pasithea: glowing girl (Default)
The Bitter Dryad rough cut with no editing posted to [livejournal.com profile] dvnt_spirit account.
pasithea: glowing girl (Default)
The 9th dimension is a fascinating place. It's the dimension of dimensions where all possible variations of all possible dimensions of all possible rule sets exist.

It occurs to me that if there are an infinite number of dimensions with infinite variations that somewhere out there, there's a dimension where magic capable of crossing dimensions exists and there is another me who is there and in one of those dimensions where the other me with dimensional magic exists, they've had the same thought I just had but from the opposite side.

They've just thought that there is some other version of themselves who lives in a universe without magic and that other self (me) is contemplating her and trying to figure out a way to make herself a beacon so that other self in the distant dimension might open a portal to connect us so we can explore the worlds of one another.

Surely in one of those other dimensions, one of those magic other selves has the power to not only open a portal but to find me if I were to work hard enough to make myself found, and she'd have enough of the same curiosity as me to actually try bringing me across or vice versa. There must be another self that tries to see what's on the back side of their looking glass.

In a universe of infinite rule sets and infinite variations on experiences, it would be extremely improbable that we live in the suckiest of all universes. Perhaps that means the failing is just me. Perhaps out of my untold trillions of variants, I lack the focus required to be a beacon and allow the gap to be opened. Or perhaps I just need to set aside a block of time and actually try it. It seems like it'd be something that would at least require more than a bit of bored blogging in the mid afternoon. Or perhaps it has happened a number of times and these weird bits of inspiration, art, music, and such are just momentary connections with other selves.

I definitely need to spend more time contemplating this. I think it could make for a good story.

Hmm. I wonder if perhaps it's easier to be a beacon if you get a bunch of friends together and make a circle and help you try to summon yourself. You know. Classic-like.

wc -w

Nov. 5th, 2007 01:04 pm
pasithea: glowing girl (Default)
NaNoWriMo wordcount is still 0. I didn't do anything this weekend. No writing, no art, no animation, no schoolwork, no programming, nothing. I just kind of laid around and wasted time. :/ Actually weekend is too short a descriptor. Most of the past week I've been that way. Not exactly depressed but not really active.

It's kind of frustrating. I'm not stuck for ideas, just motivation. In fact, if anything, I have too many ideas. Ideas are cheap. Doing something with an idea is the real challenge.

Anyhow.. As far as NaNo goes, I guess I had one false-start last week. It's a story that I would like to do but it needs a lot more time and research than I can presently devote to it so it can't really take off right now.

Thus at lunch time, I hit puree on my plot generator and threw together about a 500 word outline of a story that I believe I can do within the confines of NaNoWriMo. I'll get started on it tonight after I get done with my schoolwork. Soooo... I wonder if I can pull off 7,000 words in an evening and get caught up. :)


In other news, looks like Godzilla starts filming this coming weekend. Yay. :)

NaNoWriMo

Oct. 20th, 2007 02:00 pm
pasithea: glowing girl (Default)
Okay. bonzai. I have a nanowrimo account now. Guess I'm committed! Friend me if you want. I'm DV_Girl there. Also, don't know if I mentioned it but I have more Wordpress account more or less done now. http://halfcircle.wordpress.com/

Transit

May. 5th, 2006 12:46 am
pasithea: glowing girl (Default)
An unseasonably cold wind screams through the maze of tall buildings and naked gurders. After the light changes, I dash across the street, making my way through the sea of people, out onto the platform, down along the length of the iron giant. As I board, I'm greeted by a blast of dry heat. Thermostat must be malfunctioning. Means the car is almost empty. Besides, the heat suits me fine. A few minutes more at the station, the last wave of passengers cram aboard, filling even this overheated car. Twice the conductor bellows, "All aboard!" then the doors slide closed.

A low rumbling whine shudders through the train as it creaks and groans into motion. My seat is set opposite the direction of travel and at first it seems the empty cars in the bay beside this one have set into motion the opposite direction. It's strange to see a train at this distance, moving along side it. It gives me a true sense of the massiveness of these vehicles, panning slowly along it's metal skin. Gradually we pick up speed, the windows of the waiting cars strobe beside me, all the seats empty, save for the control room. As we roll past, I watch the engineer take a bit of his sandwich and flip a page in his book. His face lit by the cool greens and oranges of the displays around him. A few more minutes and he is out of sight.

A northbound train passed outside my window as we leave the train yard. Through the windows, I can see the passengers just starting to gather their things to disembark. when headed north, the trains run in reverse, the driver concealed in a tiny room in the last car. It seems strange as we roll past the engine cockpit. Its big windows hollow, empty, as if piloted by ghosts.

The train crawls through the decay of the south end of the city. Bridges and underpasses with layer upon layer of graphitti, the ground littered with piles of trans and unidentifiable scraps of old structures. Camps of homeless people hidden away beneath the refuse. Battered blue tarps strung between a fence and the earthen buildup for the train tracks. Darkness engulfs me, then a pressure wave as the train barrels into the close darkness of an old tunnel. A moment or two of light, then into another tunnel. Emerging on the other side, I see the steep hillside and a vacant field. My eyes follow faint lines of abandoned rails in the overgrowth to the shadows of old tunnels hidden behind ivy, overgrowth and trash.

There's an open field whisking past my window now. A couple of bench-styled car seats sit facing the train track. The ground is littered with bottles, cans, and other manner of waste. Further out in the field I can see stripped and broken cars laying like the skeletons of elephants in the sun. Fog is rolling over the distant hills, taking the city into it's cold embrace. Even the tall radio towers of Telegraph hill are but faint ghosts in the haze.

This is how my trip home starts every day. I enjoy it really, even when I get on the slower trains that stop at some of the really dark and nasty stations late at night. This isn't the pretty side of the city that the City Council wants you to see. It's the dirty old industrial town, dying in slow and horrible splendor. The scrap yards, the battered industry shops, with half their windows broken out, though they're still in operation. There's a realness to this part of the world, harsh and alien as the face of Mars. A few minutes more and we'll be passing through pretty little townships with 'revitalized' downtowns festooned with familiar name brand stores and plastic facades. Tidy little houses with bright backyard playhouses for their two point five kids. The fog hasn't come here. The cold wind doesn't blow in the trees. I pass from the eire old weird dead parts of the world to the fake silicon smile of the valley. Home again, home again.
pasithea: glowing girl (Default)
may break my bones, but I disagree. I think names can hurt. I don't like that 'toughen up' poem.

More often though, names confuse me. I remember when I was young, hearing words like kike and spic and no having any idea what they ment at all. The person they were used to refer to seemed perfectly normal to me. Maybe in part that's why that sortof narrow-minded thinking didn't stick so well. The racists in my life just assumed that I would see the world through the same twisted eyes that they did.

Anyhow, someone mentioned this URL: http://www.rsdb.org/ It's a database of racist codewords for various peoples. Kind of disturbing when you see just how much of this stuff there is. At least now though when some ignorant asshat uses some expression like that, I'll be able to call them on it.

Folklore

Jul. 8th, 2005 02:00 pm
pasithea: glowing girl (Default)
This is vaguely related to the Noah post but has been bubbling in my head for a few weeks now. It's just an odd little thought about story ideas. I feel like, as an american, I'm somewhat robbed of folklore. Most stories americans have are from Europe. There's a few odd ones of course: Johnny Appleseed, Paul Bunyan, Pecos Bill, but all of those are caricatures of people. There's no local version of elves, fairies, pixies, trolls, sprites, etc. We just steal from other cultures. Yes, there is native american lore and some of it I even know. The problem is that you can't do that as a story without people expecting pounding drums and warpaint and you have to say 'Inspired by a Cherokee legend' or something at the beginning. They're not stories that most americans are familiar with. What americans are familiar with are all European legends.

But even European legends would be something. I don't think americans really even have those any more though. They have TV. Cartoons loosely based of legends but often with recognizable and identifable trade-marked characters. We _know_ those legends aren't true and we know that Bugs Bunny will witty mock the wolf rather than cutting him open and filling his belly with hot coals. Legends have become quaint and dated, replaced with aliens and dinosaurs and video game fare. Where in the 1940's everyone likely would have known most Mother Goose rhymes, I doubt more than 10% of children today might know them while 90+% probably recognize the Pokemon theme song.

Culture is a living thing and I don't 'yearn for a more simple time' or anything like that. Just saying that sometimes I feel a little robbed for culture references to work from.

Perhaps I'm just not looking hard enough. Every small town has ghost stories, most of them even have variants of the same sort of story and someone has to have collected those. It would be fun to find some and see if there's anything I could work with as material that hasn't been done to death but many people would recognize without the prefix of, 'Based on american folklore'.

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