i don't want to get over you
There were three remixes for me in Remix Madness! Three!
+ His Safe Place (Fight Your Secret War: Xander's Remix), which is a sweet Xander/Cordelia moment set sometime in late s2.
+ Welcome To Wherever You Are (The Brothers In Arms Remix), which is a Scott POV of Charles and Alex springing him from jail in my story "Dig for Fire." (Oh, movieverse!Scott, I will always have an unexpected soft spot for you.)
+ Evidence of Things Not Seen (The Missing Man Remix), which is a Steve POV on "The Leadership Breakfast," wherein we find out what was on those torn out pages, and also Darcy continues to play matchmaker.
Thank you so much!
<3 <3 <3
***
In other news, I think the Rangers are trying to kill me. And seriously, I know it just makes me sound like a homer, but that second Ottawa goal should have been disallowed! He kicked it in! It was clear on the replay, so I don't understand how they didn't disallow it. I mean, I'm not spinning conspiracy theories like Henrik Lundqvist, but I still think it was a shitty bit of officiating, and I'd like to hear the explanation for it.
But god, game 7! Always a super-tense proposition. They showed Messier's hat trick in game six against the Devils in 1994, and then, of course, Matteau's goal in game seven. I can't even, you guys. You don't understand what that was like. Well, maybe some of you do, whose teams had even longer droughts between championships, but I still get chills thinking about that 1994 Cup run. *shivers*
I'm not expecting anything quite so magical on Thursday, but I so want them to advance into the second round. *crosses fingers and knocks wood*
***
iTunes is playing "Sorrow" by the National and I keep thinking listening to it will let me build up immunity so I don't just cry every time, but no. I am sitting here teary at my desk overwhelmed with STEVE FEELS. *sniffle* I am going to be a complete wreck in the movie theatre.
***
Today's poem:
Disorder
Because sometimes one can taste the salty certitude of ruin.
Because each footstep is a promise of loss.
Because the molehill dreams of the mountain and the quick,
chill shower of rain that arrives tonight to break the heat wave
is like a lazy lover who will do a poor job of loving
and leave before dawn with a cynical sneer, moving onward.
Because my landlady says she can tell I am dying by looking at my hands.
Because there is a dove at every corner disguised as a pigeon.
Because the document I read on the day of my uncle's funeral
read "bi-polar disorder," which did not surprise me; because I found
it somehow brave of him to ensconce himself in a bottle and to allow the vodka
and rum to eat his liver and mind and because I recalled the jaundiced hue of his skin.
Because the metaphors about dark clouds and deep valleys seem literal.
Because the medications do not work but I tell everyone that they do.
Because the image of a hole in the ground so perfectly cut, the mere size
of a small box only large enough for one young man's ashes, harasses me
as I walk from here to the mailbox, or as I spend the afternoon rearranging
the piles of notices and bills and essays and photographs on my kitchen table.
Because I envision all my belongings boxed and bagged to be sent away.
Because I haven't the fortitude to answer the phone or to shower.
Because a poem is no therapy, and to speak of the reasons is not
to negate them but to empower them, such that they become birds
one cannot shoo away, such that they nest in the corners of the bedroom
or above the refrigerator, or here, in my stomach, and at the back of my throat.
~Paul-Victor Winters
***
And lastly, happy birthday to my dad, who's turning 77 today! He's not reading this, but whatever. ♥
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/458200.html.
people have commented there.
+ His Safe Place (Fight Your Secret War: Xander's Remix), which is a sweet Xander/Cordelia moment set sometime in late s2.
+ Welcome To Wherever You Are (The Brothers In Arms Remix), which is a Scott POV of Charles and Alex springing him from jail in my story "Dig for Fire." (Oh, movieverse!Scott, I will always have an unexpected soft spot for you.)
+ Evidence of Things Not Seen (The Missing Man Remix), which is a Steve POV on "The Leadership Breakfast," wherein we find out what was on those torn out pages, and also Darcy continues to play matchmaker.
Thank you so much!
<3 <3 <3
***
In other news, I think the Rangers are trying to kill me. And seriously, I know it just makes me sound like a homer, but that second Ottawa goal should have been disallowed! He kicked it in! It was clear on the replay, so I don't understand how they didn't disallow it. I mean, I'm not spinning conspiracy theories like Henrik Lundqvist, but I still think it was a shitty bit of officiating, and I'd like to hear the explanation for it.
But god, game 7! Always a super-tense proposition. They showed Messier's hat trick in game six against the Devils in 1994, and then, of course, Matteau's goal in game seven. I can't even, you guys. You don't understand what that was like. Well, maybe some of you do, whose teams had even longer droughts between championships, but I still get chills thinking about that 1994 Cup run. *shivers*
I'm not expecting anything quite so magical on Thursday, but I so want them to advance into the second round. *crosses fingers and knocks wood*
***
iTunes is playing "Sorrow" by the National and I keep thinking listening to it will let me build up immunity so I don't just cry every time, but no. I am sitting here teary at my desk overwhelmed with STEVE FEELS. *sniffle* I am going to be a complete wreck in the movie theatre.
***
Today's poem:
Disorder
Because sometimes one can taste the salty certitude of ruin.
Because each footstep is a promise of loss.
Because the molehill dreams of the mountain and the quick,
chill shower of rain that arrives tonight to break the heat wave
is like a lazy lover who will do a poor job of loving
and leave before dawn with a cynical sneer, moving onward.
Because my landlady says she can tell I am dying by looking at my hands.
Because there is a dove at every corner disguised as a pigeon.
Because the document I read on the day of my uncle's funeral
read "bi-polar disorder," which did not surprise me; because I found
it somehow brave of him to ensconce himself in a bottle and to allow the vodka
and rum to eat his liver and mind and because I recalled the jaundiced hue of his skin.
Because the metaphors about dark clouds and deep valleys seem literal.
Because the medications do not work but I tell everyone that they do.
Because the image of a hole in the ground so perfectly cut, the mere size
of a small box only large enough for one young man's ashes, harasses me
as I walk from here to the mailbox, or as I spend the afternoon rearranging
the piles of notices and bills and essays and photographs on my kitchen table.
Because I envision all my belongings boxed and bagged to be sent away.
Because I haven't the fortitude to answer the phone or to shower.
Because a poem is no therapy, and to speak of the reasons is not
to negate them but to empower them, such that they become birds
one cannot shoo away, such that they nest in the corners of the bedroom
or above the refrigerator, or here, in my stomach, and at the back of my throat.
~Paul-Victor Winters
***
And lastly, happy birthday to my dad, who's turning 77 today! He's not reading this, but whatever. ♥
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/458200.html.
people have commented there.