naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Andy Whitfield dies of lymphoma.

I knew he was ill, but kept hoping he would rally. By all accounts he was a really great guy, and I am sorry for his family's loss, and for his friends, of which he apparently had many.

It was a stupid show, but I loved Spartacus: Blood and Sand because even though it wasn't what you'd call artful and nuanced, it was enormously fucking entertaining. Andy took the part and ran with it, making Spartacus into an odd combination of rock star, barbarian, underwear model, stubborn bastard, bad motherfucker, and lolarious dumbass. It took several episodes for me to figure out how he was playing it, and that he was actually a good actor, it was just the character who wasn't particularly bright. And yet he wasn't set up as a bumbling ass. They let him be awesome, too.

Andy had charisma, he was absolutely gorgeous, and he'd finally landed a breakout role. He could've gone places if he'd just had the time.

I have to say, I am really glad he was in a stupid, sex-filled, blood-soaked, mostly-naked tasteless orgy of a show, because at least I know he had a really damn good time with it.

And at least we'll have that to look at. Damn, he was pretty.
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: A tiny week-old tabby kitten with her paws raised and her eyes half-closed. (Kittens)
I have been wanting to cut down on the number of halp posts I put here because it is getting a little bit overwhelming for me to deal with, but OMG, please boost the signal on this one.



This is Murph. She's 14 and, as you can see, gorgeous. Sadly, older cats are hard to place, especially in a hurry.

And her owner is dying.

This is horrible enough on its own, but her owner's nurse is very allergic to cats -- go-to-the-hospital allergic. You can't just find good nurses on every streetcorner, it takes time, but there isn't any time to be had here. It's really, really horrible to contemplate putting your beloved pet to sleep so that you can have decent care while you are dying. DYING.

If all we can leave behind us when we go is a legacy of love, it would fucking blow goats knowing that circumstances conspired to fuck you so hard that you not only can't have your pet with you to comfort you in your time of suck, you have to put her to sleep so that you can be cared for, and you will have to live with that memory and die with that memory.

So if you could boost the signal, ask others to boost it, please do it. Murph NEEDS a home very, very soon. Her human deserves that comfort. Murph deserves that chance. They both need hope.

She is a good cat, well-behaved and decorous, litter trained, affectionate, smart . . . all these virtues of older cats that nobody considers because they can't look past the years. She would make a lovely pet for a couple or a single person without very small kids, but she gets along fine with doggies and other animals.

If you can help, please help. It's not even money, it's just posting a link and asking others to repost it to save a lovely cat's life and give comfort to a dying person. All it takes is ONE email, ONE link sent to the right person -- just one -- and this can be a happy moment in a sad story, instead of the fuck-you cherry on the banana split of suck.

If you can take her or know someone who can, or if you have any questions about her at all, please email this address:

hubblespacepaws@gmail.com

My own little goblin just came bleating and grumbling into the room. She's 15. Old. I would move heaven and earth to take care of her, even if I were on my last legs. I would just need a little help to do it.

Internet magic, make it happen.
naamah_darling: A tiny week-old tabby kitten with her paws raised and her eyes half-closed. (Kittens)
I have been wanting to cut down on the number of halp posts I put here because it is getting a little bit overwhelming for me to deal with, but OMG, please boost the signal on this one.



This is Murph. She's 14 and, as you can see, gorgeous. Sadly, older cats are hard to place, especially in a hurry.

And her owner is dying.

This is horrible enough on its own, but her owner's nurse is very allergic to cats -- go-to-the-hospital allergic. You can't just find good nurses on every streetcorner, it takes time, but there isn't any time to be had here. It's really, really horrible to contemplate putting your beloved pet to sleep so that you can have decent care while you are dying. DYING.

If all we can leave behind us when we go is a legacy of love, it would fucking blow goats knowing that circumstances conspired to fuck you so hard that you not only can't have your pet with you to comfort you in your time of suck, you have to put her to sleep so that you can be cared for, and you will have to live with that memory and die with that memory.

So if you could boost the signal, ask others to boost it, please do it. Murph NEEDS a home very, very soon. Her human deserves that comfort. Murph deserves that chance. They both need hope.

She is a good cat, well-behaved and decorous, litter trained, affectionate, smart . . . all these virtues of older cats that nobody considers because they can't look past the years. She would make a lovely pet for a couple or a single person without very small kids, but she gets along fine with doggies and other animals.

If you can help, please help. It's not even money, it's just posting a link and asking others to repost it to save a lovely cat's life and give comfort to a dying person. All it takes is ONE email, ONE link sent to the right person -- just one -- and this can be a happy moment in a sad story, instead of the fuck-you cherry on the banana split of suck.

If you can take her or know someone who can, or if you have any questions about her at all, please email this address:

hubblespacepaws@gmail.com

My own little goblin just came bleating and grumbling into the room. She's 15. Old. I would move heaven and earth to take care of her, even if I were on my last legs. I would just need a little help to do it.

Internet magic, make it happen.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
Frank Frazetta is gone.

I was raised looking at his art, and so I have never known a time without him. I have always loved his work, and had hoped someday to meet him in person just to be able to say I had looked a legend in the face.

Few people feel neutral about him. Despite his subtle use of color and shadow, there was nothing subtle about his work's visual impact. Barbaric, beautiful, mysterious, frightening . . . it is unmistakeable, and it's not particularly friendly. In over forty years, his work never lost its vitality.

For pity's sake, the reason his work looks dated to the modern viewer is because his work defined the look of an era. Speculative fiction was entering a golden age at that time, and Frazetta's work became indelibly attached to the genre. If Robert E. Howard invented sword and sorcery as we know it, Frazetta was there to tell us what it looked like. Very few artists have wielded that much influence, fewer still have held their position for so long. His art has been hugely influential, not just on other artists but on authors, musicians, filmmakers, game designers. . . .

Frazetta was not detached from his work. No artist worth a damn is, I suppose, but with him it always seemed so much closer to the surface. His paintings were organic and emotional, semi-lucid at times but never, never without feeling. He worked with paint directly, didn't sketch much, didn't analyze or fuss about or hesitate. His work was not mannered. Hell, in many ways, it had no manners at all.

There is a conduit of creativity that runs from an artist to their work, and in some people this conduit is frail, easily interrupted. They can be great artists, yes, but the process is fraught with roadblocks. I can't speak for what went on in Frank's mind but from all accounts, he didn't have this problem.

As an artist who has terrible problems with my own creative impulses, I look on his confidence and his fluidity with awe and grinding envy, and not a little apprehension of the sort we always feel for those who have an open line to the liminal world. And he did seem to have a window into that place, the world which lies beyond our perceptions and from which so many of us artists believe that our talent derives, whether we admit it or not. He held nothing back.

I do not know if he was a particularly spiritual man, but his work is spiritual in the most basic way: it feels connected to something beyond ourselves, our time, our place. In Frazetta's case, it was not some higher realm of light and love and right action; it was a primitive, dangerous, bloody world. At his best, he seemed connected to something primal, sometimes unlovely and sometimes terribly beautiful.

If you aren't familiar with his art beyond the Burroughs and Howard covers, go familiarize yourself with it sometime. It's bold and overstated sometimes to the point of being comical, but it can't be dismissed as cheesy, commercial, facile. Go look for the darker stuff, his lesser-known work. You find your way into it for the naked jungle princesses and the monster cats and that one guy stabbing crocodile with a knife, and it seems all in fun, but then you run across something genuinely disturbing, genuinely unsettling. It has a sincerity about it that few of his imitators share.

Art that moves us often reflects parts of us back at ourselves. Not many artists leave room for howling savagery in their work, you know? Frazetta did not show these powerful, frightening things to us as a way to condemn them. He didn't make them ugly. His work is powerful, undeniably meant to be beautiful. And so, ultimately, it doesn't condemn us for having those things within us. That is a rare thing to find. I appreciate being given the legroom.

The man led a full, interesting life, left behind him a family and a vast body of work, and has now followed his beautiful wife, so I know that there is no reason to grieve, but I do. I did not expect that this would hurt so much, but I keep having to stop writing when I find I'm crying too much to see, and so it has taken me ten hours to finish writing this.

As long as he lived, there was a small door open somewhere into a half-formed dream world of barbarians and beautiful, big-assed naked women and saber-toothed tigers and giant snakes, and now that door is closed and locked and nothing else will ever come through it again, not ever.

His passing ends an era. We will not see his like again.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
Frank Frazetta is gone.

I was raised looking at his art, and so I have never known a time without him. I have always loved his work, and had hoped someday to meet him in person just to be able to say I had looked a legend in the face.

Few people feel neutral about him. Despite his subtle use of color and shadow, there was nothing subtle about his work's visual impact. Barbaric, beautiful, mysterious, frightening . . . it is unmistakeable, and it's not particularly friendly. In over forty years, his work never lost its vitality.

For pity's sake, the reason his work looks dated to the modern viewer is because his work defined the look of an era. Speculative fiction was entering a golden age at that time, and Frazetta's work became indelibly attached to the genre. If Robert E. Howard invented sword and sorcery as we know it, Frazetta was there to tell us what it looked like. Very few artists have wielded that much influence, fewer still have held their position for so long. His art has been hugely influential, not just on other artists but on authors, musicians, filmmakers, game designers. . . .

Frazetta was not detached from his work. No artist worth a damn is, I suppose, but with him it always seemed so much closer to the surface. His paintings were organic and emotional, semi-lucid at times but never, never without feeling. He worked with paint directly, didn't sketch much, didn't analyze or fuss about or hesitate. His work was not mannered. Hell, in many ways, it had no manners at all.

There is a conduit of creativity that runs from an artist to their work, and in some people this conduit is frail, easily interrupted. They can be great artists, yes, but the process is fraught with roadblocks. I can't speak for what went on in Frank's mind but from all accounts, he didn't have this problem.

As an artist who has terrible problems with my own creative impulses, I look on his confidence and his fluidity with awe and grinding envy, and not a little apprehension of the sort we always feel for those who have an open line to the liminal world. And he did seem to have a window into that place, the world which lies beyond our perceptions and from which so many of us artists believe that our talent derives, whether we admit it or not. He held nothing back.

I do not know if he was a particularly spiritual man, but his work is spiritual in the most basic way: it feels connected to something beyond ourselves, our time, our place. In Frazetta's case, it was not some higher realm of light and love and right action; it was a primitive, dangerous, bloody world. At his best, he seemed connected to something primal, sometimes unlovely and sometimes terribly beautiful.

If you aren't familiar with his art beyond the Burroughs and Howard covers, go familiarize yourself with it sometime. It's bold and overstated sometimes to the point of being comical, but it can't be dismissed as cheesy, commercial, facile. Go look for the darker stuff, his lesser-known work. You find your way into it for the naked jungle princesses and the monster cats and that one guy stabbing crocodile with a knife, and it seems all in fun, but then you run across something genuinely disturbing, genuinely unsettling. It has a sincerity about it that few of his imitators share.

Art that moves us often reflects parts of us back at ourselves. Not many artists leave room for howling savagery in their work, you know? Frazetta did not show these powerful, frightening things to us as a way to condemn them. He didn't make them ugly. His work is powerful, undeniably meant to be beautiful. And so, ultimately, it doesn't condemn us for having those things within us. That is a rare thing to find. I appreciate being given the legroom.

The man led a full, interesting life, left behind him a family and a vast body of work, and has now followed his beautiful wife, so I know that there is no reason to grieve, but I do. I did not expect that this would hurt so much, but I keep having to stop writing when I find I'm crying too much to see, and so it has taken me ten hours to finish writing this.

As long as he lived, there was a small door open somewhere into a half-formed dream world of barbarians and beautiful, big-assed naked women and saber-toothed tigers and giant snakes, and now that door is closed and locked and nothing else will ever come through it again, not ever.

His passing ends an era. We will not see his like again.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Enochian Keyboard)
I had not read any of Lucille Clifton's work before now, and that is a terrible shame, because she was wonderful. It is a pity that she just recently died. She was apparently quite an extraordinary person. And I think that in this picture she looks sort of like my maternal grandmother.

Some of her stuff is extraordinarily painful to read, some of it feels uncomfortable but comfortable, like someone finally "gets it." Some of it is hopeful, and some of it is stark. It's all very real.

I liked these:

A Dream of Foxes; I would swear I have read a story based on this poem, possibly an erotica story. Anyway, the poem is incredible.

Wishes for Sons; WAY too true to be funny, but definitely an appreciated sentiment.

And this, which I really love:

There is a girl inside

There is a girl inside.
She is randy as a wolf.
She will not walk away and leave these bones
to an old woman.

She is a green tree in a forest of kindling.
She is a greeen girl in a used poet.

She has waited patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom

and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it.


And this, which I fear:

it was a dream

in which my greater self
rose up before me
accusing me of my life
with her extra finger
whirling in a gyre of rage
at what my days had come to.

what,
i pleaded with her, could i do,
oh what could i have done?
and she twisted her wild hair
and sparked her wild eyes
and screamed as long as
i could hear her

This. This. This.


And this, for which I have no real words:

won't you celebrate with me

won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my one hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.


I don't do poetry. I dislike poetry. That is apparently because most poetry is crap. I am obviously quite capable of caring about poetry if it's really good poetry.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Enochian Keyboard)
I had not read any of Lucille Clifton's work before now, and that is a terrible shame, because she was wonderful. It is a pity that she just recently died. She was apparently quite an extraordinary person. And I think that in this picture she looks sort of like my maternal grandmother.

Some of her stuff is extraordinarily painful to read, some of it feels uncomfortable but comfortable, like someone finally "gets it." Some of it is hopeful, and some of it is stark. It's all very real.

I liked these:

A Dream of Foxes; I would swear I have read a story based on this poem, possibly an erotica story. Anyway, the poem is incredible.

Wishes for Sons; WAY too true to be funny, but definitely an appreciated sentiment.

And this, which I really love:

There is a girl inside

There is a girl inside.
She is randy as a wolf.
She will not walk away and leave these bones
to an old woman.

She is a green tree in a forest of kindling.
She is a greeen girl in a used poet.

She has waited patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom

and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it.


And this, which I fear:

it was a dream

in which my greater self
rose up before me
accusing me of my life
with her extra finger
whirling in a gyre of rage
at what my days had come to.

what,
i pleaded with her, could i do,
oh what could i have done?
and she twisted her wild hair
and sparked her wild eyes
and screamed as long as
i could hear her

This. This. This.


And this, for which I have no real words:

won't you celebrate with me

won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my one hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.


I don't do poetry. I dislike poetry. That is apparently because most poetry is crap. I am obviously quite capable of caring about poetry if it's really good poetry.
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.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Heath Book)
In fairy tales, that's how long things take. A year and a day. It's a magical interval with the power to sever or reunite, to curse or to forgive. And the real world just doesn't work like that. Not even a little.

There isn't much to say about Heath -- you either understand or you don't -- but I don't want to let the day pass unremarked. I would try to be more pithy but I think Terry Gilliam says it all, pretty much. Worth reading that article.

I meant to create something to be finished today, I had a fun idea or two, but I've been sick, my studio still isn't painted, shit is not going too well, so I didn't manage. And I feel guilty about that, which makes me feel dumb. So I feel dumb and guilty, and also sad, which is not a good combination. Maybe for his birthday in April.

I'm pissed off, too. I figured the auction for his armor from A Knight's Tale would go way past the opening bid. I could have afforded the opening bid, and that's what it sold for. I feel bad that I didn't try, now. I still might've been outbid, but I would've had a damn good chance.

I watched A Knight's Tale today, since it's been too long, and since I also really love James Purefoy in that movie (and Alan Tudyk, and Mark Addy, and Rufus Sewell, and Paul Bettany -- everyone had a great time with their parts). It was fine. I know the movie almost word for word, I've seen it so much, so it wasn't as jarring or as sad as I had feared. It was okay until the letter scene, which broke me up a little, even though it's terribly cheesy. The worst part was at the end, where he's just jumping up on his friends like a big puppy and laughing that big, stupid laugh of his. I can watch him act, I can watch him do most anything, but I can't watch him laugh. He had the most alive laugh of any actor I know.

I miss him, and it's terribly unfair that he's gone forever. Trying to articulate it any further is pointless. There really isn't very much to say that hasn't been said by people with more right to say it than me.

"I guess it's always changing. What else can I say? I just wake up each day in a slightly different place -- grief is like a moving river, so that's what I mean by 'it's always changing.' It's a strange thing to say, because I'm at heart an optimistic person, but I would say in some ways it just gets worse. It's just that the more time that passes, the more you miss someone. In some ways it gets worse. That's what I would say."

-- Michelle Williams

"When he died, there were all these nonsensical stories coming out about Heath Ledger, James Dean and River Phoenix, all destroyed by the system - but that's bullshit. What happened was an absurd accident. I still don't understand it. I know he was exhausted - the last thing he said was that he was so tired and just wanted to sleep. You actually think at certain times angels come down to earth and Heath might have been one of them. And then he's gone and you think: this is all wrong, all the other people should be dead. He should be leading us all into a wonderful world of adventure."

-- Terry Gilliam
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Heath Book)
In fairy tales, that's how long things take. A year and a day. It's a magical interval with the power to sever or reunite, to curse or to forgive. And the real world just doesn't work like that. Not even a little.

There isn't much to say about Heath -- you either understand or you don't -- but I don't want to let the day pass unremarked. I would try to be more pithy but I think Terry Gilliam says it all, pretty much. Worth reading that article.

I meant to create something to be finished today, I had a fun idea or two, but I've been sick, my studio still isn't painted, shit is not going too well, so I didn't manage. And I feel guilty about that, which makes me feel dumb. So I feel dumb and guilty, and also sad, which is not a good combination. Maybe for his birthday in April.

I'm pissed off, too. I figured the auction for his armor from A Knight's Tale would go way past the opening bid. I could have afforded the opening bid, and that's what it sold for. I feel bad that I didn't try, now. I still might've been outbid, but I would've had a damn good chance.

I watched A Knight's Tale today, since it's been too long, and since I also really love James Purefoy in that movie (and Alan Tudyk, and Mark Addy, and Rufus Sewell, and Paul Bettany -- everyone had a great time with their parts). It was fine. I know the movie almost word for word, I've seen it so much, so it wasn't as jarring or as sad as I had feared. It was okay until the letter scene, which broke me up a little, even though it's terribly cheesy. The worst part was at the end, where he's just jumping up on his friends like a big puppy and laughing that big, stupid laugh of his. I can watch him act, I can watch him do most anything, but I can't watch him laugh. He had the most alive laugh of any actor I know.

I miss him, and it's terribly unfair that he's gone forever. Trying to articulate it any further is pointless. There really isn't very much to say that hasn't been said by people with more right to say it than me.

"I guess it's always changing. What else can I say? I just wake up each day in a slightly different place -- grief is like a moving river, so that's what I mean by 'it's always changing.' It's a strange thing to say, because I'm at heart an optimistic person, but I would say in some ways it just gets worse. It's just that the more time that passes, the more you miss someone. In some ways it gets worse. That's what I would say."

-- Michelle Williams

"When he died, there were all these nonsensical stories coming out about Heath Ledger, James Dean and River Phoenix, all destroyed by the system - but that's bullshit. What happened was an absurd accident. I still don't understand it. I know he was exhausted - the last thing he said was that he was so tired and just wanted to sleep. You actually think at certain times angels come down to earth and Heath might have been one of them. And then he's gone and you think: this is all wrong, all the other people should be dead. He should be leading us all into a wonderful world of adventure."

-- Terry Gilliam
naamah_darling: Sepia picture of Heath Ledger from A Knight's Tale with the words "I Miss You." (Heath Miss You)
Dinner with the family was great. I love my family.

The rest of the day sucked beyond belief. I'm in a lot of emotional "discomfort" right now. I'd be having a panic attack or something, but I'm drugged, so all I feel is a dull sort of hopelessness.

I'm not at liberty to talk about what brought it on, but I can talk about a stupid thing that's adding to my pain a whole lot all of a sudden. Well . . . I take that back. I'm not going to say it's stupid, because that's like apologizing for how I feel, and that would be stupid. But this Profiles In History auction contains an auction for Heath Ledger's armor from A Knight's Tale. This armor.

It's expected to go for around $6,000 to $8,000. I could afford that, but it would really, really hurt. I mean, that would be a fairly stupid thing to do, spending ten mortgage payments or more on a polyurethane prop. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to bid on it with all my heart. I want it so much it's . . . really quite painful, actually. That movie was silly, but it saved my sanity at one point, and possibly saved my life. Heath was a huge part of my mental landscape. Having even a very small thing of his would mean so much to me. Having the armor from my favorite character in my favorite movie would be amazing. Heartbreaking, but amazing. I feel like I should try, and I know I will feel guilty if I don't.

There's also an auction for a bloody Joker card from the Dark Knight set. I could conceivably afford that. If I could figure out how to put in an absentee bid. That would be stupid too, but . . . at least it would be less stupid. Only one house payment stupid. Forgivable stupid.

I know, I know, I shouldn't chase my tail over this. I have Lucian's jacket from Underworld, and that's all the movie memorabilia luck a girl has any right to ask for. I mean, by Palin logic, because I own that jacket, I have shagging Kate Beckinsale experience. It's awesome. So I know I should let this go without a fight. It's too expensive, I don't need it, it wouldn't change anything anyway, and I should let it go.

Hurts, though. Wow, it hurts. I didn't know I still hurt that much.

I hate this. I hate the futility of it, the illogical pain of it, and the senseless and monumental inability to just let it go, the way I always hypocritically complain that Elvis fans, Kurt Cobain fans, Marilyn Monroe fans, John Lennon fans, Jerry Garcia fans, and so forth ad nauseam, should just let it go.

(I thought about f-locking this, but . . . I don't see why I should have to hide what I'm thinking about, so I'm not. Just be civil. If you can't say something nice, you can let it go.)
naamah_darling: Sepia picture of Heath Ledger from A Knight's Tale with the words "I Miss You." (Heath Miss You)
Dinner with the family was great. I love my family.

The rest of the day sucked beyond belief. I'm in a lot of emotional "discomfort" right now. I'd be having a panic attack or something, but I'm drugged, so all I feel is a dull sort of hopelessness.

I'm not at liberty to talk about what brought it on, but I can talk about a stupid thing that's adding to my pain a whole lot all of a sudden. Well . . . I take that back. I'm not going to say it's stupid, because that's like apologizing for how I feel, and that would be stupid. But this Profiles In History auction contains an auction for Heath Ledger's armor from A Knight's Tale. This armor.

It's expected to go for around $6,000 to $8,000. I could afford that, but it would really, really hurt. I mean, that would be a fairly stupid thing to do, spending ten mortgage payments or more on a polyurethane prop. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to bid on it with all my heart. I want it so much it's . . . really quite painful, actually. That movie was silly, but it saved my sanity at one point, and possibly saved my life. Heath was a huge part of my mental landscape. Having even a very small thing of his would mean so much to me. Having the armor from my favorite character in my favorite movie would be amazing. Heartbreaking, but amazing. I feel like I should try, and I know I will feel guilty if I don't.

There's also an auction for a bloody Joker card from the Dark Knight set. I could conceivably afford that. If I could figure out how to put in an absentee bid. That would be stupid too, but . . . at least it would be less stupid. Only one house payment stupid. Forgivable stupid.

I know, I know, I shouldn't chase my tail over this. I have Lucian's jacket from Underworld, and that's all the movie memorabilia luck a girl has any right to ask for. I mean, by Palin logic, because I own that jacket, I have shagging Kate Beckinsale experience. It's awesome. So I know I should let this go without a fight. It's too expensive, I don't need it, it wouldn't change anything anyway, and I should let it go.

Hurts, though. Wow, it hurts. I didn't know I still hurt that much.

I hate this. I hate the futility of it, the illogical pain of it, and the senseless and monumental inability to just let it go, the way I always hypocritically complain that Elvis fans, Kurt Cobain fans, Marilyn Monroe fans, John Lennon fans, Jerry Garcia fans, and so forth ad nauseam, should just let it go.

(I thought about f-locking this, but . . . I don't see why I should have to hide what I'm thinking about, so I'm not. Just be civil. If you can't say something nice, you can let it go.)
naamah_darling: Still from The Last Unicorn animated movie of a springtime forest with a path leading through it. (Road Home)
This Saturday, [livejournal.com profile] farrandy and [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva said goodbye to their good friend Underfoot.

Underfoot, in addition to having possibly the best name ever for a Corgi, was a first-rate dog. He was smart, a great conversationalist (if you speak Corgi), a snappy dresser, and a total gentleman. He also used a rock for a pillow, had one ear that would never stand up quite right, and could run clean under the resident Big Dog. He often lay flat on his back, his abbreviated limbs splayed every which way. It was my favorite thing he did. Even though he was dignified most of the time, he was flat-out comical to look at, and so he was sort of the designated Hilarity Dog. He was all-purpose and eminently likeable in the way that dogs are supposed to be. He provided affection and companionship and comic relief.

I haven't uploaded all that many pictures of him, but here are some I took a week or so ago. He was very affectionate, but not approval-seeking or needy. He would just come up and put his head on your leg, or nudge your arm to say "Hey, how about some love for the short Welsh guy in the tux?" He talked a lot, Corgi-talk, groans and grunts and sighs.

The rest of the pictures are what I have up on Flickr. The ones from New Year's, when he and Argus were sacked out on the floor after a drunken bender . . . the shots of him snuggling with me and [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva on the floor . . . the devil dog picture. He was really photogenic.

Underfoot 01

World's best Corgi. )

I went to visit his people tonight, and his absence was felt deeply. I am still getting teary when I think about him. He was a really great dog, my absolute favorite dog in the world, and a very dear friend. I'm kind of strapped for words, my normal glibness fails me, because . . . damn. I loved the little dude a lot, and I know that his people loved him a hundred times more. They gave Underfoot a fine life, and he didn't have a long and unpleasant decline, so he got a really great deal, but everyone who knew him is going to miss the hell out of him.

Good dog.
naamah_darling: Still from The Last Unicorn animated movie of a springtime forest with a path leading through it. (Road Home)
This Saturday, [livejournal.com profile] farrandy and [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva said goodbye to their good friend Underfoot.

Underfoot, in addition to having possibly the best name ever for a Corgi, was a first-rate dog. He was smart, a great conversationalist (if you speak Corgi), a snappy dresser, and a total gentleman. He also used a rock for a pillow, had one ear that would never stand up quite right, and could run clean under the resident Big Dog. He often lay flat on his back, his abbreviated limbs splayed every which way. It was my favorite thing he did. Even though he was dignified most of the time, he was flat-out comical to look at, and so he was sort of the designated Hilarity Dog. He was all-purpose and eminently likeable in the way that dogs are supposed to be. He provided affection and companionship and comic relief.

I haven't uploaded all that many pictures of him, but here are some I took a week or so ago. He was very affectionate, but not approval-seeking or needy. He would just come up and put his head on your leg, or nudge your arm to say "Hey, how about some love for the short Welsh guy in the tux?" He talked a lot, Corgi-talk, groans and grunts and sighs.

The rest of the pictures are what I have up on Flickr. The ones from New Year's, when he and Argus were sacked out on the floor after a drunken bender . . . the shots of him snuggling with me and [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva on the floor . . . the devil dog picture. He was really photogenic.

Underfoot 01

World's best Corgi. )

I went to visit his people tonight, and his absence was felt deeply. I am still getting teary when I think about him. He was a really great dog, my absolute favorite dog in the world, and a very dear friend. I'm kind of strapped for words, my normal glibness fails me, because . . . damn. I loved the little dude a lot, and I know that his people loved him a hundred times more. They gave Underfoot a fine life, and he didn't have a long and unpleasant decline, so he got a really great deal, but everyone who knew him is going to miss the hell out of him.

Good dog.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
I am reposting this for [livejournal.com profile] shadowflyer, and also for [livejournal.com profile] talandra and [livejournal.com profile] jetshade.

Many of you are already well familiar with what's been going on with [livejournal.com profile] talandra and [livejournal.com profile] jetshade. If you're not, you can get up to speed here.

The summary: At the age of 42, Tia had at least four cerebellum/brain stem strokes in rapid succession. Until a few weeks ago she had made stunning, odds-defying progress, and was working again on coordination, communication and generally rejoining a life in progress. Then, for reasons not yet explained, it all came crashing down - she stopped breathing one morning in her bed at the rehab facility, and before anyone realized what was happening her oxygen-starved brain was damaged further. My dear oldest friend is incapable of waking up again.

Her wife Jet (thank $DEITY they're in Massachusetts where they could be legally married) has made the most difficult of decisions. Life support measures were withdrawn this morning.

One of the biggest obstacles is that Tia and Jet hadn't made any plans for something like this. They had no life insurance, no burial plot, no savings for this, nada. They had only been married a year -- they thought they had much more time. It's all made far worse by Jet's own condition; a severe back injury has made her unable to work and her employer is denying her Worker's Compensation claim. (Yes, she has a lawyer and a hearing scheduled.)

If you're inclined to help, [livejournal.com profile] wargoddess has set up a Paypal fund for donations to defray funeral expenses. You can go to www.paypal.com, choose Send Money, and put kittentherogue@yahoo.com in the TO box, or this link should take you straight to the right donation page. Or you can just go to http://www.chaosangel.com/tia and use the nice shiny Donate button there.

Jet's only request is that you leave some sort of contact information, so that she can thank you, privately through email if nothing else. She appreciates that some people like to remain anonymous, but she'd prefer to be able to thank you.

And whether you donate or not -- PLEASE talk with your family, and get wills and living wills and medical proxies set up, and talk about what you'd WANT for funeral arrangements, even if you're not in a position to buy burial plots or take out insurance or whatever. You never know what's going to happen. If you got hit by a bus or something . . . you know the drill. Just do it, okay?


Seconded, all of it. This is just a bad, tragic situation all around. If you can spare anything to help, even just good wishes and thoughts of love, peace, and strength, it would be most appreciated.

To those affected, if any of you should see this, I am deeply sorry, and my heart is with you. May you feel what you need to feel and come to a place of peace.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
I am reposting this for [livejournal.com profile] shadowflyer, and also for [livejournal.com profile] talandra and [livejournal.com profile] jetshade.

Many of you are already well familiar with what's been going on with [livejournal.com profile] talandra and [livejournal.com profile] jetshade. If you're not, you can get up to speed here.

The summary: At the age of 42, Tia had at least four cerebellum/brain stem strokes in rapid succession. Until a few weeks ago she had made stunning, odds-defying progress, and was working again on coordination, communication and generally rejoining a life in progress. Then, for reasons not yet explained, it all came crashing down - she stopped breathing one morning in her bed at the rehab facility, and before anyone realized what was happening her oxygen-starved brain was damaged further. My dear oldest friend is incapable of waking up again.

Her wife Jet (thank $DEITY they're in Massachusetts where they could be legally married) has made the most difficult of decisions. Life support measures were withdrawn this morning.

One of the biggest obstacles is that Tia and Jet hadn't made any plans for something like this. They had no life insurance, no burial plot, no savings for this, nada. They had only been married a year -- they thought they had much more time. It's all made far worse by Jet's own condition; a severe back injury has made her unable to work and her employer is denying her Worker's Compensation claim. (Yes, she has a lawyer and a hearing scheduled.)

If you're inclined to help, [livejournal.com profile] wargoddess has set up a Paypal fund for donations to defray funeral expenses. You can go to www.paypal.com, choose Send Money, and put kittentherogue@yahoo.com in the TO box, or this link should take you straight to the right donation page. Or you can just go to http://www.chaosangel.com/tia and use the nice shiny Donate button there.

Jet's only request is that you leave some sort of contact information, so that she can thank you, privately through email if nothing else. She appreciates that some people like to remain anonymous, but she'd prefer to be able to thank you.

And whether you donate or not -- PLEASE talk with your family, and get wills and living wills and medical proxies set up, and talk about what you'd WANT for funeral arrangements, even if you're not in a position to buy burial plots or take out insurance or whatever. You never know what's going to happen. If you got hit by a bus or something . . . you know the drill. Just do it, okay?


Seconded, all of it. This is just a bad, tragic situation all around. If you can spare anything to help, even just good wishes and thoughts of love, peace, and strength, it would be most appreciated.

To those affected, if any of you should see this, I am deeply sorry, and my heart is with you. May you feel what you need to feel and come to a place of peace.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
Goddamn. I was going to post something flippant and fun, but then [livejournal.com profile] bifemmefatale posted this, and threw me off.

Because she summed it up perfectly well, and because I'm pretty much inarticulate with fury, I've gotten permission to just repost it here:

[livejournal.com profile] naamah_darling did a series of heart-wrenching posts about a year ago on a crazy cat-hoarding lady in her neighborhood, and Naamah's ultimately futile efforts to save one little diseased, malnourished kitten named Joey from her clutches.

My neighborhood now has the dubious distinction of a woman who makes Naamah's neighbor look like friggin' Doctor Doolittle. A woman living between DeKalb and Rochelle was arrested, committed for psychiatric testing and charged with 10 counts of animal cruelty after police and animal control officials discovered 230 live dogs, cats and birds on her property...and over 200 dead ones in freezers, burn pits and just scattered around the property.

http://www.wrex.com/News/index.php?ID=22454

This was animal hell. Dogs were found locked in abandoned cars, crowded 5 and 6 to a run meant for one, starving, covered in fleas. Some had had up to half of their ears eaten away by blackflies and horseflies. And believe it or not, the dogs had it good in comparison with the cats. They were found locked in the basement, swarms of them. "The (ammonia) smell in there is very overpowering, your eyes burn almost immediately and it takes a while to even get used to it to the point where you can breathe," describes Beth Drake, the Executive Director of TAILS Humane Society in DeKalb. "There's almost no electricity in the house. It's beyond filthy." Live cats were living off the carcasses of dead ones. "There were some cats in the basement that were in almost perpetual darkness and had no food or water. They had feces three or four inches thick on the bottom of their cages." one TAILS Humane Society member said.

All of the confiscated animals were taken into TAILS custody and have been moved to a vacant hangar at the DeKalb Municipal Airport. The community has responded overwhelmingly with donations of food, blankets, cleaning supplies and volunteer help. I myself went down there with a bag of supplies and volunteered for a couple of hours this afternoon. Even half-starved, these animals are beautiful, friendly, and almost all purebreds. TAILS expects to be caring for these furbabies for weeks or even months after the media circus has died down. They are urgently in need of monetary donations to help with the expenses of veterinary care and processing all these animals for adoption. If you can spare anything, *please* visit the TAILS website and make a donation.

http://www.tailshumanesociety.org/main.asp?id=27


All I can add to this is goddamn, people suck. This sort of thing makes me feel physically ill. There is just no excuse for it. It's senseless and cruel and utterly . . . inhuman.

Yeah, I get that the people who do this sort of thing are suffering from a genuine mental illness, and they need help. This particular woman asked for help, once things had gotten out of control. Be that as it may, I do not pity her. Whatever sympathy I might ordinarily feel for such a sick individual is crushed by the enormity of the suffering she created. The sheer scale of misery is mind-boggling. And yet she allowed it to develop and endure for who knows how long (cats eating their dead cagemates, people). I am glad she tried to make it right, but . . . well . . . it was sure as hell too little, too late for all the dead animals, wasn't it? The one year of prison to which she may be sentenced seems woefully inadequate.

You can pity this woman if you want, but I'm not going to waste my tears. Whether she knew it was wrong or not, she still violated one of the very few moral absolutes of my world, and as far as I'm concerned she deserves worse than she will probably get. Maybe feeling like that makes me a bad person, but, then, I've never believed or claimed that humans were entitled to the first milk of my kindness, so fuck her.

This is one of those evils that only humans can commit. It is up to us to help clean it up. So I exhort you, spread the word, and if you can spare a dime, some volunteer time, or just some good thoughts, please send it their way. This will take a lot of undoing.

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naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
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