this is most perplexing, in an awesome way
you guys, so hilarious. my sister, Esther? she is not in fandom. I think fandom would scar her horrifically. for years. she kind of pats me on the head and looks amused when I talk about it, and I have to censor a lot of stuff.
but apparently? vidding is totally Her Thing, especially (maybe only?) when it's the Bourne series. she's completely freaked out over me doing it and keeps watching it and being like "THIS SONG IS VERY JASON, how about you vid this one?" it is HILARIOUS. it is also awesome! so that's what I spent yesterday night doing - talking to Esther about Jason Bourne, vidding, music, fandom, etc., doing some prep work on a song, and naturally from there into how we both find people about five times hotter when they are being competent.
so that was very very fun. :D
here is some poetry, since National Poetry Month is coming to a close!
Head, Perhaps of an Angel by Debora Greger
limestone, with traces of polychromy, c. 1250
Point Dume was the point,
he said, but we never came close,
no matter how far we walked the shale
broken from California.
Someone's garden
had slipped, hanging itself by a vine
from the cliffs of some new Babylon
past Malibu.
Drowning the words,
the wind didn't fling back in our faces,
the Pacific washed up a shell:
around an alabastron
of salt water for the dead,
seaweed rustled its papers, drying them out,
until it died. Waves kept crashing
into the heart
of each shell
I held to my ear like a phone,
but they were just the waves of my blood.
And through it all
I heard him say,
how could it be nine months ago
his grandson had taken his own life,
somewhere back east?
He was fifteen.
O Pacific, what good is our grief?
Something screamed at the sandy child
who poured seawater
into a hole.
Child, you'll never empty the ocean,
Augustine said. How can I believe?
The wet fist of a wave
dissolved in sand.
Like a saint, a seagull flapped down the beach
in search of something raw-an angel
with an empty pail?
No, a teenage boy,
hands big as a man's, held a sea slug
quaking like an aspic. Under a rock, another
drew into its body
a creature
larger than itself. Live, said Death,
to child and childless alike, indifferently.
I am coming.
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. There are
comments there.
but apparently? vidding is totally Her Thing, especially (maybe only?) when it's the Bourne series. she's completely freaked out over me doing it and keeps watching it and being like "THIS SONG IS VERY JASON, how about you vid this one?" it is HILARIOUS. it is also awesome! so that's what I spent yesterday night doing - talking to Esther about Jason Bourne, vidding, music, fandom, etc., doing some prep work on a song, and naturally from there into how we both find people about five times hotter when they are being competent.
so that was very very fun. :D
here is some poetry, since National Poetry Month is coming to a close!
Head, Perhaps of an Angel by Debora Greger
limestone, with traces of polychromy, c. 1250
Point Dume was the point,
he said, but we never came close,
no matter how far we walked the shale
broken from California.
Someone's garden
had slipped, hanging itself by a vine
from the cliffs of some new Babylon
past Malibu.
Drowning the words,
the wind didn't fling back in our faces,
the Pacific washed up a shell:
around an alabastron
of salt water for the dead,
seaweed rustled its papers, drying them out,
until it died. Waves kept crashing
into the heart
of each shell
I held to my ear like a phone,
but they were just the waves of my blood.
And through it all
I heard him say,
how could it be nine months ago
his grandson had taken his own life,
somewhere back east?
He was fifteen.
O Pacific, what good is our grief?
Something screamed at the sandy child
who poured seawater
into a hole.
Child, you'll never empty the ocean,
Augustine said. How can I believe?
The wet fist of a wave
dissolved in sand.
Like a saint, a seagull flapped down the beach
in search of something raw-an angel
with an empty pail?
No, a teenage boy,
hands big as a man's, held a sea slug
quaking like an aspic. Under a rock, another
drew into its body
a creature
larger than itself. Live, said Death,
to child and childless alike, indifferently.
I am coming.
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. There are
comments there.