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This was probably a bad idea.

Feb. 8th, 2010 | 03:58 am

So it is four AM, but I have fulfilled week one of my "Finish-Something-Damn-It" weekly test! I have decided that the week ends when I go to sleep on Sunday night, so it still counts.

It was sort of a shitty weekend, so this is light hearted and smutty. It's also RPS, Jude/RDJ, so if you aren't into that, fair warning.

At this point, I'm just going to give you a link to the sherlockkink thread -- I'll beta it and post it here when I'm less drunk and less tired, so you may want to wait to read it.

RDJ & Jude's sex tape leaks!

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I'm alive, I swear!

Feb. 5th, 2010 | 12:17 am
mood: satisfiedsatisfied

Oh lord. The semester is in full swing, let me tell you, but I am enjoying myself. My brain has been taken over entirely by this badass named Charles Sanders Peirce who was crazy brilliant, and had awesome opinions about semiotics, and married his mistress, and had no social skills, and was a morphine user. I adore that class, seriously. But that is not relevant (THOUGH SERIOUSLY! SO COOL! IF YOU LIKE DRY LOGICIANS TALKING ABOUT SEMIOTICS WHO ARE ALSO SCANDALOUS VICTORIAN BADASSES, CHECK HIM OUT), I mostly want to say that I'm alive!

And out of insane desire to be able to discuss something other than semiotics (I know, right? why would I want to do that?), I mainlined Transmetropolitan last night. Oh my fucking god, I adored it -- Spider Jerusalem is exactly my fictional type. He's crazy, stylish, brilliant, fucked up, foul, unpleasant, righteous, mean, morally ambiguous, violent. I enjoyed him immensely.

In other news, I've decided I need to get more consistent about my fiction. I read an interesting article on io9 about writing a short story a week, and I've decided I'm going to try and do that. So, expect to see more fic in here, although we'll see if I can stick to my guns.

Last, things I'm working on/thinking about:

* that childhood!Holmes fic I posted a snippet of. This has stalled, but I'm still in love with it.
* a Holmes/London (and probably Holmes/Watson, because I am hopeless about them) story that is informed by Transmet, which will be dirty and smelly.
* what looks like might be an epic about how Holmes is the fobwatched 12th doctor and Watson is his companion, with the Master as Moriarty.
* Holmes in a band!
* a steam-punky story about Holmes vs a tinker/con-man/serial killer. Mostly this is my attempt to actually write something approximating a mystery.

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A lazy day

Jan. 21st, 2010 | 04:17 pm

I have spent an exceedingly lazy day. I've gone from my bed, to the bath, to the kitchen, with no excursions beyond the borders of my apartment. It is sort of luxurious, although I feel as if I am getting sick, which sucks. I am also extraordinarily flattered about all the attention that amo, amas, amat has gotten -- I love that little story, and I'm glad y'all do too! In absence of anything else to say, here is a snippet of something I've been working on. In related matters, does anyone know of a good resource on the internet about Victorian childhood?

Mycroft had told him, only once and almost offhand, that he had been a wicked child, but Sherlock Holmes mostly recalled being frightened. He had been almost overwhelmed by the world, as it glistened and turned and changed around him. His nursery had been some small refuge, but he remembered sitting and crying on the floor in the center of it, the wood cold against him and the sunlight almost startling, disrupting the air and making every small particle dance and move and become visible. Someone had moved his bed and was replacing the wallpaper on the wall next to it, and the place where he had methodically picked off the paper to reveal the plaster underneath was now hidden underneath patterns in blue and gold, that particular and purposeful marking of his space and his ownership overwritten by an incomprehensible whim of the powerful.

The woman that was to care for him could not distract him, as he sat there and cried himself sick, glue filling his nostrils until he became too snotty and hiccuping to smell anymore. She had finally lifted him bodily and taken him from the room, stripping him efficiently of his clothing and depositing him none-too-gently into a warm bath, which only made him cry harder, his very limbs and mobility taken from his already delicate control. He could smell that his nurse had taken biscuits with her tea and he couldn't separate the sensation of her fingers on his body from the way the air nipped at him, from the light reflecting off of copper.

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Fic: amo, amas, amat

Jan. 17th, 2010 | 06:32 pm
mood: cheerfulcheerful

This fic is like a love poem to myself. I adore Catullus, and have done for years, and so when I saw the prompt on the kinkmeme, I fell over and then wrote for four hours in a sitting, from one AM to five. I didn't remember when I wrote this originally that Holmes had a copy of Catullus in "The Empty House," but that makes it even better. This is edited, and there is a little paragraph added to the very end, but again it is largely the same as the previous version. All the translations are my own, but done very quickly and without all that much thought toward strict accuracy.

amo, amas, amat, Holmes/Watson, NC-17, 4300 words, Catullus spoke his heart and there was no avoiding him if he was to feel at all.

Watson was never able to get the hang of modern languages, and was almost surprised that Holmes could, if he could still be surprised by anything his dearest friend could manage.Collapse )

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Fic: Pugilism & An Acceptable Form of Sentimentality

Jan. 16th, 2010 | 07:09 am

Here are the two shamelessly porny fics I wrote for sherlockkink. They've both been moderately edited, mostly for typos and awkward wording, but they are largely the same as they were over there. I apologize for the faintly silly titles. My indulgent little Catullus story will go up later, with it's own post, as I am inordinately fond of it. And ladies, I must say this again: I love my new fandom.


Pugilism, Holmes/Watson, NC-17, 1200 words, It was a sincere pleasure to watch Holmes fight.

Every Friday, for pretty much the entirety of their acquaintance, Holmes would strip to his skin and trousers, enter the arena, and annihilate some poor bruiser.Collapse )

An Acceptable Form of Sentimentality, Holmes/Watson, NC-17, 800 words, It was an entirely personal bliss, but Watson did not begrudge him this. .

Watson was used to following Holmes.Collapse )

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I love dead languages.

Jan. 14th, 2010 | 03:22 am
mood: awakeawake
music: Joy Division

So, is this not the most hilarious poem ever, y/y? (don't worry if you don't find it funny; I'm very nerdy.)

I hate poems that go on and on and on.
I hate roads where everyone walks.
I loathe wondering lovers, nor will I drink from just any well.
I detest everything common.
Oh, you're handsome, Lysus, you're very handsome.
But even as Echo says it again, I hear: "he belongs to someone else."

-Callimachus, trans. by Burton Rattel.

In context, dude is totally calling Lysus a dirty whore, which, much like he is too fastidious to drink from just any well, he ain't touching with a ten foot pole.

Another dead greek poem I adore:

I'd prefer to take my wine tonight
in an unglazed earthenware jar.
That way, each time it meets my lips
I'll taste and be reminded of
the clay from which I came,
the clay in which I'll one day dwell
and one day I'll turn into.

-Zonas, trans Sherod Santos.

In other news, I hope y'all who friended me based on the kinkmeme aren't disappointed with all this non-fandom stuff. Sorry? Here, have the most adorable little RDJudsie clip. And check out Robert's killer threads!

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Yum, tobacco.

Jan. 12th, 2010 | 04:45 pm
mood: contentcontent
music: Bill Hicks, who didn't die of lung cancer.

Okay, so, I've been smoking cigarettes for quite some time, with the full knowledge that it is bad for me, a filthy habit, an addiction yada yada yada -- all that stuff is not the point of this post. The point of this post is for me to reiterate, once again, just how much I love smoking and to show off a new purchase/obsession that I am most pleased about. Ex-smokers might want to stop reading now, because I swear to god, I'm this close to writing an epic poem about how much I love smoking.

I love the whole process of having a cigarette. The way it tastes, the way I have an easy-to-explain reason to duck out of social situations, the moment of relaxation it gives me even when everything else sucks. I love reading books, or writing papers, or just wasting time with a cigarette. I like finding different sorts of good tasting tobacco, and having some of my more talented friends roll me one of theirs. I like making new friends over the camaraderie of finding a dry place that's ten feet from any door in a wet Portland winter, of bumming cigarettes and bumming them out, of the karma that means you'll always find a kind soul with a lighter outside an airport after a ten hour flight. I love tobacco shops, and the way it smells, and how smoke looks on a clear day. I like the way a new pack feels, all stiff and unyielding, and I love my cigarette case, with its picture of a scantily clad Mr. David Bowie on the front.

All that being said, I think I have a new favorite way to consume that most perfect plant in Mother Nature's bounty, and that is via a pipe. I will admit that I was influenced by Sherlock Holmes in my desire to start smoking pipes again, but I have had a cheapass corncob for a while and prior to that, I had a cheap briar which I stepped on and broke in half. But yesterday, I got a check in the mail and decided I was going to give myself a belated Christmas present, and went out and bought the most beautiful little pipe and several blends of delicious tobacco.

There is something really singular about the process of smoking a pipe. There is a methodical element to the ritual of packing and tamping and lighting that really appeals to me, and it is an even better way to unwind than a series of cigarettes. I will, by no means, shift entirely to smoking pipes -- I am loyal to the bone to my delightful cancer sticks-- but I think that my chill out tobacco of choice will now be consumed slowly, in puffs that make everything smell good and fill the air with blueish smoke.

And after that embarressing, and to most of you both completely incomprehensible and vaguely immoral (in that way that our culture insists upon us that we have somehow failed if a compatriot behaves in a way unhealthy to them, much less, god forbid, takes pleasure in whatever activity is unhealthy) babble, I really need to show off pictures, if only for my own childish glee:



(You also get to see my pretty purple skirt. Isn't that a lovely color?)

In addition, I just placed bids on several clay pipes on ebay, because I've heard they very cleanly relay the flavor of the tobacco. I'm hoping I win one that is very simple, but has a beautiful flower motif. Regardless, yum pipe tobacco.

And since I've been talking about Freud lately, and in a post that is dedicated to my oral fixation, I thought I'd sign off with a great quote from the man himself (who smoked 20 cigars a day, and therefore DEFINITELY HAD ME BEAT on the addiction front):

"[cigars have] served me for precisely fifty years as protection and a weapon in the combat of life...I owe to the cigar a great intensification of my capacity to work and a facilitation of my self-control"

I got that from this fascinating article, which is all about Freud's love-affair with the cigar. Apparently he referred to them as arbeitsmittel, "work stuff," a play on lebensmittel, which was food, or literally, "life stuff."

(This, by the way, is not me encouraging you to smoke. I have no beef with people who don't smoke, unless they are one of this sort of non-smoker Or this sort. God, I love Bill Hicks. It's also not cheap anymore. But I digress.)

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Sherlock Holmes is such a BAMF

Jan. 9th, 2010 | 04:24 am
music: Rocky Road to Dublin

Oh my god, this fandom is eating my brain.

Today I read The Seven Percent Solution*, A Study in Scarlet, and more fic than I can shake a stick at, joining all the rest of the Sherlockian delights I have been reveling in over the past week or so. I also bought a book called Victorian London (which is shaping up the be a fairly straightforward history) and the first volume of six in a series which seems to be called the Bourgeois Experience: Victoria to Freud (which is certainly not straightforward, best I can tell). Worse than all that, I keep finding myself plotting out the modern day Sherlock Holmes band!au of my heart (I have no shame) and writing snippets about Watson knows its a bad sign when Holmes starts listening to his iPod obsessively, as if he is trying to block out the assault of his senses, and the fact that Watson hasn't been able to spot any pattern at all in his tobacco consumption as Holmes shifts from chainsmoking Parliament Lights to expensive Dunhills without any apparent method. But seriously guys, you will want a band AU too if you just think of Holmes giving an interview to like, MTV, and the lols inherent in that image.

The fact that I'm also listening to a shitton of Andrew Bird is entirely unrelated, I swear.

Anyway, I continue to be consumed by the kinkmeme. I've written three fills thus far, and I'll probably come out with more. Soon I'll clean them up and post them here -- they were all written in fast bursts and with barely any proof-reading, so they are crazy typo-licious and make me wince to reread them. Also, once I get my brain together, I'll probably have recs from my fic binge for y'all. And dear christ, every time I use the babble tag I think I couldn't possibly have a more babbly and pointless post, only to use it the next time and prove myself wrong.

*LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE. I read it in one sitting and only resisted the urge to read it straight through again because I had an appointment. It was hurty, and realistic, and full of so much love! Not to mention all the nerdy glee I got from reading RPF about Sigmund Freud. It also made me want a Holmes/Watson/Freud threesome, so. I would hate myself, but the book is begging for it -- I literally just opened to a random page, and there is a line about Freud watching Holmes with "the absorption in all facets of Holmes that was characteristic of him." BITCH PLEASE. You know what would be scientifically illuminating, Sigmund? Sucking his cock while Watson watches. I'm just throwing that shit out there.

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Hello, everyone!

Jan. 5th, 2010 | 04:08 pm
mood: bemused

I seem to have found myself several new friends! Porn does bring people together, doesn't it?

Since y'all were so kind to wander here from sherlockkink, I figured I might as well dust off this lonely old journal, and introduce myself, and all that rot. I'm Becca, I'm a college student who's studying political science and constructing an ad hoc critical theory course list for herself. I enjoy finding homoerotic elements in just about all the media I consume, a habit I justify via my libido and some vague mutterings about queering pop. Mostly, it's just hot.

I coach debate, listen to bad music, have a thirteen year old boy's taste in movies and girls, and can't decide if I want to cook professionally or go to graduate school. I'm Texan, but I don't live there anymore, and I'm currently wearing cowboy boots. My hair is in the halfway state between normal dirty blonde and the bright purple that I much prefer. I have a cat named Sushi sitting on the small of my back and I smell like cigarettes.

So, that's meatspace me. In terms of fandom-y stuff, I used to be more involved, but I've sort of slipped out of the habit of posting in livejournals and writing fic. I still read all sorts of fic, primarily in Torchwood, Star Trek, Harry Potter, Stargate: Atlantis, and a variety of other things. I'm intending to start this fannish enthusiasm thing anew, and I think I might sign up for the Sherlock Holmes big bang.

I'm attentat over at the Archive of Our Own as well. Let's see, for yuletide I wrote:

The Legendary Five Way, a fivesome of Robin/Ted/Barney/Lily/Marshall in How I Met Your Mother fandom

and

Lady Stardust, Duchess of Haddon Hall, a weird bit of David Bowie RPF that I can't quite get my head around, even still. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I can't figure out why.

I also wrote two things (so far) for the Holmes kinkmeme, which I think I'm going to clean up and post around in a little bit.

Anyway, random and rambly. Welcome!

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(no subject)

Dec. 28th, 2009 | 02:56 am
mood: sleepysleepy

A) Why do I always get urges to post in this thing while I'm teaching camp? Why are all my posts so useless?

B) Between Sherlock Holmes and yuletide, I have such an urge to leap back into fandom.
Tags:

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