Being Stubborn
I am the Queen. Therefore, even though I can't actually see the screen right now because there is lots and lots of sunlight on it, I shall attempt to update my Livejournal. After all, I haven't done for quite some time. This would be because I didn't have computer from Tuesday night to Thursday night. And also because when I got my Internets last night, I was busy, you know, working. And reading this place, www.overheardeverywhere.com/ and it is addictive. People are... stupid. And if I could remember what on earth Boyfriendish kept track of during the rush to Franklin Street, I would have something to post... one of them was "I don't have to be drunk to be stupid" and another was, "Why are we here again?" - which is hilarious because it was UNC vs. Duke and people were kind of shouting UNC fight songs, all of which seem to end in something like FUCK DUKE! Yes. And they sort of missed the school newspaper and the people shouting things about the game. UNC only rushes Franklin Street for Democratic presidential elections and UNC wiping Duke into the floor. Boyfriendish assures me that this is reasonable.
Story behind Boyfriendis's name -was talking to Envy last night, about evening watching game with Boyfriendish, and she asked if he was actually my boyfriend yet. I said, well, sort of. She said, Boyfriend-ish? I said, BOYFRIENDISH! Because I've been trying to come up with a blog name for him for a while, especially since I shall never ever ever let him know this blog exists. Mine.
Last night, was supposed to study Japanese, but ended up spending far more time writing on my new story for CW, which hasn't got a name as yet. It's based off a News of the Weird clipping from a couple weeks ago, about suburban superheroes, ordinary people dressing up and fighting crime. Right now, the narrator is a suburban mom with two elementary-school age kids, who joins up with other soccer mom types and fights crime. Naturally, being me, I managed to make it end up creepy as fuck. I think I'm going to have to leave the theme of identity and how motherhood can absorb one's identity into this character of 'mother' who isn't at all all that you are. I just don't have room for that, in a 3-5 page doublespaced story. Maybe she'd let me get away with eight.
I'm sitting in the Pit right now, watching people sell Valentine's Day carnations and stickers and such. Presumably there's candy located somewhere. I'm waiting for M to get out of class - we're going to drive up to the mountains today. If I can find a nice empty straight place, I'll teach her how to drive stick so I don't have to do it all myself. I'm okay with driving, but I tend to get bored after two hours or so, and being bored and driving is not a good plan. Which reminds me! Having bought batteries, I can stock up my Maggie with songs. This morning I had Funnyman by KT Tunstall and Little Potato by Metamora stuck in my head. It's... an upbeat day. Not that Funnyman's upbeat exactly - "every time you smile, lights are coming on/but they don't burn too strong/and they won't last for long/before they're gone again..." - but it /sounds/ upbeat and that's the point. Er. Actually, the point is that Maggie died after playing Funnyman 1.5 times. Bother.
Mostly, we watched.
I lay in the dark in the quiet hours of the night, wrapped in soft darkness, the slide of my cloak warm against my back. There’d been nothing, so far, just whispers of cars on the pavement, and the first flowers starting to send their fertile calls into the air. Not for nights on end had there been anything.
The band around my wrist vibrated. I raised it to my mouth, breathed into it, “Nothing.”
“Mm. Not here, either,” a voice hissed sibilantly into my ear - a woman, five houses down, facing the other side of the street. I wondered what her name was. She was from the area, but I only knew her through the group, and then she was Lady Grey. She likes to wear blue, which probably blends into the background better than my black does, but black is traditional. It has the weight of history.
“How much longer for your watch?”
“Hour, hour and a half. You?”
“Three hours. I homeschool my kids, so they don’t usually get up until eight or so.”
“Ah - oh. Wait. What’s that?” she said, her voice a little confused despite the neutralizing influence of the radio. “Hey. I think there’s something going down, half a block north on Grace Street from the gas station.”
“We’d better go look, Carnivale.”
“See you there, Lady Grey.”
I slithered down the side of the house, and loped off towards the gas station. This was the first in a long while; since they learned we were watching, the crime rate had slowed down, down. Falcon and Duchess were the first of us, lurking on roofs and behind fences, slipping out to confront the burglars, the drug pushers, all those who threatened our homes and our children. I wasn’t sure, when they told me, what we could do - the soccer moms of South Everley, fighting crime? Without recourse to weapon, since we were private citizens and unlicensed, without training or the law’s protection should we injure one of those that sought to injure us - what could we do?
Now, darting through the playset in the park across from my house, I can’t believe I laughed at them.
Story behind Boyfriendis's name -was talking to Envy last night, about evening watching game with Boyfriendish, and she asked if he was actually my boyfriend yet. I said, well, sort of. She said, Boyfriend-ish? I said, BOYFRIENDISH! Because I've been trying to come up with a blog name for him for a while, especially since I shall never ever ever let him know this blog exists. Mine.
Last night, was supposed to study Japanese, but ended up spending far more time writing on my new story for CW, which hasn't got a name as yet. It's based off a News of the Weird clipping from a couple weeks ago, about suburban superheroes, ordinary people dressing up and fighting crime. Right now, the narrator is a suburban mom with two elementary-school age kids, who joins up with other soccer mom types and fights crime. Naturally, being me, I managed to make it end up creepy as fuck. I think I'm going to have to leave the theme of identity and how motherhood can absorb one's identity into this character of 'mother' who isn't at all all that you are. I just don't have room for that, in a 3-5 page doublespaced story. Maybe she'd let me get away with eight.
I'm sitting in the Pit right now, watching people sell Valentine's Day carnations and stickers and such. Presumably there's candy located somewhere. I'm waiting for M to get out of class - we're going to drive up to the mountains today. If I can find a nice empty straight place, I'll teach her how to drive stick so I don't have to do it all myself. I'm okay with driving, but I tend to get bored after two hours or so, and being bored and driving is not a good plan. Which reminds me! Having bought batteries, I can stock up my Maggie with songs. This morning I had Funnyman by KT Tunstall and Little Potato by Metamora stuck in my head. It's... an upbeat day. Not that Funnyman's upbeat exactly - "every time you smile, lights are coming on/but they don't burn too strong/and they won't last for long/before they're gone again..." - but it /sounds/ upbeat and that's the point. Er. Actually, the point is that Maggie died after playing Funnyman 1.5 times. Bother.
Mostly, we watched.
I lay in the dark in the quiet hours of the night, wrapped in soft darkness, the slide of my cloak warm against my back. There’d been nothing, so far, just whispers of cars on the pavement, and the first flowers starting to send their fertile calls into the air. Not for nights on end had there been anything.
The band around my wrist vibrated. I raised it to my mouth, breathed into it, “Nothing.”
“Mm. Not here, either,” a voice hissed sibilantly into my ear - a woman, five houses down, facing the other side of the street. I wondered what her name was. She was from the area, but I only knew her through the group, and then she was Lady Grey. She likes to wear blue, which probably blends into the background better than my black does, but black is traditional. It has the weight of history.
“How much longer for your watch?”
“Hour, hour and a half. You?”
“Three hours. I homeschool my kids, so they don’t usually get up until eight or so.”
“Ah - oh. Wait. What’s that?” she said, her voice a little confused despite the neutralizing influence of the radio. “Hey. I think there’s something going down, half a block north on Grace Street from the gas station.”
“We’d better go look, Carnivale.”
“See you there, Lady Grey.”
I slithered down the side of the house, and loped off towards the gas station. This was the first in a long while; since they learned we were watching, the crime rate had slowed down, down. Falcon and Duchess were the first of us, lurking on roofs and behind fences, slipping out to confront the burglars, the drug pushers, all those who threatened our homes and our children. I wasn’t sure, when they told me, what we could do - the soccer moms of South Everley, fighting crime? Without recourse to weapon, since we were private citizens and unlicensed, without training or the law’s protection should we injure one of those that sought to injure us - what could we do?
Now, darting through the playset in the park across from my house, I can’t believe I laughed at them.