and he sings songs and he slays dragons
Sigh. LJ logged me out and now it's not letting me log back in. I wouldn't care so much except that I was reading a story that is sadly broken into parts and I do not like to read it in the author's LJ style. My life, so hard.
I guess this is as good a time as any to remind people that I am musesfool everywhere, though on delicious (and are we moving to a new place? has there been any kind of consensus about this, what with it not working so well lately?), musesfool is my fic index and victoria.p is everything else (recs, recipes, cool things). Oh, and I'm cacchieressa on tumblr, both because that seemed more fitting and because sometimes I think I should have made that my LJ-name but I'm too attached to musesfool now to ever change it.
This morning, I woke up with two things in my head: Frank Turner's I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous, and a Tim/Steph/Tam sex scene. I do not think these two things are related (there are no English boys with banjos in the story). Frank Turner reminds me a lot of Billy Bragg, which can only be a good thing. Also, I don't think I have a good enough handle on Tim to write him, especially from his POV, but we'll see what happens. *hands* His bewilderment about girls is amusing to me.
Also, I've been reading some Superman/Batman slash and it's really weird to me, coming in so late - the stories I'm reading aren't that old (if something is from 2005, it can't be that old, right?), but some of them have a very old-school slash vibe to them that I find...off-putting, and not just in the treatment of the women. (Unlike, say, all the Tim/Kon I've read, which feels a lot more familiar in terms of style.)
What I really want is the story where Martha Kent uses her wily sweet motherliness to get Bruce to sit down and bake cookies and talk to her about his boys and maybe relax for a little while in her kitchen. And he is full of DO NOT WANT but not only would it shame Alfred immensely if he were rude to her, it's so tiresome to deal with Clark actually being angry. And then he discovers that it's kind of nice, and not actually a betrayal of his own mother, so once or twice a year, he visits. He's pretty sure Clark knows, but they don't talk about it.
It's so typical - I find a fandom full of porn and I want the story where Batman bakes cookies with Superman's mom. My life, so hard.
***
Today's poem:
Trespass
Father's paroled during the drought
of seventy-eight only to vanish again, this time
taking me with him-
stealing into Levi's pasture for cow skeletons,
sun-stripped and patiently gleaming
between the crushed iris.
Above and around us, the electric fence
hums like God-
a magnification of the dreaming gnats we awakened
discovering the lode of bones.
Collecting skull, rib, sternum, spine, the dead
rise, and we forget to be afraid,
thinking only of profit, new lives:
bird earrings from breastbone, the knife-stroke
of feather, fish candlesticks
from femur, long and tapered as sabers.
Escaping through acres where the living cattle
study us, an ache
in language-less throats, we struggle
to carry home all we can hold, glancing heavenward
with knowing, with eyes growing large
all over our bodies.
Paula Bohince
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/309446.html.
people have commented there.
I guess this is as good a time as any to remind people that I am musesfool everywhere, though on delicious (and are we moving to a new place? has there been any kind of consensus about this, what with it not working so well lately?), musesfool is my fic index and victoria.p is everything else (recs, recipes, cool things). Oh, and I'm cacchieressa on tumblr, both because that seemed more fitting and because sometimes I think I should have made that my LJ-name but I'm too attached to musesfool now to ever change it.
This morning, I woke up with two things in my head: Frank Turner's I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous, and a Tim/Steph/Tam sex scene. I do not think these two things are related (there are no English boys with banjos in the story). Frank Turner reminds me a lot of Billy Bragg, which can only be a good thing. Also, I don't think I have a good enough handle on Tim to write him, especially from his POV, but we'll see what happens. *hands* His bewilderment about girls is amusing to me.
Also, I've been reading some Superman/Batman slash and it's really weird to me, coming in so late - the stories I'm reading aren't that old (if something is from 2005, it can't be that old, right?), but some of them have a very old-school slash vibe to them that I find...off-putting, and not just in the treatment of the women. (Unlike, say, all the Tim/Kon I've read, which feels a lot more familiar in terms of style.)
What I really want is the story where Martha Kent uses her wily sweet motherliness to get Bruce to sit down and bake cookies and talk to her about his boys and maybe relax for a little while in her kitchen. And he is full of DO NOT WANT but not only would it shame Alfred immensely if he were rude to her, it's so tiresome to deal with Clark actually being angry. And then he discovers that it's kind of nice, and not actually a betrayal of his own mother, so once or twice a year, he visits. He's pretty sure Clark knows, but they don't talk about it.
It's so typical - I find a fandom full of porn and I want the story where Batman bakes cookies with Superman's mom. My life, so hard.
***
Today's poem:
Trespass
Father's paroled during the drought
of seventy-eight only to vanish again, this time
taking me with him-
stealing into Levi's pasture for cow skeletons,
sun-stripped and patiently gleaming
between the crushed iris.
Above and around us, the electric fence
hums like God-
a magnification of the dreaming gnats we awakened
discovering the lode of bones.
Collecting skull, rib, sternum, spine, the dead
rise, and we forget to be afraid,
thinking only of profit, new lives:
bird earrings from breastbone, the knife-stroke
of feather, fish candlesticks
from femur, long and tapered as sabers.
Escaping through acres where the living cattle
study us, an ache
in language-less throats, we struggle
to carry home all we can hold, glancing heavenward
with knowing, with eyes growing large
all over our bodies.
Paula Bohince
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/309446.html.
people have commented there.