i feel slack-ass, oh so slack-ass... altho i do have a poem
the fic roundup for the earthquakey month of march is one (late) fic:
fall is for rugby (which you should be watching, john) (fotp) - in which john watches rodney play rugby. i don't think i've finished a picfor1000 fic on time in six years.
i always feel like i have to add "not that john and rodney" to any fotp fics i post, because i imagine most people passing thru here are more familiar with sga than fotp, and i don't want to be the reason someone gets halfway thru a fic and goes "that was SO not what i was expecting" and is disappointed.
also i made headway on my spn_cinema fic but i'm at the point where all i want to do is look for pictures of cars. god bless google image search. i have all of eleven days to finish the fic, tho, so i should get to it.
i have a bunch of things to do and i don't want to do any of them. just, you know, look for car pics.
on the way home from work i passed a woman in a long puffy coat walking a dog wearing a blue puffy coat with a hood. heee. i guess it's still coat weather for dogs. no doubt they just want it to be spring already.
in honor of poetry month, have a poem.
Because a razor cuts across a frame of film,
I wince, squinting my eye,
and because my day needs assembly
to make sense of the scenes anyway,
making a story from some pieces of truth, I go
outside to gather those pieces.
Thousands of moments spooling out
frames of mistakes in my day.
As if anyone's to blame,
as if anyone could interpret the colliding
images, again and again, dragging
my imagination behind me,
I begin assembling.
I don't know anything, so I seek
directions, following the path
of ants from your palm, out
the apartment door to
a beach. Is this where I'm
supposed to ask if my hands on you
bend some light around shade? Maybe
I'm not ready for the answer. They say
art imitates what we can sculpt or write
or just see when we turn ourselves
inside out. I can't turn my eye away
from the sight of failure. The rain pelts rooftops.
I listen to the song, thinking
when the sun comes back,
beating down the door
in my head, I'll salvage whatever sits
still long enough for me to render,
before anyone knows what really happened.
--A Van Jordan, "Un Chien Andalou (An Andalusian Dog)"
fall is for rugby (which you should be watching, john) (fotp) - in which john watches rodney play rugby. i don't think i've finished a picfor1000 fic on time in six years.
i always feel like i have to add "not that john and rodney" to any fotp fics i post, because i imagine most people passing thru here are more familiar with sga than fotp, and i don't want to be the reason someone gets halfway thru a fic and goes "that was SO not what i was expecting" and is disappointed.
also i made headway on my spn_cinema fic but i'm at the point where all i want to do is look for pictures of cars. god bless google image search. i have all of eleven days to finish the fic, tho, so i should get to it.
i have a bunch of things to do and i don't want to do any of them. just, you know, look for car pics.
on the way home from work i passed a woman in a long puffy coat walking a dog wearing a blue puffy coat with a hood. heee. i guess it's still coat weather for dogs. no doubt they just want it to be spring already.
in honor of poetry month, have a poem.
Because a razor cuts across a frame of film,
I wince, squinting my eye,
and because my day needs assembly
to make sense of the scenes anyway,
making a story from some pieces of truth, I go
outside to gather those pieces.
Thousands of moments spooling out
frames of mistakes in my day.
As if anyone's to blame,
as if anyone could interpret the colliding
images, again and again, dragging
my imagination behind me,
I begin assembling.
I don't know anything, so I seek
directions, following the path
of ants from your palm, out
the apartment door to
a beach. Is this where I'm
supposed to ask if my hands on you
bend some light around shade? Maybe
I'm not ready for the answer. They say
art imitates what we can sculpt or write
or just see when we turn ourselves
inside out. I can't turn my eye away
from the sight of failure. The rain pelts rooftops.
I listen to the song, thinking
when the sun comes back,
beating down the door
in my head, I'll salvage whatever sits
still long enough for me to render,
before anyone knows what really happened.
--A Van Jordan, "Un Chien Andalou (An Andalusian Dog)"