News.

Jun. 24th, 2012 06:39 pm
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
I keep thinking "Oh, I'll be back online soon, doing what I always do. I just have to get through this next week, and then everything will settle down and I can go back to writing about inconsequential crap like video games and porn and my cats."

Ahaha. No.

If I were stupid, this is where I'd deliver some dumbass setup line like "At least things can't get worse." I'm not stupid, at least not entirely.

So, Sargon's mom has lung cancer and doesn't have long to live. I don't have much to say about that except that it is terrifying, inexplicable, unfair, and it really, really sucks. I'm not close with my in-laws, but they are very nice people who do not at all deserve this level of suckitude, and this is just wretched news. This is something that will affect him more than me, and there is very little I can do for him or for them. I am relegated to a support role, and I'll do my best at that, as pitiful as my best is likely to be. Anyone's help is pitiful in the face of something so heinously pitiless.

Aside from being horrible on its own, this brings up a bunch of unpleasant shit for Sargon and I, so dealing with that is going to be fun like a kick to the head. We are both doing our best not to think about it too much all at once, not out of denial, but out of well-honed survival instinct. This is sometimes how you have to Deal With Shit. A little at a time, on your own terms, in your own time.

So, if I don't talk about this a whole hell of a lot, it's because of that. I feel bad pushing it away and keeping it at arm's length. It is, as Sargon said, a Thing. A very big thing. And I feel like I should, you know, Deal With That Shit In Public so I don't look like A Bad Person. I just . . . I am still figuring out how to react to it and where it fits, and all of that, so . . . I have nothing much to say about it right now.

I am trying desperately to keep hold of the good, hopeful stuff, and let the bad stuff do what it needs to do, and no more. It's not easy, so pardon me if I am occasionally a fountain of random irrelevancies that seem unwarrantedly cheerful or flippant. It doesn't mean I don't care, that bad shit isn't going down, that I am functional and happy, or even okay, but it does mean that I am trying to spread some cheer and some love when and where I can, because right now, that's about all that is making me happy on a regular basis (besides all y'all being awesome and supportive and just generally wonderful and generous and pardon me while I cry).

In other less-depressing news:

I had a misadventure with medicine the other day, and while it briefly scared the crap out of Sargon, I mostly just think it was funny. The Wellbutrin I take and the Seroquel I take are both generics, and the pills are both white, and so close to identical in size and shape that you need to be closer than two feet to tell them apart, if you have good vision. The last refills of both came in very similar stumpy white bottles.

You see where I am going with this.

So I took two whole Seroquel, which I normally take chopped into one-eighths, giving me sixteen times my regular dose. Doses that big are used to stabilize psychotic people. Rarely, and only after working them up to it slowly over a long period of time. Because it can very, very easily kill you.

It took me a while to realize what I'd done. I got up from a nap and could barely walk or speak, so I staggered in and told Sargon to call the clinic. About the time the pharmacist told him I should maybe try to throw it up right now, I came in and told him I'd thrown it up. Least dramatic barfing ever. I was, like, so totally happy to barf. And that is coming from a borderline emetophobe. Might have had something to do with being so fucking stoned I could not have freaked out about a rabid velociraptor wielding a lightsaber in the living room. Then I fell asleep for five hours without realizing it, and woke up feeling slightly less fucked up. Honestly I don't remember much of the rest of the day, but I was fine the next day and was fine today, and it appears to have done no lasting damage.

The pills are now in markedly different containers, and when I have the chance I'll be wrapping the Seroquel one in hot pink duct tape or something. Because as amusing as I found the whole thing, I am not keen to experience it again. That was a stupid mistake, and if I hadn't quite sensibly horked, I might have had to go to the hospital.

Y'all may not think this close call is funny. I have a fucked-up sense of humor, so yeah, I really do.

I am glad to be here, though. I really am. So take that for what it is: an admission that I intend to stick around and bother y'all with cat pictures and ponies and descriptions of the fucked-up dreams I've been having. (Assassin's Creed: The Motion Picture, starring Robert Downey Jr. as Ezio. Yeah. That was . . . interesting.) I can't say I like it here, this world is stupid in every way it is possible to be stupid, and it seems bent on depressing me until I stop being, you know, me, but the alternative doesn't have any potential for improvement. This at least has some.

Also:

  • The pirate pony is finished. She looks INCREDIBLE, yo! SO MANY ACCESSORIES! SO MUCH BLING! GLITTER! Yay! Now all I need are some teeny-tiny coins for the treasure chest. I am having a hard time finding anything that isn't too expensive or too American, or thinking of a way to do it myself that doesn't involve a huge pain in the butt and equipment I haven't got.

  • I also finished ANOTHER pony. Her name is Amor Volat and she looks, in the words of Sargon, kind of like a hot biker mama. Which is not as I planned it, but hey, she's still awesome, so yay! Although I will point out that I've been working on these two since before Christmas, so it's not what I'd call STAGGERING PRODUCTIVITY. It's more like "finally finished these projects that have been needling me in the ass for six months" productivity.

  • I have worked some on Vengeance and Valor. Do not think I have forgotten! I have not forgotten! I love that story, and every day I cannot write, I am sorry I cannot write. I love the characters, and I promise I will tell you their stories. Spoiler: there is a lot of perverted fuckin' fucking, and I hope y'all can cope with everyone basically screwing everyone else.

  • Finally, a picture of Briar Rose in her new home:

    Briar Rose: contrada della pantera

    That's the flag of the Contrada della Pantera, one of the contrade (wards) that races in the Palio di Siena.

    My baby made it to the races. *wipes tear*

    No, really, that picture made me so happy I got all sniffly. I can't even explain it. But now I share it with you. Because that is also what makes me happy.

    All the other ugly and awful shit will just have to wait. It will still be there tomorrow. Right now, I have to go to sleep. Where I will hopefully have interesting dreams.
  • naamah_darling: A wolf with its jaws wide open, and FUCK! written between them. (Fuck!)
    I've got a friend in the hospital that I am terribly worried about (the fact that I won't talk more is out of respect for someone else's privacy, not my lack of concern; I'm really fucking worried) and our car just got totaled! We weren't in it at the time, thank goodness. It was parked, and some cowardly and likely drunk asshole creamed it and then drove off. Never even saw them.

    This is the car that we just tagged because we got a ticket because they never sent us the renewal notification. So, yeah, we're going to have to pay a ticket for a car we don't have.

    So, you know, fuck this shit. I'm going to have a cheeseburger and a root beer and a cookie and then go to bed and hopefully have awesome, awesome dreams about sexing up James Purefoy, like I did last night. And tomorrow I will get up and start sorting through our shit for cool things we can sell, and gather up all the finished art I have and try to take pictures, since I'm still too fucked to be able to make any NEW art. And boy, that makes everything hurt just a little more.

    Bright side: looks like we're having a virtual garage sale! I will let you know whatall is going up, but right away I can tell you that I'll be selling a crapton of BPAL, a signed Wendy Pini print, possibly a Goldenwolfen/Christy Grandjean original ink drawing, three or four pirate corsets from Damsel In This Dress, a pair of leather boots, and an antique black seal fur coat. So, you know, lots of pretty cool shit.

    As Sargon said: "Jesus Christ, I wish I could spend a hero point and have today NOT HAVE HAPPENED FOR ANYONE."

    It could have been a lot worse. My friends had a worse day, I know that, and I feel horrible and so worried. I feel guilty for even complaining, given the shit they're going through. But . . . Jesus. I have under a hundred bucks in my bank account, and no goddamn car, and I can't even guarantee I can help them because . . . no car!

    This is a horrible thing to say, but at least my favorite cat is already dead. I miss her. It feels like forever. One month ago today.

    Would really, really appreciate good vibes for my friends right now. And maybe a de-cursing on this whole motherfucking year.
    naamah_darling: A wolf with its jaws wide open, and FUCK! written between them. (Fuck!)
    I've got a friend in the hospital that I am terribly worried about (the fact that I won't talk more is out of respect for someone else's privacy, not my lack of concern; I'm really fucking worried) and our car just got totaled! We weren't in it at the time, thank goodness. It was parked, and some cowardly and likely drunk asshole creamed it and then drove off. Never even saw them.

    This is the car that we just tagged because we got a ticket because they never sent us the renewal notification. So, yeah, we're going to have to pay a ticket for a car we don't have.

    So, you know, fuck this shit. I'm going to have a cheeseburger and a root beer and a cookie and then go to bed and hopefully have awesome, awesome dreams about sexing up James Purefoy, like I did last night. And tomorrow I will get up and start sorting through our shit for cool things we can sell, and gather up all the finished art I have and try to take pictures, since I'm still too fucked to be able to make any NEW art. And boy, that makes everything hurt just a little more.

    Bright side: looks like we're having a virtual garage sale! I will let you know whatall is going up, but right away I can tell you that I'll be selling a crapton of BPAL, a signed Wendy Pini print, possibly a Goldenwolfen/Christy Grandjean original ink drawing, three or four pirate corsets from Damsel In This Dress, a pair of leather boots, and an antique black seal fur coat. So, you know, lots of pretty cool shit.

    As Sargon said: "Jesus Christ, I wish I could spend a hero point and have today NOT HAVE HAPPENED FOR ANYONE."

    It could have been a lot worse. My friends had a worse day, I know that, and I feel horrible and so worried. I feel guilty for even complaining, given the shit they're going through. But . . . Jesus. I have under a hundred bucks in my bank account, and no goddamn car, and I can't even guarantee I can help them because . . . no car!

    This is a horrible thing to say, but at least my favorite cat is already dead. I miss her. It feels like forever. One month ago today.

    Would really, really appreciate good vibes for my friends right now. And maybe a de-cursing on this whole motherfucking year.
    naamah_darling: Lucian from Underworld next to a snarling wolf. From the dark into the black, throwbacks always have to go. (Lucian Throwbacks)
    Rape is a "pre-existing condition." Enjoy maybe getting AIDS.

    Sometimes I want to resign from the human race just for the pleasure of saying "I have nothing in common with you shitfuckers. I hope you die in agony. Alone. Except for those 3d6 priapic wild pigs."

    You can claim that those mule-felching piles of assvomit are not human all you like and that won't make it true. They are human, and that is the most disgusting part of this. You can't just stand up, point, and say in outrage: "Get away from me you pile of shit! I am chocolate!" They are human, you are human, we are all human. You share that with them, whether you like it or not.

    As humanity is not something you have to earn, the label isn't reserved only for the best of us. That's part of the point that women and people of color and people with disabilities or mental illnesses and fat people and queer people are always trying to make. That you can't bestow or deny humanity, that we have that without asking, and that it cannot be taken away. So I can't say they aren't human, even though they obviously lack the constellation of traits (decency, charity, compassion) that we have come to call "humanity."

    Why we call it "humanity" when most of our species is by that definition inhumane in the extreme is quite beyond me.

    If I really were a werewolf, instead of a crazy person with a damn good metaphor, I would be taking great comfort in my inhumanity right about now.
    naamah_darling: Lucian from Underworld next to a snarling wolf. From the dark into the black, throwbacks always have to go. (Lucian Throwbacks)
    Rape is a "pre-existing condition." Enjoy maybe getting AIDS.

    Sometimes I want to resign from the human race just for the pleasure of saying "I have nothing in common with you shitfuckers. I hope you die in agony. Alone. Except for those 3d6 priapic wild pigs."

    You can claim that those mule-felching piles of assvomit are not human all you like and that won't make it true. They are human, and that is the most disgusting part of this. You can't just stand up, point, and say in outrage: "Get away from me you pile of shit! I am chocolate!" They are human, you are human, we are all human. You share that with them, whether you like it or not.

    As humanity is not something you have to earn, the label isn't reserved only for the best of us. That's part of the point that women and people of color and people with disabilities or mental illnesses and fat people and queer people are always trying to make. That you can't bestow or deny humanity, that we have that without asking, and that it cannot be taken away. So I can't say they aren't human, even though they obviously lack the constellation of traits (decency, charity, compassion) that we have come to call "humanity."

    Why we call it "humanity" when most of our species is by that definition inhumane in the extreme is quite beyond me.

    If I really were a werewolf, instead of a crazy person with a damn good metaphor, I would be taking great comfort in my inhumanity right about now.

    Sad.

    Apr. 1st, 2008 07:20 pm
    naamah_darling: Sepia picture of Heath Ledger from A Knight's Tale with the words "I Miss You." (Heath Miss You)
    Got bad news today.

    My dad had to have Mathurin put down.

    Long-time readers will remember Matt. (Mathurin's entries, obviously, are tagged appropriately.) He was my first black cat. Got him when I was 14. He's been living with my dad. The old cat was senile and crazy, but it was a happy kind of crazy, so we never really felt it would be right to put him under. He recently took a turn downhill, though, and when Dad took him to the vet for suddenly losing control of his various bodily functions, they agreed it was time.

    I am sorry I was not there for him, but I am very glad that Dad did the right thing -- and it was the right thing.

    I am going to miss the old bastard. Thinking about it, he was very old. Almost 17. This is not unexpected, but it does make me sad. He was a hell of a cat. Read through his entries; you will find the episode where he killed the rat and ate half of it in our kitchen. Also, I think the explanation about why we called him "The Eater of Heads" is in there, too, and possibly the story about how he earned the nickname "Buttfoam." He was a real Cat of Quality.

    The picture below is the mean old man himself, chilling out on [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva's leg. She is so lucky he never drooled on her. He was a very drooly cat.

    Mathurin

    In other sad news, my dad also had to have my mother's dog put down. Stanci has never been quite right since Mom died. Her liver apparently just . . . failed. She was not suffering greatly, but she would have become quite miserable in a few days if he hadn't taken pity on her.

    She was a great dog. Pomeranians have a bad rep as yappy little pests, and poorly-trained ones can be pretty obnoxious, but Stanci exhibited all of the best features of the breed: great intelligence, devotion and sweetness. Stanci could count, or at least compare numbers of things and see that one group was larger and one smaller; she understood "You have more biscuits than me." She spent every minute near my mother, much as Tazendra does with me. They were inseparable. I mean, for fuck's sake, we had to carry Stanci out of the room after Mother died because she would not leave on her own. Worst thing I ever did see.

    If there's any continuation for us, I believe that animals get it, too, so I suppose I can think of them as together again and feel a little better.

    Honestly, I didn't expect Stanci to outlive Mom by this much. She was not young, either.

    The picture below is of Stanci and Wolfie; they were best friends. Wolfie was an incredibly loving and stupid twenty-pound throwback of a Pom. He died long, long ago. They loved one another a lot, as you can clearly see. It is Stanci who's getting kissed. I suppose they're together, too, now.

    Stanci and Wolfie

    I'm awfully sad about it all, even though it's for the best. It's still like . . . well . . . Mathurin was the last living part of my youth. And Stanci was part of my mother. So it's like losing more than just little friends. It's like losing the parts of my life they had come to symbolize.

    And I feel bad for my dad, too, who had to put them both down. Especially Stanci, who was my mom's. Dad is very nondemonstrative, but he admitted that it was a really hard one. For him to have said that says a lot.

    Tazendra is on my legs right now, dreaming of who knows what, twitching in her sleep. She had roast beef yesterday, and slept with me all night, and has made me laugh several times today.

    They really aren't replaceable.

    They don't live forever. We choose to love them anyway.

    Sad.

    Apr. 1st, 2008 07:20 pm
    naamah_darling: Sepia picture of Heath Ledger from A Knight's Tale with the words "I Miss You." (Heath Miss You)
    Got bad news today.

    My dad had to have Mathurin put down.

    Long-time readers will remember Matt. (Mathurin's entries, obviously, are tagged appropriately.) He was my first black cat. Got him when I was 14. He's been living with my dad. The old cat was senile and crazy, but it was a happy kind of crazy, so we never really felt it would be right to put him under. He recently took a turn downhill, though, and when Dad took him to the vet for suddenly losing control of his various bodily functions, they agreed it was time.

    I am sorry I was not there for him, but I am very glad that Dad did the right thing -- and it was the right thing.

    I am going to miss the old bastard. Thinking about it, he was very old. Almost 17. This is not unexpected, but it does make me sad. He was a hell of a cat. Read through his entries; you will find the episode where he killed the rat and ate half of it in our kitchen. Also, I think the explanation about why we called him "The Eater of Heads" is in there, too, and possibly the story about how he earned the nickname "Buttfoam." He was a real Cat of Quality.

    The picture below is the mean old man himself, chilling out on [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva's leg. She is so lucky he never drooled on her. He was a very drooly cat.

    Mathurin

    In other sad news, my dad also had to have my mother's dog put down. Stanci has never been quite right since Mom died. Her liver apparently just . . . failed. She was not suffering greatly, but she would have become quite miserable in a few days if he hadn't taken pity on her.

    She was a great dog. Pomeranians have a bad rep as yappy little pests, and poorly-trained ones can be pretty obnoxious, but Stanci exhibited all of the best features of the breed: great intelligence, devotion and sweetness. Stanci could count, or at least compare numbers of things and see that one group was larger and one smaller; she understood "You have more biscuits than me." She spent every minute near my mother, much as Tazendra does with me. They were inseparable. I mean, for fuck's sake, we had to carry Stanci out of the room after Mother died because she would not leave on her own. Worst thing I ever did see.

    If there's any continuation for us, I believe that animals get it, too, so I suppose I can think of them as together again and feel a little better.

    Honestly, I didn't expect Stanci to outlive Mom by this much. She was not young, either.

    The picture below is of Stanci and Wolfie; they were best friends. Wolfie was an incredibly loving and stupid twenty-pound throwback of a Pom. He died long, long ago. They loved one another a lot, as you can clearly see. It is Stanci who's getting kissed. I suppose they're together, too, now.

    Stanci and Wolfie

    I'm awfully sad about it all, even though it's for the best. It's still like . . . well . . . Mathurin was the last living part of my youth. And Stanci was part of my mother. So it's like losing more than just little friends. It's like losing the parts of my life they had come to symbolize.

    And I feel bad for my dad, too, who had to put them both down. Especially Stanci, who was my mom's. Dad is very nondemonstrative, but he admitted that it was a really hard one. For him to have said that says a lot.

    Tazendra is on my legs right now, dreaming of who knows what, twitching in her sleep. She had roast beef yesterday, and slept with me all night, and has made me laugh several times today.

    They really aren't replaceable.

    They don't live forever. We choose to love them anyway.
    naamah_darling: Sepia picture of Heath Ledger from A Knight's Tale with the words "I Miss You." (Heath Miss You)
    Oh, dear god. Just as I was preparing my own tribute, one month to the day after Heath's untimely departure, Geoffrey Chaucer one-ups everyone, and laments the death of Sir William Thatcher.

    What a pleasure, to have tears of delight instead of sorrow.

    ". . . He chaungid hys sterres, ros out of lowlinesse,
    Bicam the man that fyrst did make me thinke
    Our dedes nat our birth bring gentilesse –
    And when ich was depe in the dice and drinke
    He bought my pants ayein, it is no nay
    May hevenes blisse repay that charité!
    For blessed on erthe are al who had the chaunce
    To walk the gardyn of his turbulaunce."

    Blessed were we, indeed.

    For my part, Tuesday night, I had a dream about taking over an imaginary high school with my lab partner, a mad scientist in training who looked like a 17-year-old Heath Ledger. It was a great dream, especially the jock-kicking machine, but it was sort of depressing anyway, once I awoke.

    One month, and I am still upset. It's not as painful as it was, though it still gives me a good wrench now and again. I did not believe it was suicide, so the revelation that it was nothing more than error was no surprise and no comfort, but I felt better once I'd heard he was going to be cremated. Ashes to ashes my ass. It's flame to flame. William had a phoenix as his coat of arms.

    Better, too, seeing his family and friends after the funeral, playing in the surf. Seeing them smile as they stripped to their underwear and just plunged in. It was freeing. It is summer there, and not winter, like here. Somehow that was comforting, too. I hope that those close to him are hurting less. I hope they'll be okay, for whatever value "okay" has when you lose someone you love.

    Such a terrible acident.

    I can see him from here; he's still on the back of my folder. I think he'll stay there for a while longer, reminding me that I might chaunge my sterres.

    "It is strange to think, I haven't seen you since a month. I have seen the new moon, but not you. I have seen sunsets and sunrises, but nothing of your beautiful face. . . . Hope guides me, that is what gets me through the day and the night. The hope that after you're gone from my sight, it will not be the last time that I look upon you."
    naamah_darling: Sepia picture of Heath Ledger from A Knight's Tale with the words "I Miss You." (Heath Miss You)
    Oh, dear god. Just as I was preparing my own tribute, one month to the day after Heath's untimely departure, Geoffrey Chaucer one-ups everyone, and laments the death of Sir William Thatcher.

    What a pleasure, to have tears of delight instead of sorrow.

    ". . . He chaungid hys sterres, ros out of lowlinesse,
    Bicam the man that fyrst did make me thinke
    Our dedes nat our birth bring gentilesse –
    And when ich was depe in the dice and drinke
    He bought my pants ayein, it is no nay
    May hevenes blisse repay that charité!
    For blessed on erthe are al who had the chaunce
    To walk the gardyn of his turbulaunce."

    Blessed were we, indeed.

    For my part, Tuesday night, I had a dream about taking over an imaginary high school with my lab partner, a mad scientist in training who looked like a 17-year-old Heath Ledger. It was a great dream, especially the jock-kicking machine, but it was sort of depressing anyway, once I awoke.

    One month, and I am still upset. It's not as painful as it was, though it still gives me a good wrench now and again. I did not believe it was suicide, so the revelation that it was nothing more than error was no surprise and no comfort, but I felt better once I'd heard he was going to be cremated. Ashes to ashes my ass. It's flame to flame. William had a phoenix as his coat of arms.

    Better, too, seeing his family and friends after the funeral, playing in the surf. Seeing them smile as they stripped to their underwear and just plunged in. It was freeing. It is summer there, and not winter, like here. Somehow that was comforting, too. I hope that those close to him are hurting less. I hope they'll be okay, for whatever value "okay" has when you lose someone you love.

    Such a terrible acident.

    I can see him from here; he's still on the back of my folder. I think he'll stay there for a while longer, reminding me that I might chaunge my sterres.

    "It is strange to think, I haven't seen you since a month. I have seen the new moon, but not you. I have seen sunsets and sunrises, but nothing of your beautiful face. . . . Hope guides me, that is what gets me through the day and the night. The hope that after you're gone from my sight, it will not be the last time that I look upon you."
    naamah_darling: Sepia picture of Heath Ledger from A Knight's Tale with the words "I Miss You." (Heath Miss You)
    It's sleeting out and black, black, black.

    I counted today. I own eight movies and one TV series with Heath Ledger in. I have seen one more movie than I own, rounding it out to ten. The IMDB lists twenty-three projects in his filmography. Two of those are in production, and five were TV shows in which he might have appeared in only a single episode. Twenty-three. Twenty-three. That's it. And there will never be more.

    My abortive attempt to watch A Knight's Tale this afternoon ended when I picked up the DVD. I got no further than thinking about my favorite line ("I don't know how to dance.") before I promptly put it back on the shelf. It's too soon. I'd figured it would have stopped bothering me by now, but it absolutely has not. It's only just settling in. I can look at pictures, but seeing him move . . . that would be hard. And I don't think I could bear to hear his voice. He had such a beautiful voice.

    The one interview I watched on YouTube was too much. The host gave him a silly gift, and he burst into delighted laughter. I had to turn it off, because it was just too painful. Laughter is one of the most alive sounds you'll ever hear, and his even more than most. When something hit him right and he really cracked up, he sounded for all the world like . . . well, like a great big dork. It was a little kid's laugh made big. No pretensions whatsoever. Absolutely genuine. I live in Oklahoma, land of hicks. I hear a lot of bass-ackwards farmboy laughs, and believe me, that is what he sounded like: a colossal Aussie hick. And he had the big, farmboy smile to go with it.

    "Charisma as natural as gravity" were Christopher Nolan's words.

    At this point, the laudatory quotes from his colleagues have all blended together in my mind, along with broody song lyrics and fucking Rilke poetry, but someone out there remarked that Heath was the sort of actor you only got once every fifty years or so. I certainly hope that's true. On the one hand, I am afraid I won't ever find another actor whose work I connect with on that level. On the other, I am afraid that I will.

    I would rather believe that he was a rare thing, so that I can feel less like a fool for missing him. It is just so monstrously unfair, and the longer I think about it, the more sick at heart I become.

    Because not spending time with him somehow is dreadful and impossible, I spent today making two Knight's Tale wallpapers and a set of icons for each. I meant to make some for Casanova, too, since that movie gets no love, but this is as much as I could bear to do.

    Comments are lovely. Credit would be swell. No hotlinking, please.



    Below the cut, two wallpapers in your choice of sizes, and eight icons. )

    I realize this is terribly self-indulgent, and that only a vanishingly small number of you were as attached as I was and so, of course, have limited interest.

    But, well, pain is pain.
    naamah_darling: Sepia picture of Heath Ledger from A Knight's Tale with the words "I Miss You." (Heath Miss You)
    It's sleeting out and black, black, black.

    I counted today. I own eight movies and one TV series with Heath Ledger in. I have seen one more movie than I own, rounding it out to ten. The IMDB lists twenty-three projects in his filmography. Two of those are in production, and five were TV shows in which he might have appeared in only a single episode. Twenty-three. Twenty-three. That's it. And there will never be more.

    My abortive attempt to watch A Knight's Tale this afternoon ended when I picked up the DVD. I got no further than thinking about my favorite line ("I don't know how to dance.") before I promptly put it back on the shelf. It's too soon. I'd figured it would have stopped bothering me by now, but it absolutely has not. It's only just settling in. I can look at pictures, but seeing him move . . . that would be hard. And I don't think I could bear to hear his voice. He had such a beautiful voice.

    The one interview I watched on YouTube was too much. The host gave him a silly gift, and he burst into delighted laughter. I had to turn it off, because it was just too painful. Laughter is one of the most alive sounds you'll ever hear, and his even more than most. When something hit him right and he really cracked up, he sounded for all the world like . . . well, like a great big dork. It was a little kid's laugh made big. No pretensions whatsoever. Absolutely genuine. I live in Oklahoma, land of hicks. I hear a lot of bass-ackwards farmboy laughs, and believe me, that is what he sounded like: a colossal Aussie hick. And he had the big, farmboy smile to go with it.

    "Charisma as natural as gravity" were Christopher Nolan's words.

    At this point, the laudatory quotes from his colleagues have all blended together in my mind, along with broody song lyrics and fucking Rilke poetry, but someone out there remarked that Heath was the sort of actor you only got once every fifty years or so. I certainly hope that's true. On the one hand, I am afraid I won't ever find another actor whose work I connect with on that level. On the other, I am afraid that I will.

    I would rather believe that he was a rare thing, so that I can feel less like a fool for missing him. It is just so monstrously unfair, and the longer I think about it, the more sick at heart I become.

    Because not spending time with him somehow is dreadful and impossible, I spent today making two Knight's Tale wallpapers and a set of icons for each. I meant to make some for Casanova, too, since that movie gets no love, but this is as much as I could bear to do.

    Comments are lovely. Credit would be swell. No hotlinking, please.



    Below the cut, two wallpapers in your choice of sizes, and eight icons. )

    I realize this is terribly self-indulgent, and that only a vanishingly small number of you were as attached as I was and so, of course, have limited interest.

    But, well, pain is pain.
    naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
    The first time I cried over someone I did not personally know, I was sixteen. I was at the mall, and had just heard that Fritz Leiber was dead. I sat on a hard bench and sniffled quietly because I had never gotten to tell him how his stories had inspired and comforted me. And I cried, too, for Fafhrd and Mouser, tireless companions, now gone into the limbo for characters whose authors have died.

    Until Tuesday, that was the only time I'd shed actual tears for someone I'd never met.

    I'm thirty. I'm a grown-up, past all that. That kind of grief is really for those still young enough to have heroes.

    But evidently I'm not still too old to cry miserably over someone I don't know and would never have met.

    This is me maundering about Heath Ledger. )

    He was sick of being cast as the blond boy, the good boy. I know he wanted to become the bad boy, the villain, he wanted to get away from all that hero stuff. I don't blame him. The shiny armor gets heavy. But that's the picture I have of him. I've got it stuck in the back of my notebook, for fuck's sake, like a teenage girl, and I've moved it faithfully from folder to folder for . . . five years now. Can't bring myself to remove it. Who else could possibly take his place?

    I'd like to think of him as an eternal half-wild teenager, bruised and dirty and full of joy. Such a hereafter would be good enough for me. But tempting as it is to talk of a better place full of swords and horses, I don't know that I believe in an afterlife. It may be that whatever he gets beyond this is in how we remember him.

    For me, that's as I first really noticed him. Somewhere in my head, he's always going to be riding a fleabitten horse over that damn hilltop, with his disastrous blond hair aglow from the sun. I'm thirty, but I don't think I'll ever be too old for that.

    The world is too hard a place to live without bad boys and heroes. It would have righteously sucked without him.
    naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
    The first time I cried over someone I did not personally know, I was sixteen. I was at the mall, and had just heard that Fritz Leiber was dead. I sat on a hard bench and sniffled quietly because I had never gotten to tell him how his stories had inspired and comforted me. And I cried, too, for Fafhrd and Mouser, tireless companions, now gone into the limbo for characters whose authors have died.

    Until Tuesday, that was the only time I'd shed actual tears for someone I'd never met.

    I'm thirty. I'm a grown-up, past all that. That kind of grief is really for those still young enough to have heroes.

    But evidently I'm not still too old to cry miserably over someone I don't know and would never have met.

    This is me maundering about Heath Ledger. )

    He was sick of being cast as the blond boy, the good boy. I know he wanted to become the bad boy, the villain, he wanted to get away from all that hero stuff. I don't blame him. The shiny armor gets heavy. But that's the picture I have of him. I've got it stuck in the back of my notebook, for fuck's sake, like a teenage girl, and I've moved it faithfully from folder to folder for . . . five years now. Can't bring myself to remove it. Who else could possibly take his place?

    I'd like to think of him as an eternal half-wild teenager, bruised and dirty and full of joy. Such a hereafter would be good enough for me. But tempting as it is to talk of a better place full of swords and horses, I don't know that I believe in an afterlife. It may be that whatever he gets beyond this is in how we remember him.

    For me, that's as I first really noticed him. Somewhere in my head, he's always going to be riding a fleabitten horse over that damn hilltop, with his disastrous blond hair aglow from the sun. I'm thirty, but I don't think I'll ever be too old for that.

    The world is too hard a place to live without bad boys and heroes. It would have righteously sucked without him.
    naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Christmas Fuck You)
    While making out the short list of folks to get holiday cards, I had this niggling feeling I was forgetting someone.

    I was trying to save spots back for my grandparents and my uncle Jim.

    Christ. It's like stubbing a mental toe.

    At least it's no longer "Mom and Dad." It's just Dad. I can fucking remember that much.

    Feh.

    I'm really not ready for Christmas this year. My internal clock thinks it's 10 in the morning, sometime in August.

    I'm only barely on the ball enough to make simple gifts, and a self-produced card isn't going to happen unless I get some truly badass pictures tomorrow. Some friends are dragging me out (thank GOD) to go to the Philbrook for the annual orgy of Christmas trees and gingerbread houses. I'm not even in the mood to put up the tree, even though that would be a very quick way to get good pictures of the cats.

    It's not that I'm not feeling that festive spirit. I so totally am. I'm just bloody tired!

    It's okay. December isn't for a couple of days. I usually don't hit Christmas panic mode until after the month turns over. There's still a chance for me to contract a raging case of holiday spirit.

    Preferably after rubbing myself up against a dirty, dirty reindeer boy with a--

    Oh, I am so not finishing that thought.

    I'm going to bed!
    naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Christmas Fuck You)
    While making out the short list of folks to get holiday cards, I had this niggling feeling I was forgetting someone.

    I was trying to save spots back for my grandparents and my uncle Jim.

    Christ. It's like stubbing a mental toe.

    At least it's no longer "Mom and Dad." It's just Dad. I can fucking remember that much.

    Feh.

    I'm really not ready for Christmas this year. My internal clock thinks it's 10 in the morning, sometime in August.

    I'm only barely on the ball enough to make simple gifts, and a self-produced card isn't going to happen unless I get some truly badass pictures tomorrow. Some friends are dragging me out (thank GOD) to go to the Philbrook for the annual orgy of Christmas trees and gingerbread houses. I'm not even in the mood to put up the tree, even though that would be a very quick way to get good pictures of the cats.

    It's not that I'm not feeling that festive spirit. I so totally am. I'm just bloody tired!

    It's okay. December isn't for a couple of days. I usually don't hit Christmas panic mode until after the month turns over. There's still a chance for me to contract a raging case of holiday spirit.

    Preferably after rubbing myself up against a dirty, dirty reindeer boy with a--

    Oh, I am so not finishing that thought.

    I'm going to bed!

    654 Days.

    Oct. 9th, 2007 04:39 am
    naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
    One year, nine months, eight days.

    Yet I walk into my childhood home and still expect to see my mother in the hallway.

    I'm not sad, it's just . . . does the empty space where you expect them to be ever fill up? Or do we carry around these emptinesses forever, like negative silhouettes inside of us?

    654 Days.

    Oct. 9th, 2007 04:39 am
    naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
    One year, nine months, eight days.

    Yet I walk into my childhood home and still expect to see my mother in the hallway.

    I'm not sad, it's just . . . does the empty space where you expect them to be ever fill up? Or do we carry around these emptinesses forever, like negative silhouettes inside of us?

    Camelot

    Sep. 19th, 2007 02:58 am
    naamah_darling: Still from The Last Unicorn animated movie of a springtime forest with a path leading through it. (Road Home)
    Tulsa's historic Camelot Hotel burns.

    I grew up in the shadow of Camelot. Not many people can say that.

    If you walked up the hill and to the main intersection near my house, you could look west and see her, an unmistakable landmark rising above the thick cover of the surrounding trees. She sat beside I-44 like a queen, eight stories high, with white walls, a moat, a drawbridge, and an iron portcullis. Inside the hotel courtyard sat a stone with a sword plunged into it. Nothing could have delighted a child more than to live within walking distance of a real castle.

    Whenever we would come back into Tulsa from a long vacation, I would look for her blue turrets and flying flags as we crested that hill. When I saw them, I always knew we were close to home. The sight still lifts my heart, and I look for her whenever I drive through the Lewis and 51st street intersection. In the mornings, mist rises from the nearby river and veils the valley, and she's there like a pale shadow among the trees. In the evenings, the sun sets directly behind her in a blaze of gold; her walls turn pink and her windows throw off the flame of the sunset. Every sight of her is like a homecoming.

    I love her. I always have.

    She was built in 1965, and entertained many guests in luxury. The King himself -- Elvis -- stayed in Camelot back in its heyday. By the time I knew her she was in her autumn, had passed her days of entertaining high-line guests, and now was home to a different crowd. Our local science fiction convention returned to the Camelot for many years.

    It was there, at Okon '91, Sargon and I met for the second time. I remember walking to the hotel from my house, only a half-mile distant. I remember getting to know him in the courtyard, and feeling the hand of fate upon me. I was fourteen, and had been waiting for this forever. I fell in love at Camelot, and again, there are precious few who can say that.

    The last time I was there was in 1992, during the last Okon. The hotel hosted the convention, but there were no other guests. The pool was full of green algae, and ivy had covered the walls to the second floor. Flags no longer flew from her towers. Some of the windows were broken, boarded over. But she still had her beauty. I still loved her.

    After closing ceremonies, lightning struck the roof of the hotel. It was Fate, signing the end of an era. The Camelot closed forever shortly thereafter.

    The abandoned hotel went to scenic ruin over a number of years. Despite Tulsans' love for the old hotel, plans to renovate and restore her never came to fruition, and the building changed hands a number of times only to be condemned in 1996. The city dragged its heels, and nobody seemed to want to tear her down despite the fire and health hazards, but a convenience store chain finally bought the property and demolition was scheduled to begin in October.

    They began demolishing the outbuildings on Monday, and today, the second floor of the main castle caught fire and burned. Like the lightning bolt, this was, perhaps, Fate's way of sealing the end.

    She's still standing, she's built of steel and built to last, but it won't be long now. This makes it final.

    For eleven years, I have loved her in her scenic decline. I have entertained fancies that someone would sweep in and buy her, refurbish her, perhaps turn her into a fantastic medieval-themed brothel.

    Now I know she'll be leveled, and someday soon I will crest that hill and see nothing there. The emptiness will smack me like a fist to the chest, and another piece of my life will be consigned to memory, another chapter closed.

    I will be sorry when they put a gas station on that corner. It will feel like something personal has been taken away from me. Like part of my home has been unmade. It's bitter, but I understand that it is more respectful to demolish her than to allow her to sit in ruin, her charm failing until what is left is nothing more than a cheap-looking eyesore. Better to tear her down and allow the memory to shine, unbounded by reality. Better to allow her to become, once more, a beautiful dream.

    But I will miss the sight of her from the top of the hill, a forest of green trees sweeping down to her white walls and brilliant windows, the highway running by like a river, running forever into the westering sun.

    Each evening, from December to December,
    Before you drift to sleep upon your cot,
    Think back on all the tales that you remember
    Of Camelot.




    There are more pictures here and more on the Camelot's history here.

    This is, incidentally, the latest in a string of disasters associated with my marriage. The church that hosted the SCA event where we first met was demolished by a tornado only a few years later, and a campground that sheltered us on a particularly memorable overnight stay was flooded out the next summer. Once struck by lightning, now the Camelot burns.

    Love, it would seem, is a force of nature.

    Camelot

    Sep. 19th, 2007 02:58 am
    naamah_darling: Still from The Last Unicorn animated movie of a springtime forest with a path leading through it. (Road Home)
    Tulsa's historic Camelot Hotel burns.

    I grew up in the shadow of Camelot. Not many people can say that.

    If you walked up the hill and to the main intersection near my house, you could look west and see her, an unmistakable landmark rising above the thick cover of the surrounding trees. She sat beside I-44 like a queen, eight stories high, with white walls, a moat, a drawbridge, and an iron portcullis. Inside the hotel courtyard sat a stone with a sword plunged into it. Nothing could have delighted a child more than to live within walking distance of a real castle.

    Whenever we would come back into Tulsa from a long vacation, I would look for her blue turrets and flying flags as we crested that hill. When I saw them, I always knew we were close to home. The sight still lifts my heart, and I look for her whenever I drive through the Lewis and 51st street intersection. In the mornings, mist rises from the nearby river and veils the valley, and she's there like a pale shadow among the trees. In the evenings, the sun sets directly behind her in a blaze of gold; her walls turn pink and her windows throw off the flame of the sunset. Every sight of her is like a homecoming.

    I love her. I always have.

    She was built in 1965, and entertained many guests in luxury. The King himself -- Elvis -- stayed in Camelot back in its heyday. By the time I knew her she was in her autumn, had passed her days of entertaining high-line guests, and now was home to a different crowd. Our local science fiction convention returned to the Camelot for many years.

    It was there, at Okon '91, Sargon and I met for the second time. I remember walking to the hotel from my house, only a half-mile distant. I remember getting to know him in the courtyard, and feeling the hand of fate upon me. I was fourteen, and had been waiting for this forever. I fell in love at Camelot, and again, there are precious few who can say that.

    The last time I was there was in 1992, during the last Okon. The hotel hosted the convention, but there were no other guests. The pool was full of green algae, and ivy had covered the walls to the second floor. Flags no longer flew from her towers. Some of the windows were broken, boarded over. But she still had her beauty. I still loved her.

    After closing ceremonies, lightning struck the roof of the hotel. It was Fate, signing the end of an era. The Camelot closed forever shortly thereafter.

    The abandoned hotel went to scenic ruin over a number of years. Despite Tulsans' love for the old hotel, plans to renovate and restore her never came to fruition, and the building changed hands a number of times only to be condemned in 1996. The city dragged its heels, and nobody seemed to want to tear her down despite the fire and health hazards, but a convenience store chain finally bought the property and demolition was scheduled to begin in October.

    They began demolishing the outbuildings on Monday, and today, the second floor of the main castle caught fire and burned. Like the lightning bolt, this was, perhaps, Fate's way of sealing the end.

    She's still standing, she's built of steel and built to last, but it won't be long now. This makes it final.

    For eleven years, I have loved her in her scenic decline. I have entertained fancies that someone would sweep in and buy her, refurbish her, perhaps turn her into a fantastic medieval-themed brothel.

    Now I know she'll be leveled, and someday soon I will crest that hill and see nothing there. The emptiness will smack me like a fist to the chest, and another piece of my life will be consigned to memory, another chapter closed.

    I will be sorry when they put a gas station on that corner. It will feel like something personal has been taken away from me. Like part of my home has been unmade. It's bitter, but I understand that it is more respectful to demolish her than to allow her to sit in ruin, her charm failing until what is left is nothing more than a cheap-looking eyesore. Better to tear her down and allow the memory to shine, unbounded by reality. Better to allow her to become, once more, a beautiful dream.

    But I will miss the sight of her from the top of the hill, a forest of green trees sweeping down to her white walls and brilliant windows, the highway running by like a river, running forever into the westering sun.

    Each evening, from December to December,
    Before you drift to sleep upon your cot,
    Think back on all the tales that you remember
    Of Camelot.




    There are more pictures here and more on the Camelot's history here.

    This is, incidentally, the latest in a string of disasters associated with my marriage. The church that hosted the SCA event where we first met was demolished by a tornado only a few years later, and a campground that sheltered us on a particularly memorable overnight stay was flooded out the next summer. Once struck by lightning, now the Camelot burns.

    Love, it would seem, is a force of nature.
    naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
    Christ. Tomorrow, on the first of September, it's been a year since Joey.

    I still think about the little guy sometimes, especially when I'm holding Tazendra, my favorite. Sometimes, when it's dark and I can't see her, only feel the weight of her warm and purring on the bed beside me, I think of Joey. I only got to hold him that one time. I was so proud of him for having made it overnight. I had hope that he'd live. But he was just too sick and too frail.

    A part of me will always be afraid that I didn't get him to the vet's fast enough. I'm afraid that if I'd taken him home that day and sat with him, kept him warm, hand-fed him, then he would be alive now. I'm afraid I took him to the wrong vet. I know that I'm always going to be afraid I could have done more. That's what it is to love – knowing you have never given enough.

    I think of what Joey would be like now, at a year old: a big black and white tom with a black handlebar moustache. That's what should have been. But I don't even have a picture to remember him by.

    I gave him a name. I held him. I loved him for the short time I had him, and I love him still. It's so very little. So very much less than he should have gotten.

    Ah. Fuck. I'm crying.

    I haven't walked past that bitch's house in several weeks, but last time I did, there were still cats hanging around, and more inside the houses. She hasn't stopped what she's doing, the disgusting, morally-bankrupt pile of shit.

    I feel like I've lost the fight. Nobody will do anything to make her stop. Bringing her to task for this was the only thing I thought would make it right, make it okay, make sense of all of it, and it is the thing I can't make happen. I feel impotent and helpless.

    There is, I confess, an almost uncontrollable urge to leave that disgusting cow a letter in her mailbox. I'm never going to get what I want out of her, though. Her neglect allowed an animal to die, and she considered herself the wronged party. Sadly, vengeance is illegal, and filth like her . . . they never feel sorry for the evil they do, even when their noses are rubbed in it. I firmly believe that she is not capable of feeling remorse.

    So I won't leave her a letter telling her how I wish for her slow death, blind and cold, without even the pitiful succor I gave to Joey. I won't say that I wish her name to be forgotten. I won't say that I wish that nobody will cry over her. I won't say that I wish her to die utterly alone, in a strange and terrifying place full of pain. I won't say I wish her to spend her last hour with nobody to hold her, nobody to tell her that she is brave, and beautiful, and loved.

    But I wonder if I could get away with a shorter note, just two words:

    I remember.

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