing one-liners (see above, stepping stones).

"A great pleasure that is, being renowned for what one does for a living." -- This was a dialogue line that squeaked into my head one morning, probably in January. It had something to do with an older writer man, mostly cynical and dry witted. He was probably talking to a younger person when he said this. Maybe a reporter, or aspiring writer. Something along that feeling. Well, this is about the end.

CRUISE CONTROL

She slept and next remembered perching on a cloud, staring down blindly at the city below. She felt the presence of another beside her but her senses did not encompass it and so there was a blank spot in her mind. She saw the city waking, and at the same time was in the city, riding through morning traffic in a duality only possible in dreams. Images of cars melded with the tiny cumulus clouds that dotted the early sky. She reached out to one of the car/clouds and saw a tiny vial of liquid in the grasp of her fingers. The presence that wasn't beside her pushed her arm down and away from the tiny puff of air; "We do not touch the children."
-

This is an important part of the Beth/clouds story, but I haven't yet figured out why. I do know, however, that I'm leaning more towards YA for this story (or at least, my idea of YA). It's become clear to me now that Anthony is involved with this whole mess somehow more than just being her brother, and I'm working towards making the mother less outright villainous. Which is hard, because it's easy to keep her a bitch. I'm fairly certain Anthony isn't her biological son though. Baby steps.

I love the idea of creating a seamless mythology of creatures/ideas/etc. I sorta did that with the clouds and the shadows, but I'm holding back on publishing anything until things straighten out. It's just so much fun. You should give it a try.

With the sudden onset of summer I'll be reading a shit ton more, and that's exciting. I still have a bundle of Banks books to read from my last BN run, and I've got a cool book about modern German culture that I'm sloughing through. Also recently I checked out this cool book Darwin Among the Machines: The Evolution of Global Intelligence, because free time = I get obsessed with post/transhumanism all over again. I wait for the day there's a philosophy class about this, because it's happening now and it's going to change everything. I'm excited.

End of the semester stress has shortened my temper drastically, and tiny things are pissing me off a lot more recently. I don't like losing my temper, at least around other people, so it hasn't caused any issues. Besides, I'm totally ADD when it comes to grudges and hating people. Someone told me once (possibly middle school), "it takes too much effort to hate," and I guess that's my personal motto. I'm glad that I came out the other side of puberty a nice person. Humanity is wonderful and if I ever start sinking I just remind myself how fucking awesome it is that I'm alive and able to accomplish so much. Optimistic sap, mwhahaha. I'm excited to live and I'm excited to die (eventually haha). I don't plan on giving in.