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changelingDiscovered I was supposed to create a website in Comp Studies today. This would not be a problem, except for the fact that frames are compulsory. I kept thinking of new ideas, but casting them out again immediately. I mean, I'd love to redo the Wackiness website... but I am NEVER inflicting frames on anyone. Not either of my readers. I mean, GOD. FRAMES.
So me and Jess took off. Neither of us were getting any work done anyway, and we both have computers at home. I'll mock something up this weekend, I guess.
Jess and I had planned on doing plotwork anyway. We worked on plot for a bit, but then she decided she'd done all the plotwork she needed, and I was going nowhere fast, so we (I suppose that this would be the part that if this was a short story, we would snog in the midafternoon sun on the State Library's lawn. But like every other remotely attractive female in my vicinity, she is neither gay, bisexual, or interested. So back to the story) went to the National Gallery because it is 1) free, 2) something to do that may end in a story. It was a deliberate brain-break. I haven't been there since it reopened, and while we were lying on the Library lawn Jess said that she wanted to see the Caravaggio exhibit, and it leaves in five days time. Unfortunately, I couldn't afford the $12 entry fee, but there was heaps of other stuff to look at, including a small collection of Hellenic artefacts and so forth.
So that was how I spent my afternoon. Then I had four hours of learning grammar in Editing, and I picked up my take-home test that I would have done last week had I turned up to class. We also got our editing reports back, and I got 24.9/30. Not bad, considering apparently the highest mark Penny's awarded so far is 25.
I came home and read an excellent fan fiction called A Thousand Beautiful Things, which deals with silence, as well as other things. I personally really liked the relationship Draco and Snape had, during the Hogwarts years. But that's probably me.
The interesting thing was that whilst reading it I couldn't help but think of The Seal Wife, which of course I had to read for novel, and which I hated. With a passion. The Seal Wife deals with silence, too; Bigelow's obsession with the Aleut woman, who never speaks, and his disgust for the prostitute he uses, who talks, and his aversion to the young singer who can't talk for that very reason. And it deals with it badly. It is a poorly written book, with no eroticism present, despite its obsession with sex. I wanted to bring A Thousand Beautiful Things into Novel, and slam it down on Olga's desk, and say "There. That is how you write a silent character."
I'm not saying it's the best thing I've ever read, but it's a good fan fic. It's a good piece of writing regardless. And it made me think a bit. It's also Harry/Draco, but that's hardly here nor there.
It also made me want to write a silent character. A silent main character. Not necessarily the protaganist, but a damn central character. Just to prove to damn Katharine Harrison (author of the Seal Wife) that it can be done, and well.
While I was reading, I had an urge I haven't had in years. I wanted to listen to Billy Joel.
Billy Joel is my guilty music. Whereas one of my friends (was it Liam who postulated thus? Actually, I think it was Sax) has claimed that Aqua's Aquarium is the album that everyone owns but doesn't own up to (I legitimately do not own a copy. But my sister does. And I wouldn't care about owning up to it anyway. We all need a little whimsy), for me it's Billy Joel. I don't talk about how I like his music, about how I think he's a very interesting and most of all intelligent guy. I've heard his interviews, and I have a lot of respect for him. But I moved out of childhood, and I put away childish things. I filled my CD collection with Reel Big Fish and Marilyn Manson and AFI; Kurt Elling and Voltaire. Tonight I had Moving Out (Anthony's Song) niggling at the edge of my brain, so I put that track on, let the CD run through to its end, and started it from the beginning. And let it run through again. And put it back on track one. And you know what? I was happy. I found it very soothing, and comforting, and all those sort of things, but I also just plain enjoy his music. So there. Go on, defriend me. I dare you. In fact, when I was at Jess O's the week before last, she was saying how much she liked Billy Joel, and I was so surprised I almost fell over.
One of those God I'm still single and going to remain so moments crept up on me a short while ago. At least it's moved mostly back into generalities. Hopefully my brain will move itself utterly away from a certain person who I still fancy, but who has no reciprocal feelings (story of my life, eh?). That would make me happy. I'd rather have no desire for anyone, no awareness of the gap in my life than a constant nagging love for someone who can never return it. 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never lost at all? They were talking about reciprocal love, my friend, and that is something I have truly never experienced. I have had friends love me, but that can never be as single-minded as romantic love, and I would never ask it to be.
God, there I go again. Honestly. Why couldn't I have been born a realist and a eunuch? If only I could get rid of both my romanticism and my desire to share it with other people. But then I probably wouldn't be a writer. And I don't know what I would be then.
It seems odd, and almost self-indulgent to write so much in this livejournal. It has been some time since I actually had many people actively reading it, I think. I may have 173 people who have friended me, but comments are rare in my inbox these days. Don't know where I went wrong. Perhaps I just don't post enough photos of naked celebrities. I need to believe that it isn't that I'm boring; my ego's taken enough battering today, thanks.
Of course, if people actually decide to read my journal today, I'm going to feel like a right fool. Ah, well. Perhaps I can share my wisdom on conjunctive adverbs instead of my feelings. The irony of all this is that I think I'm more entertaining when blathering on like this than I am in my usual diary entries. No doubt everyone else disagrees, but that's their prerogative, royal or otherwise.
So me and Jess took off. Neither of us were getting any work done anyway, and we both have computers at home. I'll mock something up this weekend, I guess.
Jess and I had planned on doing plotwork anyway. We worked on plot for a bit, but then she decided she'd done all the plotwork she needed, and I was going nowhere fast, so we (I suppose that this would be the part that if this was a short story, we would snog in the midafternoon sun on the State Library's lawn. But like every other remotely attractive female in my vicinity, she is neither gay, bisexual, or interested. So back to the story) went to the National Gallery because it is 1) free, 2) something to do that may end in a story. It was a deliberate brain-break. I haven't been there since it reopened, and while we were lying on the Library lawn Jess said that she wanted to see the Caravaggio exhibit, and it leaves in five days time. Unfortunately, I couldn't afford the $12 entry fee, but there was heaps of other stuff to look at, including a small collection of Hellenic artefacts and so forth.
So that was how I spent my afternoon. Then I had four hours of learning grammar in Editing, and I picked up my take-home test that I would have done last week had I turned up to class. We also got our editing reports back, and I got 24.9/30. Not bad, considering apparently the highest mark Penny's awarded so far is 25.
I came home and read an excellent fan fiction called A Thousand Beautiful Things, which deals with silence, as well as other things. I personally really liked the relationship Draco and Snape had, during the Hogwarts years. But that's probably me.
The interesting thing was that whilst reading it I couldn't help but think of The Seal Wife, which of course I had to read for novel, and which I hated. With a passion. The Seal Wife deals with silence, too; Bigelow's obsession with the Aleut woman, who never speaks, and his disgust for the prostitute he uses, who talks, and his aversion to the young singer who can't talk for that very reason. And it deals with it badly. It is a poorly written book, with no eroticism present, despite its obsession with sex. I wanted to bring A Thousand Beautiful Things into Novel, and slam it down on Olga's desk, and say "There. That is how you write a silent character."
I'm not saying it's the best thing I've ever read, but it's a good fan fic. It's a good piece of writing regardless. And it made me think a bit. It's also Harry/Draco, but that's hardly here nor there.
It also made me want to write a silent character. A silent main character. Not necessarily the protaganist, but a damn central character. Just to prove to damn Katharine Harrison (author of the Seal Wife) that it can be done, and well.
While I was reading, I had an urge I haven't had in years. I wanted to listen to Billy Joel.
Billy Joel is my guilty music. Whereas one of my friends (was it Liam who postulated thus? Actually, I think it was Sax) has claimed that Aqua's Aquarium is the album that everyone owns but doesn't own up to (I legitimately do not own a copy. But my sister does. And I wouldn't care about owning up to it anyway. We all need a little whimsy), for me it's Billy Joel. I don't talk about how I like his music, about how I think he's a very interesting and most of all intelligent guy. I've heard his interviews, and I have a lot of respect for him. But I moved out of childhood, and I put away childish things. I filled my CD collection with Reel Big Fish and Marilyn Manson and AFI; Kurt Elling and Voltaire. Tonight I had Moving Out (Anthony's Song) niggling at the edge of my brain, so I put that track on, let the CD run through to its end, and started it from the beginning. And let it run through again. And put it back on track one. And you know what? I was happy. I found it very soothing, and comforting, and all those sort of things, but I also just plain enjoy his music. So there. Go on, defriend me. I dare you. In fact, when I was at Jess O's the week before last, she was saying how much she liked Billy Joel, and I was so surprised I almost fell over.
One of those God I'm still single and going to remain so moments crept up on me a short while ago. At least it's moved mostly back into generalities. Hopefully my brain will move itself utterly away from a certain person who I still fancy, but who has no reciprocal feelings (story of my life, eh?). That would make me happy. I'd rather have no desire for anyone, no awareness of the gap in my life than a constant nagging love for someone who can never return it. 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never lost at all? They were talking about reciprocal love, my friend, and that is something I have truly never experienced. I have had friends love me, but that can never be as single-minded as romantic love, and I would never ask it to be.
God, there I go again. Honestly. Why couldn't I have been born a realist and a eunuch? If only I could get rid of both my romanticism and my desire to share it with other people. But then I probably wouldn't be a writer. And I don't know what I would be then.
It seems odd, and almost self-indulgent to write so much in this livejournal. It has been some time since I actually had many people actively reading it, I think. I may have 173 people who have friended me, but comments are rare in my inbox these days. Don't know where I went wrong. Perhaps I just don't post enough photos of naked celebrities. I need to believe that it isn't that I'm boring; my ego's taken enough battering today, thanks.
Of course, if people actually decide to read my journal today, I'm going to feel like a right fool. Ah, well. Perhaps I can share my wisdom on conjunctive adverbs instead of my feelings. The irony of all this is that I think I'm more entertaining when blathering on like this than I am in my usual diary entries. No doubt everyone else disagrees, but that's their prerogative, royal or otherwise.