This came up and kept tapping me on the shoulder while I was riding the train today. So have it, and feel free to take as many grains of salt as you chose to with it--I'm not sure if this shouldn't be categorized as a work of fiction instead of philosophy, to tell you the honest truth.

( these are extrordinary qualities to find on earthCollapse )

KIND OF SORT OF A SEQUEL TO THIS.

---

They kept drifting through the countries without much Church influence, but often between Italy and Japan, at midpoints. Neither of them talked about it very much, but words seemed to flow more smoothly when they were there.

(America reminded Amon too much of his father: England reminded Robin too much of Father Ramon. Without the ghosts of the past in front of them, both could speak clearly.)

This month, they were in Moscow. The Russian Orthodox Church did its best to keep the Roman Catholics out, and they were both heartily sick of making their own coffee.

Robin was fidgeting again, her fingers toying with the bread left on the table with their drinks, not quite rendering it into anything else.

But Robin, had by and large stopped fidgeting. So, Amon looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup and after a moment, she stopped, the bread half balled, and looked at him.

"Amon?"

He raised his eyebrow "What, Robin?"

She chewed on her lower lip. "Do you...miss it?" When he stares instead of any sort of real answer, she clarifies, "Solomon."

What she means is everyone else, but there's no need to go that far at all.

"Hm..." His cup clinked as he set it against the saucer as he stared off into the distance. "Sometimes, I do, a bit. But..."

"...but?" Her face is open, where it once would be wrinkled with the effort of assimilating the knowledge fully: she is letting it flow in, freely.

"But, I'm doing my job. Isn't that what matters?" He braces his fingers against the thick handle of the mug, but doesn't lift it, and after a moment they relax.

Robin tilts her head and smiles. "Mmm." And she tears the bread in half and starts to scatter the crumbs to the pigeons.

...bah, Loudwitter fails. Here's my twitter page link anyway, I'd rather keep blogging via text, 's fab. But, here's something I wrote up on the ride down to LA.

( central californiaCollapse )


( so far, so goodCollapse )

dear caffeinic, hijiri, dotetsu
Please don't kill me.

( Did you know I had to read a 50 page case study for my critcial thinking class about gay marriage and gay parenting? Um. Air Gear AU, worksafe if not brainsafe and possibly bad in general.Collapse )

The energy that goes into stories is indescribable, but--

Imagine a glass sphere. Water lays in the bottom half, and a small hole is in the top. You hold it--it fits inside of your palm, perfectly, as you grip it with your palm, letting it weigh down your arm. As you hold it, you feel this need, this desire to spin, to dance with it. So, you hold your arm out, and then you start to spin.

Sure: water splashes out, but as you go faster and faster, the water stays put. You keep going, but your arms can only take so much of this. So gradually, your body moves with an increasing slowness and as you finally stop, out come most of the water. Probably on to you.

--this is where the rest of the story goes.

YOU DIDN'T. aslkjdsj burn brain so good.

...now I can see why they only wanted to do movies for awhile. Big train wreck!
( one more speculation baised on spoilers for the aboveCollapse )

A's game = better then expected. The errors, surprisingly enough to my inexperienced eyes, looked good. Also, helped Spread Chaos and got a free refill for a collectable cup. Good timing, and a tribute to mowtown made the fireworks a whole passel of fun. Whee.

( xenosaga three spoiler thingsCollapse )
[ps rest of things to do go die now please. DO NOT WANT. *crushed by words* i feel so damn tired.]

Which is to say, like a cow, chewing the cud of thoughts. It's a biological classifications thing.

So, when I got home yesterday, my mom informed me that the apartment is getting painted. Traning was canceled today and I didn't feel like doing any-thing after last night babysitting Xu and to a much lesser extent Ed and drinking good things, I sat at home and listened to the painters tape things up and scrape things off and talk about the broken window. There's tape over my windows--I'm kinda glad that there is training tomorrow, s'proly going to be too hot to deal with. Front door is also badly stuck, probably as a result of this. And the landlady wants the car gone yesterday, which pissed off mom when she came home badly. It's kind of worrying.

Finished finding all the old sound files I could too and added every last thing to iTunes among other things. Meanwhile, all my writing stuff is done for now, and I sit here without any personal IM programs on and lurking, really because that has been the tone of the day. Writing is good--I can almost touch the creative things that dealing with others has scared away. Alone time does the same thing but too much of it is as damaging as the people. It's a balance thing: it's probably a good thing I went down to SC because I probably would have been a crotchety hermit by Friday afternoon in the worst way. Not a good day to watch anime, but I did make sure I was caught up on the manga of Bleach. Aizen-hollow is a pimp.

Mildly philosophical about the state of the world. Thinking about gender refers me back to the more fluid notion of gender--whatever that book was about the milion and one interpretations makes me want to read that book again. I wonder if there's been any good studies between the brain makeup and gender expression of people who have a rather fluid notion of gender? It'd be interesting to know. Thinking about age makes me feel old sometimes and young others. Telling drunk pepole to piss off about my sex life. Stuff like that.

Either that, or I should just go to bed.

( private instutions, between the last two bitsCollapse )

Roughly edited together whole.

It's harder to go after he's gone. Every time she goes in anywhere that was theirs, it goes stranger, perhaps a bit more wrong. Something does not let his passing lie. Every step now unstable, whirling a little bit faster past her. Like a unbalanced record player, ever since she took him in to be changed out for new, to make space.

She understands that everything is still important; everything that once was theirs is hers; all their shared goals still attainable by ancient routes and ways. But she can't hold it together properly now,  there's something in the way it's shaped. It won't stick up right when set down either, all angles poking into so many places. Holding it is hard, harder then anything she's ever tried before. She bleeds, grasping at the edges of everything and into the nothing that surrounds it, the sum of everything they shared.

She's changing into people she isn't supposed to be, because that's all she can do, really. Have to be something not so that she can not be, waiting for a new thing to change her world into something she can actually live in.

...bleh. s'not hanging together right. Geh. Was hit by the first and last paragraph last night.

[ oddly enough, kingdom hearts two and mission impossible three actually helped. go fig...]

The need for the illusions of power and safety are great. We crave power. Power comes from things that are not things. Or you can be fancy about it and call it something like "intangible". Blood and bone; that which is theoretically real, tangible and not like power--few things are, after all.  Things we can touch, grasp at, grope for and pick away, these things begin us. Or make us less then what we'd be if we made ourselves.  Holding us in places we'd never thought we'd go without them. We grasp at things that are not things, things that are not REAL in the way that the objects we can make are.

And they do things, things make us things to be, like time and old. We make our own objects that are not things. We make them to make us new. To be great, to be something that we define and desire, that we create and covet.

But we can't be new. We are held in place. We are what we eat, what we speak, what we do. We hold them like we hold on to time, like we can't go, because letting go is to die, and we don't know death like we know this, this moment.

There is a certain amount of bullshit that goes into any private institution. The name, for one.

The idea that anything that is an institution: that some abstract thing created, held in common, cherished and maintained by the work of souls and hands and minds can be a thing to be held in pure secrecy is idiotic.  Anything that has been created by that many people has been sighted by those around them ages ago.  If only the act and shape of work is glimpsed, an observer may guess at its shape and form, no matter how carefully concealed.

(You would, perhaps, be surprised at the amount of correct answers there are from those guessing. It is a fine art, this inferring of purposes from the misty vapors of facts obscured, perfected by many years of playground intrigue and classroom dramatics that all children dabble in.  An tour de force that can leave lasting enmity, impressions and scars of an emotional nature so habit forming, that the slightest memory of the time before draws one into a vague nostalgia that leaves one in a kind of wistful limbo of that-which-was-me. )

(Such thoughts should be warded off with a brisk walk and a nice cup of chamomile tea with an acquaintance.)

---

Wrote this last night during the wind and the rain and the isolation.  Now sitting in living room contemplating the two that broke up mooncalfing at each other. Will not stand to be finished, at least now.