:: Lost Comme une Singe ::

:: Friday, February 28 ::

Goddess of the Night. Beautiful yet a strange
darkness and sadness lurk about you.


What element would you rein over? (For Girls)
brought to you by Quizilla
O.o Umm...okay...*goes back to change answers* Pretty pic though...
:: Mars 6:46 PM [+] ::
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We're reading Julius Caesar in English class. *Dance of happyness* I love Shakespear. He is my god. I will make him an altar and dream up some weird pagan ritual for him. *Nodnod*...anywho:
Mars' Daily Shakespear quotes!-
"That you do love me, I am nothing jealous.
What you would work me to, I have some aim.
How I have thought of this and of these times
I shall recount later."
-Brutus, Act I Scene II

"What you have said
I will consider; what you have to say
I will with patience hear, and find a time
Both meet to hear and answer such high things.
Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this:
Brutus had rather be a villager
Than to repute himself a son of Rome
Under these hard conditions as this time
Is like to lay upon us."
-Brutus, Act I Scene II(...A few lines later...meh...)

:: Mars 1:03 AM [+] ::
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Went to Amber's today after school. We watched the Utena movie, she used me as a pillow and I used her as an armrest. Moments of complete contentment are precious few and far between, ne?
:: Mars 12:54 AM [+] ::
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Today at school: I witnessed something, made me feel like I was watching a book. Not 'cause it was extrordinary or magical or unbelievable. It was just...so...real. Like the world written in bold font or the shiny rainbow that reflects in a cd. There're these two girls, Rachel and Maggie, who I quasi know from this weekend and Walk Out meetings. Rachel told me that they were going out and all (I'd figured that...vibes...)(Her parents caught them kissing on her bed and freaked. *Thwaps all over-conservitive parents with her guitare*). But today, there was a walk out meeting, and apparently Rachel's teacher wouldn't let her leave the class. Maggie and Courtney went to fetch her and he wouldn't let her go. So we were sitting and wondering what to do, and then Rachel walked in hyperventilaty and kinda crying and stressed to the max. She'd walked out of her class, fuck the stupid teacher, fuck lock down and menacing grafitti. Maggie spent the rest of silent reading calming her down. But looking at them...it was like those parts in the books that you don't believe even though you hope against hell they actually happen, the love and the friendships where you can show everything and all. My words aren't doing it justice, but it's definatly one of those random memory bits that I'm going to have stored up for the rest of my life. Something to show the world or maybe myself, or maybe Ryann, that there is such a thing as, I dunno...Love's to generic a word, it gets used to much nowadays. Amour doesn't have the right taste to it, ai might be what I want but...How do you say despirit and happy and proud and scared and difiant and alive and together and bound and free and right and true and...all that at once? There. And the thing is, this is all someone else's experience.
:: Mars 12:52 AM [+] ::
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In other news...I believe Ti-chan actually is dead. *Pokes Ti-chan's body with a stick* Maybe I should go for an eye...?
:: Mars 12:32 AM [+] ::
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*Mars does the I-am-purple dance* HEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Mes cheveaux est violet!! Je danse avec des singes! Mwah!!!!
:: Mars 12:31 AM [+] ::
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*pokes Ti-chan* You dead?
:: Mars 10:00 PM [+] ::
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Grr...had to recite a poem in French today...I spazzed myself into forgetting a bit of it...*Spooky inner monologue voice* Wait Mars, then why are you in play?...*Mars beats voice repeatedly with a pan* DIE EVIL DEMON CREATURE!!!!!!!!!!...Ummm...*Looks around at everyone*...*Blink*...*Grabs innocent trumpet player*

If get drunk I'll pass out on the floor now baby
And you won't bother me no more.
And if you're drinkin' than you know that your my friend and I'll say...
I think I'll have myself a beer.

Mwah! Hahahahahahaha!!
:: Mars 10:00 PM [+] ::
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Mars has had a really BuSy week...after-schooling stuff and tests and reports and GRR!!! So there's been no nettingness pour moi...But all is well...YeSs....
:: Mars 6:06 PM [+] ::
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I can understand wanting to feel depressed. Sometimes feeling depressed is nice(Go figure). It flushes all your emotions or something. Some days you just don't feel like being happy. But when you feel like that, you go off by yourself and figure it out. You don't jump other people(especially emotionally unstable ones like Amber) and force it down their throat. Amber says that its a test, that Johnny's trying to see who his true friends are. By. Threatening. Suicide. She says that she's done that before. Mine gods, how stupid can people get!?! Is that not the dumbest thing you've ever heard of?(Prolly it isn't. Still, c'est tres estupide, non?) Stupid stupid stupid. She's all worked up, (headache), and arrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!! It seems so selfish. Suicide in general does, and this especially. It's like the bomb threats at school. If someone really wanted to blow up the school, they wouldn't leave a note. Grr...Angry Mars...*Stomps off to complete geometry*
:: Mars 11:33 PM [+] ::
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See, Johnny is all suicidal (By the way...nobody give the addy to this blog to Tatianna or any-like-such people please...I'm growling about stuff I'm not supposed to know 'cause Amber "didn't tell me." Yeah)...And he says Amber is the only person who can help him and then starts speaking in riddles and hiakus about foxes and gingerbread men and catching. Of course, Amber is blaming herself. And if he actually does do it, she'll never get over it, 'cause thats just how she is. Its so stupid, Johnny was the one who was pissed at Nick for unloading all his personal shit on Amber. Rrr... She's all paniced, I'm pissed, which probably isn't very productive in convincing someone not to kill themselves, but goddammit people are being resonable, people are being sad, people are being sympathetic and understanding and compassionate and all that crap and it isn't working. Of course, I can't do anything 'cause "I don't know." So I want to yell at him for being so stupid and drag him outside and show him life's worth living and I can't do either 'cause Johnny decided to burden this all on Amber and Amber alone. Stupid man. Hate....rrrr...
:: Mars 11:22 PM [+] ::
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STUPID GODDAM SUICIDAL PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
:: Mars 11:12 PM [+] ::
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Mars was actually quite happy/content for the time she was not posting...had lazza fun capering with Shay and Ti and other such people...poor, defenseless Nick...*pokes invisible-Larkin*...It was all happyness and joy except then... :
:: Mars 11:12 PM [+] ::
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I think I did well on the French Test...yes...I...do...Now, if only...*stares at Chem test* I think I should be able to pass this class with an "A" if I sign a form promising never to become a chemist..
:: Mars 8:52 PM [+] ::
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*Floaty happy music* Whhhheennnttt to Plllllllaaaaaaaayyyyyyyy Tryyy Oooooutssss Tooooodaaayyy!...Whhhheeeerrrrrree weeerrre youuuuuuu Shhhhhaaaaayyy?
:: Mars 8:50 PM [+] ::
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Emotional Wreck. You are extremely emotional. You
feel contentment moreso than happiness and your
emotional lows are to the extreme. You need to
cheer up and start enjoying your life. Where
there is rain there is a rainbow and you need
to see it more than others. Do something that
makes you happy.


How Emotional Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Mars just kinda felt like posting quizlings today...
:: Mars 11:40 PM [+] ::
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*Pokes Ravenna* (If she's here)...YAY!! Another Mercedes Lacky fan!!!!!!! *Is wee bit obsessive* Just let me make one thing clear! *Rungrabtacklehugs Vanyel* MINE!! ^^
:: Mars 11:33 PM [+] ::
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-Not- You're...not girlfriend material. Not because
you'd be a bad girlfriend, but because you're
not in the mindset to be one. You're childish
and silly. Also, you might not necessarily be
attracted to guys. ~shrugs~ whatever.


What Kind of Girlfriend Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Heh heh heh heh heh...yup...:}
:: Mars 11:32 PM [+] ::
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Mars se coupe son cheveaux!! Well actually, my mother cut it, mais, now its shorter by maybe four inches. Happy Mars. Never did like having long hair, I just haven't bothered to cut it in a while. Except now its going to do that evil curvy thing around my chin. Oh well...
:: Mars 9:13 PM [+] ::
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Random beautiful bit from a random beautiful article...

There was a child born whose mother did not give her milk. Nor did she give her love, nor think of her as a miracle as she lay in the cradle. A bitter woman, she was, a tormented woman, her mind had been warped by the selfishness of those around her and she saw her child only as a burden, a chain, an affliction. Yet, in spite of the mother's neglect, the child grew. For in her dreams each night an angel would come and feed her. First the angel fed her letters, all the letters of all the languages of the earth. And these letters nourished the child. And as she grew, the angel began to feed her words. And this was good. She grew more and soon the words grew into poems, and the poems begat songs, and the songs begat stories upon stories. Soon the child was grown up, and she walked the earth filled with the letters, words, poems, songs, and stories from the angel. And in small groups, people would gather to hear her. Some men wanted to hunt her down and kill her for her stories frightened them. Some women wanted to slit her throat from jealousy. Her stories spoke of the deep shame of life, the silent pain, the loneliness. And when she spoke, those who heard her felt a nourishment they had never felt, a mending of all that has been shattered. She roamed from place to place and spoke in her quiet way, a cross between whisper and lullabies. Where is she now? This child fed from the letters of angels? Where is she that we can lift her up, and carry her through the streets in celebration?

She has disappeared. Wandered off deep inside of your soul, calling out to you right now to join her. She's getting ready to tell you a story.

:: Mars 1:03 AM [+] ::
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Lo-ong story...not really...I read it and...well...this is why I fear pastels:

Wet Wingsby Mercedes Lackey
Katherine watched avidly, chin cradled in her old arthritic hands as the chrysalis heaved, and writhed, and finally split up the back. The crinkled, sodden wings of the butterfly emerged first, followed by the bloated body. She breathed a sigh of wonder, as she always did, and the butterfly tried to flap its useless wings in alarm as it caught her movement.
“Silly thing,” she chided it affectionately. “You know you can’t fly with wet wings!” Then she exerted a little of her magic; just a little, brushing the butterfly with a spark of calm that jumped from her trembling index finger to its quivering antenna.
The butterfly, soothed, went back to its real job, pumping the fluid from its body into the veins of its wings, unfurling them into their full glory. It was not a particularly rare butterfly, certainly not an endangered one; nothing but a common Buckeye, a butterfly so ordinary that no one even commented on seeing them when she was a child. But Katherine had always found the markings exquisite, and she had used this species and the sulfurs more often then any others to carry her magick.
Magic. That was a word hard to find written anymore. No one approved of magic these days. Strange in a country that gave the Church of Gaia equal rights with the Catholic Church, that no one believed in magic.
But magic was not “correct.” It was not given equally to all. And that which could not be made equal, must be destroyed…
Perhaps she should have realized it would happen. So many people had come to her over the years, drawn by the magic in her books, demanding to be taught. Some had the talent and the will; most only had delusions. How they had cursed her when she had told them the truth. They had wanted to be like the heroes and heroines of her stories; special, powerful.
She remembered them all; the boy she had told, regretfully, that his ”telepathy” was only observation and the ability to read body language. The girl who’s “psychic attacks” had been caused by potassium imbalances. The would-be “bardic mage” who had nothing other than the facility to delude himself. And many others who could not tell a tale, because they would not let themselves see the tales around them. They were neither powerful nor special, at least not in terms either of the power of magick, nor the magic of storytelling. More often then not, they would go to some one else, demanding to be taught, unwilling to hear the truth.
Eventually, they found some one; in one of the many movements that sprouted on the fringes like parasitic mushrooms. She, like the other mages of her time, had simply shaken her head and sighed for them. But what she had not reckoned on, nor had anyone else, was that these movements had gained a strength and a life of their own-and had gone political.
Somehow, although the process had been so gradual she had never noticed when it had become unstoppable, those who cherished their delusions began to legislate some of those delusions. “Politically correct” they called it-and some of the things they had done she had welcomed, seeing them as harbingers of more freedom, not less.
But they had gone from the reasonable to the unreasoning; from demanding and getting a removal of sexism to a denial of sexuality and the differences that should have been celebrated. From legislating humane treatment of animals to making the possession of any animal or animal product without licenses and yearly inspections a crime. Fewer people bothered owning a pet these days-no, not a pet, an “Animal Companion,” and one did not own it, one “nurtured” it. Not when inspectors had the right to come into your home day or night, make sure that you were giving your Animal Companion all the rights to which it was entitled. And the rarer the animal, the more onerous the conditions…
“That wouldn’t suit you, would it Horace?” she asked the young crow perched over the window. Horace was completely illegal; there was no way she could have gotten a license for him. She lived in an apartment, not on a farm; she could never give him the four-acre “hunting preserve” he required. Never mind that he had come to her, lured by her magic, and that he was free to come and go through her window, hunting and exercising at will. He also came and went with her little spell packets, providing her with
eyes on the world where she could not go, and bring back the cocoons and chrysalises that she used for her butterfly-magics.
She shook her head, and sighed. They had sucked all the juice out of the life of the world, that was what they had done. Outside, the gray overcast day mirrored the gray sameness of the world they had created. There were no bright colors anymore to draw the eye, only pastels. No passion, no fire, nothing to arouse any kind of emotions. They had decreed that everyone must be equal, and no one must be offended, ever. And they had begun the burning and the banning…
She had become alarmed when the burning and the banning started; she knew that her own world was doomed when it reached things like “Hansel and Gretel”-banned, not because there was a witch in it, but because the witch was evil, and that might offend witches. She had known that that her own work was doomed when a book that lauded for its portrayal of a young gay hero was banned because the young gay hero was unhappy and suicidal. She had not even bothered to argue. She simply announced her retirement and went into seclusion, pouring all her energy into the magic of her butterflies.
From the first moment of spring to the last of autumn, Horace brought her caterpillars and cocoons. When the young butterflies emerged, she gave them each a special burden and sent them out into the world again.
Wonder. Imagination. Joy. Diversity. Some she sent out to wake the gifts of magic in others. Some she sent to wake simple, stubborn will.
Discontent. Rebellion. She sowed her seeds, here in this tiny apartment, of what she hoped would be the next revolution. She would not be here to see it-but she hoped the day would come, she hoped, when those who were different and special would no longer be willing or content with sameness and equality at the expense of diversity.
Her door buzzer sounded, jarring her out of her reverie.
She got up, stiffly, and went to the intercom. But the face there was that of her old friend Pete, the “Environmental Engineer” of the apartment building, and he wore an expression of despair.
“Kathy, the Psi-cops are coming for you,” he said, quickly, casting a look over his shoulder to see if there was anyone listening. “They made me let them in-“
The screen darkened abruptly.
Oh, Gods- She had been so careful! But-in away, she had expected it. She had been a world-renowned fantasy writer; she had made no secret of her knowledge of real-world magics. The Psi-cops had not made any spectacular arrests lately. Possibly they were running out of victims; she should have known they would have started looking up peoples’ pasts.
She glanced at around the apartment reflexively-
No. There was no hope. There were too many things she had that were contraband. The shelves full of books, the feathers and bones she used in her magics, the freezer full of meat that she shared with Horace and his predecessors, the wool blankets-
For that matter, they could arrest her on the basis of her jewelry alone, the fetish-necklaces she carved and made, the medicine wheels and shields, and the prayer feathers. She was not Native American; she had no right to make these things even for private use.
And she knew what would happen to her. The Psi-cops would take her away, confiscate all her property, and “re-educate” her.
Drugged, brainwashed, wired, and probed. There would be nothing left of her when they finished. They had “re-educated” Jim three years ago, and when he came out, everything, even his magic and his ability to tell a story, was gone. He had not even had the opportunity to gift it to someone else; they had simply crushed it. He had committed suicide less than a week after his release.
She had a few more minutes at most before they zapped the lock on her door and broke in. She had to save something, anything!
Then her eyes lighted on the butterfly, his wings fully unfurled and waving gently, and she knew what she would do.
First, she freed Horace. He flew off, squawking indignantly at being sent out into the overcast. But there was no other choice; if they found him, they would probably cage him up and send him to a forest preserve somewhere. He did not know how to find food in a wilderness-let him at least stay here in the city, where he knew how to steal food from birdfeeders, and where the best dumpsters where.
Then she cupped her hands around the butterfly, and gathered all of her magic. All of it this time; a great burden for one tiny insect, but there was no choice.
Songs and tales, magic and wonder; power, vision, will, strength- She breathed them into the butterflies wings, and he trembled as the magic swirled around him, in a vortex of tumbling mist.
Pride. Poetry. Determination. Love. Hope-
She heard them at the door, banging on it, ordering her to open in the name of the Equal State. She ignored them. There was at least a minute or so left.
The gift of words. The gift of difference-
Finally she took her hands away, spent and exhausted, and feeling as empty as an old paper sack. The butterfly waved his wings, and though she could no longer see it, she knew that a drift of sparkling power followed the movements.
There was a whine behind her as the Psi-cops zapped the lock.
She opened the window, coaxed the butterfly onto her hand, and put him outside. An errant ray of sunshine broke through the overcast, gilding him with a glory that mirrored the magic he carried.
“Go,” she breathed. “Find somebody worthy.”
He spread his wings, tested the breeze, and lifted off her hand, to be carried away.
And she turned, full of dignity and empty of all else, to face her enemies.

:: Mars 12:13 AM [+] ::
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*dances* Booooooowliiiiinnnnnnggg Fooooooorrrrrrr Soooouuuuuuppp!! *Boing*
:: Mars 10:02 PM [+] ::
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*pats poor bruised Larkin* Pauvre Larky...T'll all be better in the end...and yes, Shrub is like Hitler...but(This came up in an arguement with somebody), so's Saddam. Saddam does need taking down, but it shouldn't be done by us. Not with a power hungary sock-monkey idiot as our leader. Not with our faltering economy and corporate evils and stupid idiot president who will want to use nukes goddamit, not with the North Korean president calling us "The ultamite evil"...and not with at least two more years till I can move to Canada...
:: Mars 10:01 PM [+] ::
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Thing is Shay, it's not that we think it'll change anything...its just...to say that we, this little group of people standing over here, don't support what you're doing. And then other people, the ones who were too afraid or didn't want to get in trouble, or what would their parents think, they'll start coming over and the group'll get bigger and pretty soon it'll be so big and people will start thinking: Wait, isn't this supposed to be a repressentitive goverment? Wait, the people are saying no, but no one with power is paying attention?

Also, 'cause, *Quotes*: If our goverment doesn't react to our cries, let it not be because they didn't hear us.

You don't protest 'cause it'll change things, but 'cause you want things to change, 'cause you believe it should be a different way and not the way it is and that how it is is wrong.

Or you do it 'cause you're mad and bitter and angry and scared and need to get it all out.

Or 'cause, hell, it's something to do that isn't staring at your shoe laces.

:: Mars 9:52 PM [+] ::
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Oooo!! In rebelion/walkout news:*Glances around* We can HIJACK THE INTERCOM SYSTEM!!!!!!!!! So the day of, when ever that is (Watch it be the day of a Chem quiz or test or something...:p), the Jimmi Hendrix national anthem will go off at 10:50...and we'll walk out.*Nod*
:: Mars 1:19 AM [+] ::
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Also, I found out that I get to spend two days on a bus with Katie and Travis!! No Nick though, but he can transfer out of the one he's in...maybe switch with one of Travis' sexual harassment stalker dudes...that would be good.
:: Mars 1:17 AM [+] ::
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Had pep band, which is usually a bad thing, but wasn't 'cause I was with Katie and had some one to talk to...*Hugs Katie*...
:: Mars 1:15 AM [+] ::
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And rode home with Ryann on the bus...walked her to her house...There was lots of ice covering the side walk, so we "skated" there. Twas fun. I was much better at it than running down strips of ice on the lake. ;P
:: Mars 1:14 AM [+] ::
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Got 102% on a French quiz!!! *Mars danse avec un grand poisson.*
:: Mars 1:12 AM [+] ::
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Wert!! Mayhap I should go to bed...I's sick...but...*spins*...Wonderous Day!! :D
:: Mars 1:11 AM [+] ::
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*pokes self* I think I just joined a cult 0.o Lizzie came up to me in gym and asked: "Are you for peace?" I did the hand thingy and said "Peace is good." And next thing ya know, I'm sitting in a circle with a bunch of other kids talking about walking out of school the day after the US invades Iraq and making posters and hyjacking the intercom and "The bird has flown the cage" and...yeah. I have to think up an idea for a poster, and for the life of me all I got in my mind is tap dancing peas...Whheee!
:: Mars 4:18 PM [+] ::
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Umm, out of curiousity, who is this Ravena person I keep hearing(reading?) about?
:: Mars 4:14 PM [+] ::
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*Pokes Larkin again. Poor sore Larkin arm* I know the story thingy was kinda incoherant, but it was the afterward of a book...made more sense if you read the book first...Read Da Book!
:: Mars 4:13 PM [+] ::
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*pokes Larkin* S'on the 14th...but I'm havin party on the 15th...*pokes Shay and Ti and Larkin* Yesh...come?
:: Mars 4:12 PM [+] ::
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0.o Mars just realized that her birthday is next week...Umm...I thinks I needs to start...planning?...yEsH...*Finger thrums*...*Pokes Shay and Ti and Larkin*...
:: Mars 11:24 PM [+] ::
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Wow...that took along time to type up...right-o...
Confusing word-aesthetics: Having a sense of love or beauty...
Author's Afterward from Fahrenheit 451
About two years ago, a letter arrived from a solemn young Vassar lady telling me how much she enjoyed reading my experiment in space mythology, The Martian Chronicles.
But, she added, wouldn't it be a good idea, this late in time, to rewrite the book inserting more women's characters and roles?
A few years before that I got a certain amount of mail concerning the same Martian book complaining that the blacks in the book were Uncle Toms and why didn't I "do them over"?
Along about then came a note from a Southern white suggesting that I was prejudiced in favor of the blacks and the entire story should be dropped.
Two weeks ago my mountain of mail delivered forth a pipsqueak mouse of a letter from a well-known publishing house that wanted to reprint my story "The Fog Horn" in a high school reader.
In my story, I had described a lighthouse as having, late at night, an illumination coming from it that was a "God-Light." Looking up at it from the viewpoint of any sea-creature one would have felt that one was in "the Presence."
The editors had deleted "God-Light" and "in the Presence."
Some five years back, the editors of yet another anthology for school readers put together a volume with some 400 (count 'em) short stories in it. How do you cram 400 short stories by Twain, Irving, Poe, Maupassant and Bierce into one book?
Simplicity itself. Skin, debone, demarrow, scarify, melt, render down and destroy. Every adjective that counted, every verb that moved, every metaphor that weighed more than a mosquito-out! Every simile that would have made a sub-moron's mouth twitch-gone! Any aside that explained the two-bit philosophy of a first-rate writer-lost!
Every story, slenderized, starved, bluepenciled, leeched and bled white, resembled every other story. Twain read like Poe read like Shakespeare read like Dostoevsky read like-in the finale-Edgar Guest. Every word of more than three syllables had been razored. Every image that demanded so much as one instant’s attention-shot dead.
Do you begin to get the damned and incredible picture?
How did I react to all of the above?
By “firing” the whole lot.
By sending rejection slips to each and every one.
By ticketing the assembly of idiots to the far reaches of hell.
The point is obvious. There is more than one way to burn a book. And the world is full of people running about with lit matches. Every minority, be it Baptist/Unitarian, Irish/Italian/Octogenarian/Zen Buddhist, Zionist/Seven-day Adventist, Women’s Lib/ Republican, Mattachine/ Four Square Gospel feels it has the will, the right, the duty to douse the kerosene, light the fuse. Every dimwit editor who sees himself as the source of all dreary blanc-mange plain porridge unleavened literature, licks his guillotine and eyes the neck of any author who dares to speak above a whisper or write above a nursery rhyme.
Fire-Captain Beatty, in my novel Fahrenheit 451 described how the books were burned first by minorities, each ripping a page or a paragraph from this book, then that, until the day came when the books were empty and the minds shut and the libraries closed forever.
“Shut the door, they’re coming in through the window, shut the window, they’re coming in through the door,” are the words to an old song. They fit my life-style with newly arriving butcher/censors every month. Only six weeks ago, I discovered that, over the years, some cubbyhole editors at Ballantine Books, fearful of contaminating the young, had, bit by bit, censored some 75 separate sections from the novel. Students, reading the novel which, after all, deals with censorship and book-burning in the future, wrote to tell me of this exquisite irony. Judy-Lynn Del Rey, one of the new Ballantine editors, is having the entire book reset and republished this summer with all the damns and hells back in place.
A final test for old Job II here: I sent a play, Leviathan 99, off to a university theater a month ago. My play is based on “Moby Dick” mythology, dedicated to Melville, and concerns a rocket crew and a blind space captain who venture forth to encounter a Great White Comet and destroy the destroyer. My drama premiers as an opera in Paris this autumn. But, for now, the university wrote back that they hardly dared to do my play-it had no women in it! And the ERA ladies on campus would descend with ballbats if the drama department even tried!
Grinding my bicuspids into powder, I suggested that would mean, from now on, no more productions of Boys in the Band (no women), or The Women (no men). Or, counting heads, male and female, a good lot of Shakespeare that would never be seen again, especially if you count lines and find that all the good stuff went to the males!
I wrote back maybe they should do my play one week, and The Women next. They probably thought I was joking, and I’m not sure that I wasn’t.
For it is a mad world and it will get madder if we allow the minorities, be they dwarf or giant, orangutan or dolphin, nuclear-head or water-conservationist, pro-computerologist or Neo-Luddite, simpleton or sage, to interfere with aesthetics. The real world is the playing ground for each and every group, to make or unmake laws. But the tip of the nose of my book or stories or poems is where their rights end and my territorial imperatives begin, run and rule. If Mormons do not like my plays, let them write their own. If the Irish hate my Dublin stories, let them rent typewriters. If teachers and grammar school editors find my jawbreaker sentences shatter their mushmilk teeth, let them eat stale cake dunked in weak tea of their own ungodly manufacture. If the Chicano intellectuals wish to re-cut y “Wonderful Ice Cream Suit” so it shapes “Zoot,” may the belt unravel and the pants fall.
For, let’s face it, digression is the soul of wit. Take philosophic asides away from Dante, Milton or Hamlet’s father’s ghost and what stays is dry bones. Laurence Sterne said it once: Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine, the life, the soul of reading! Take them out and one cold eternal winter would reign in every page. Restore them to the writer-he steps forth like a bridegroom, bids all-hail, brings in variety and forbids the appetite to fail.
In sum, do not insult me with the beheadings, finger-choppings or lung-deflations you plan for my works. I need my head to shake or nod, my hand to write or make into a fist, my lungs to shout or whisper with. I will not go gently onto a shelf, degutted, to become a non-book.
All you umpires, back to the bleachers. Referees, hit the showers. It’s my game. I pitch, I hit, I catch. I run the bases. At sunset I’ve won or lost. At sunrise, I’m out again, giving it the old try.

:: Mars 9:39 PM [+] ::
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*Pokes Shay* Awww...*Giggles with Ti*...*pokes Larkin* You get it, right?
:: Mars 8:44 PM [+] ::
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*is happy Shay liked her compliment* S'true too...S'how I described your performance to anyone who asked...lazza people did by the way :}
:: Mars 8:37 PM [+] ::
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And...another Ecstasia song:

Dirge
Have I forgotten no I remember
though I have tried to burn it to embers
the night when the one in the skeleton mask
ripped at my heart while he kissed my mouth
the night when the one with the fingers that pry
opened my rib cage and buried inside

There in the city that denies destruction
all of them waiting for love’s resurrection
so many children in so many rooms
so many boys in their carnival suits
so many girls await their retreat
all armored and masked out on the streets
girls in their rooms, a mysterious glow
flickers of dream on their half-shadowed brows
are awaiting the return of love
or has despair wrenched them, fastened like gloves
to their hearts in the tapestry dark
in the cupid-filled, dizzying, mirror-bright dark?

There in the city that denies destruction
all of them waiting for love’s resurrection
and all of them-blind girls and boys who have seen
our brothers vanish and never be men
sisters get ready to o down below
the city vampire-like and seraphic, both
children, too pale, watch shooting stars
as they’re led past the hole in the earth to the bars
children with everything there for their eyes
too much for such pallor, such size

But something’s begun again, feel it exploding
into a dawning, a rushing unfolding
listen to rain and the rooms that resound
with the song and the wail of a heart as it sounds
out the sweetness of angels who lie in museums
and the stark echo chimers of dark mausoleums
waken, awaken, beside you in song
not till the end will we know and belong
still I will feel the thirst and the shimmer
desiring you, fired by you, blinded by glimmer
where did you come from, this city that strikes
out at them all in the electric bright night?
wakes them with questioning song-rustled light
always the waltz and never the dirge
tell me your name before I emerge

:: Mars 2:07 AM [+] ::
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The really unforgivable acts are committed by calm men in beautiful green silk rooms, who deal death wholesale, by the shipload, with out lust, or anger, or desire, or any other redeaming emotion to excuse them but cold fear of some pretended future. But the crimes they hope to prevent in that future are imaginary. The ones they commit in the present-they are real.
-Cordelia’s Honor

:: Mars 2:05 AM [+] ::
...

Some of the younger nobles and courtiers shared his taste for the unseemly side of Ombria. They had no idea why Duncon would stop to sketch a window whose small, thick, cracked panes of glass made the world beyond it undefined, elusive. They would criticize his drawings, follow him into taverns and drink with him, until they recognized what they wanted at the bottom of a bottle or in a face. Then they would let him drift away to find other windows, other doors and passageways that seemed haunting in their ambiguity, as if they led both out and in at once, and to the same place.
-Ombria in Shadow

:: Mars 2:04 AM [+] ::
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Mars' headphones are saying: I kissed a drunk girl. I kissed a drunk girl yes I did. 0.o Let's hear it for random punk bands...
:: Mars 2:00 AM [+] ::
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Whee!! So much fun today, with Ti and Shay! (Fear the rhyming!!) Thorn too, I guess...*pokes Thorn*...Shay was so...incredible?...on the trapezey! Reminded me of the Circ de Solai (<- Mars does not feel like putting forth the effort of looking up correct spellings) videos we watch in French class. *Nod*
:: Mars 1:59 AM [+] ::
...