they'll forsake your freak shows and cyclones
I wonder if the DW to LJ crossposting issue from last night has been resolved. I guess we'll see.
[eta] It appears to be fixed! [/eta]
***
I got a pretty decent night's sleep last night, for all that I was up too late 1. writing and 2. rebooting my computer after it wanted to update something or other. These days, rebooting is always fraught with the possibility that it just won't boot, and then I will be SOL. The tiny white laptop is residing with the parents, since my dad's computer has a thingy* that might explode** at any time, so he wants the backup, but if mine goes during business hours, I am totally going to Best Buy and getting a second one, or something similar, because yeah, no.
Anyway, despite sleeping well, I didn't sleep for that long, so I am a little muzzy-headed today, which means I confused three meetings and kind of tentatively double-booked them, which is bad. I thought there were only two! I wasn't counting the third meeting, since it was scheduled before my week off and has been confirmed. But since they all three involve overlapping sets of people, there was confusion, and the proliferation of confused emails, which I hopefully have sorted out. Sigh.
On the writing front, I just wrote and deleted a whole long thing about this story that nobody cares about but me. Suffice it to say, I think I might have figured out how to fix one of the issues with it, though I am still concerned about the pacing. And also that it took six thousand words to get to the sex, and the sex is well, the first time is only the first emotional climax, if I do this right, and I am not sure how the rest of the story is going to work afterwards, to get where I need it to go. Sigh.
***
I feel like I am the only person in fandom for whom the inclusion of the term "whumpage" in the headers of a story is a turn-off. (I mean, I am not all that fond of it in the stories either, but using it as a selling point is a pretty surefire way of making me way less likely to click on the story.)
***
Have a poem:
Brooklyn
What is it then between us?
What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?
~Walt Whitman, Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
How long have I breathed in your fermented tunnels, feral
gardens, sweat-licked shores? Your natives still sulk over
the immigration act, but which of them would not give me,
in the blur of a vanishing R train, the salt off their skin?
Breuckelen. You're a Dutch oven in August, assembly lines
of limp laundry hung over egg-carton lawns. Fisherman
lure prey with chicken legs, hawk it for just enough to buy
a fifth and a lotto and can't believe their luck. Your hookah
bars spill cloying smoke into oily buckets of brine-swarming
olives and flies. Broken land. Your cracks swallow up small
children whole! This time of year, they scurry to your shore-
the Russian Riviera mutters the leather-skinned waitress
at Rocco's as she scoops up her tip. Come September
they'll forsake your freak shows and cyclones and this is
the best time for Coney Island, according to a pair of swans
from Sheepshead Bay. Knife-sharpening trucks refuse to quit,
their brassy bells clashing with Mr. Softee's sing-song chimes.
Breezes like cool limes baptize my brow over and over
saying welcome home, sister. You belong to me, now.
~Lissa Kiernan
***
*capacitor. but I think thingy covers it nicely.
**or possibly meltdown? catch on fire? it was something exciting like that.
***
[eta] It appears to be fixed! [/eta]
***
I got a pretty decent night's sleep last night, for all that I was up too late 1. writing and 2. rebooting my computer after it wanted to update something or other. These days, rebooting is always fraught with the possibility that it just won't boot, and then I will be SOL. The tiny white laptop is residing with the parents, since my dad's computer has a thingy* that might explode** at any time, so he wants the backup, but if mine goes during business hours, I am totally going to Best Buy and getting a second one, or something similar, because yeah, no.
Anyway, despite sleeping well, I didn't sleep for that long, so I am a little muzzy-headed today, which means I confused three meetings and kind of tentatively double-booked them, which is bad. I thought there were only two! I wasn't counting the third meeting, since it was scheduled before my week off and has been confirmed. But since they all three involve overlapping sets of people, there was confusion, and the proliferation of confused emails, which I hopefully have sorted out. Sigh.
On the writing front, I just wrote and deleted a whole long thing about this story that nobody cares about but me. Suffice it to say, I think I might have figured out how to fix one of the issues with it, though I am still concerned about the pacing. And also that it took six thousand words to get to the sex, and the sex is well, the first time is only the first emotional climax, if I do this right, and I am not sure how the rest of the story is going to work afterwards, to get where I need it to go. Sigh.
***
I feel like I am the only person in fandom for whom the inclusion of the term "whumpage" in the headers of a story is a turn-off. (I mean, I am not all that fond of it in the stories either, but using it as a selling point is a pretty surefire way of making me way less likely to click on the story.)
***
Have a poem:
Brooklyn
What is it then between us?
What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?
~Walt Whitman, Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
How long have I breathed in your fermented tunnels, feral
gardens, sweat-licked shores? Your natives still sulk over
the immigration act, but which of them would not give me,
in the blur of a vanishing R train, the salt off their skin?
Breuckelen. You're a Dutch oven in August, assembly lines
of limp laundry hung over egg-carton lawns. Fisherman
lure prey with chicken legs, hawk it for just enough to buy
a fifth and a lotto and can't believe their luck. Your hookah
bars spill cloying smoke into oily buckets of brine-swarming
olives and flies. Broken land. Your cracks swallow up small
children whole! This time of year, they scurry to your shore-
the Russian Riviera mutters the leather-skinned waitress
at Rocco's as she scoops up her tip. Come September
they'll forsake your freak shows and cyclones and this is
the best time for Coney Island, according to a pair of swans
from Sheepshead Bay. Knife-sharpening trucks refuse to quit,
their brassy bells clashing with Mr. Softee's sing-song chimes.
Breezes like cool limes baptize my brow over and over
saying welcome home, sister. You belong to me, now.
~Lissa Kiernan
***
*capacitor. but I think thingy covers it nicely.
**or possibly meltdown? catch on fire? it was something exciting like that.
***