Death by a Bottle

Fanfic: House M.D.: Learning to Give

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 10:17:46 GMT

Title: Learning to Give
Author: abernaith
Fandom: House M.D.
Rating: G
Characters: James Wilson, Greg House
Summary: House has a peculiar way of learning some things.
Word count: 265
Disclaimer: House and Wilson belong to David Shore and co.
Notes: This was originally inspired by cryptictac's "Just For A Little While, My Darling", spec. #8 - fantasizing about Wilson. I was looking through my archives, found this old thing, and thought it was the perfect de-lurking ficlet. It immediately reminded me of the methadone incident, where Wilson gets suspicious when House offers him his breakfast. I thought it's still timely, in a sense, because of all the talk of food in the latest episode. ^__^

It started with dessert.

It was easy. No, it wasn't easy. But it was the least difficult thing that House could imagine himself giving. He risked a glance at his best friend, who was presently scooping a piece of the custard from his plate. An innocent gesture. A simple act of giving.

Five years ago, a year ago, hell, even just yesterday, House would have winced at hearing those words. Hearing himself say them, albeit in his head, wasn't painful. No, really, it wasn't. It was just House's nature to imagine that it was painful. Hence, the cringe.

"What?" asks Wilson, spoon halfway between plate and mouth. "Having second thoughts now? Want it back? I suppose we can share, or, I can just let you steal it, and I can pretend to be indignant." Wilson's eyes sparkled. House remained mute. The custard sitting on Wilson's spoon wiggled as he brought it the rest of the way to his mouth.

House felt that the custard was mocking him. He felt that Wilson was mocking him. He frowned, then. But not because of the mocking, no. His mind was on his patient. Wilson had deduced as much, recognizing the eureka moment in his friend's face.

Without another word, House stood up and ambled off to solve his case. Wilson finished the custard, disposed of his and House's trays, and went back to his office. Unknown to them both, this would be the humble beginning of a series of seemingly random kindnesses that House would tell himself he'd never do, except when he actually did them.

followed a meme

Thu, 09 Oct 2008 17:08:09 GMT

I know I did the band thing before, but I can't remember what I got the first time. Anyway, I think making album covers is a fun way to unwind. :-P It's a lame hobby, I know, but I still like it!

Got this from becbet :

1. The first article on the page is the name of your band.
2. The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.
3. The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.
4. Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together, and post it on your own journal.

And here's my band:

If there was ever a Mary Sue fanfic I liked...

Sun, 28 Sep 2008 15:18:39 GMT

This is it: http://www.butcheredart.net/Fiction/Kids.html

I know the only reason I liked the recent Iron Man movie was because of Robert Downey, Jr. I think that, if I ever gave the comics a shot, the only reason I will like Iron Man is because of all the political angst (hopefully clever). But now I'm about convinced that the only reason I am going to start reading Iron Man fanfic is because there is at least one writer for the fandom out in the Internet who is not afraid to make a grand gesture, and do it damn well.

It's been quite a while since I read a fanfic like that. It's something I'd even consider as a model example for this organization's cause:

http://transformativeworks.org/

*the fog dissipates*....and now I realize I have spent too much time and wandered a wee bit farther than expected away from my One True Obsession (of the moment? for life?) which is House M.D. It's time to head back.

Everybody lies.

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 13:31:00 GMT

(Or the I-got-the-babelizer-to-spout-philosophy post.)

This site aptly named "Lost in Translation" has this engine that "babelizes" an English phrase back and forth between 5 different languages. What comes out in the end is barely recognizable from the original. For instance, I tried the classic tongue twister, "She sells sea shells by the seashore." What came out, predictably, was a mess of words and a waste of time to read. It sells interactive of interpreter of instruction of sea by the edge
of the sea. (And you still read it, didn't you? Ha!)

The final note on the short introduction to this "babelizer" is a curious anecdote, however:

Remember the old game of "Telephone"? Something is lost, and sometimes something is gained.

And I, of course, decided to test how useless this babelizer can get--by trying to get it to churn up something useful. Et voila! Wonder of wonders, it actually came up with something poignant, simple and extraordinary--if you are a fan of overreading, that is.

Original English Text:
Everybody lies.

Translated to French:
Tout le monde se trouve.

Translated back to English:
Everyone is.

Translated to German:
Jeder ist.

Translated back to English:
Everyone is.

Translated to Italian:
Tutto è.

Translated back to English:
All it is.

Translated to Portuguese:
Tudo é.

Translated back to English:
Everything is.

Translated to Spanish:
Todo es.

Translated back to English:
Everything is.

Everything is. What began its existence as a lie in the minds of men, in the end, just is. And everything is this way, in spite of the fact that everybody lies about everything. Everything just is.

(I wonder how much this scrap of philosophy is worth if you put it on a t-shirt.)

thieves and pirates

Mon, 24 Mar 2008 13:41:09 GMT

It's not hard to fall in love with pirates/thieves/jack-of-all-trades in fantasy stories. I don't just happen to like such characters; whenever I read a fantasy novel, I look for these types--they are often easy to find as they make themselves prominent by means of their charming eloquence, their easy chemistry with any other character, or even simply by the aura of sheer sexiness they exude without the slightest effort. The presence of these 'bohemian' characters are not only cherished but expected by certain types of fantasy bookworms. If the average fantasy novel is the literary equivalent of junk food, such characters that provide the sort of amusement to female readers that comes free with giggles would be the MSG that makes the junk food tasty, unhealthy and addictive all at the same time.

These are a few of my favorite pirate/thief fantasy characters:

1. Aladdin - one of the very, very few reasons I love Disney movies...but then again, also one of the reasons I loathe their twisted, sugary 'adaptations' of the old tales.
2. Jack Sparrow - admittedly, it is hard to separate his character from Johnny Depp, although this doesn't apply the other way around. 3. Count of Monte Cristo - I can see him as consumed by hate, but hell would freeze over before I ever see him as evil. At best, he's amoral--it's his worst flaw. Other than that...he's just perfect.
4. Seregil - from Lynn Flewelling's The Nightrunners. Too bad he's hooked with Alec...*sigh*
5. Marquis de Carabas - of Gaiman's Neverwhere. This one doesn't just exude sex, he practically smoulders with it.
6. Howl - from Diana Wynne Jones' Howl's Moving Castle. Studio Ghibli's adaptation put a face to him. Howl has characteristics distinctly different in the animation and the novel, although both still produce a very lovable if quite mixed-up guy.
7. Mat Cauthon - from The Wheel of Time series. He's one of the reasons I persisted on loving Robert Jordan's books.
8. Balthier - this is a recent addition, though I couldn't help but love this character. It took a while to register, though. At first, Balthier seemed like some poor cross of a Casanova-wannabe and a shoddy double of one Locke Lamora (I was reading the novels at the time, and Balthier's face fit the bill conveniently...) but then, as time progressed and I slowly...ever so slowly...made my way through FFXII, I realized that Balthier is a whole other creature, one worthy of fangirl-y admiration. Who knows, maybe when I've progressed even further in the game, I'd discover even more to this character that would make him worth the time for reading a fanfic, maybe even writing one?

Justice for all...DS gamers!

Wed, 27 Feb 2008 04:11:46 GMT

The beginning of 2008 saw me through the first installment of the popular Nintendo DS game, "Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney." It was introduced to me by marimorimo, who was lured into the game by the two main characters: Phoenix Wright and Miles Edgeworth. (Typical of her to focus on the ash-haired renaissance throw-back hottie of a prosecutor...) It was so much fun playing that game that I decided to invest my time in the sequels, "Phoenix Wright: Justice for All" and "Phoenix Wright: Trials and Tribulations". Suffice to say, I haven't had this much fun with courtroom dramas since Sidney Sheldon's "Rage of Angels".

I finished the third installment of the Phoenix Wright series by mid-February, in time for CAPCOM's release of the new installment, "Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney". And, just a while ago, I solved Apollo Justice' final case for the fourth game. I was a bit sad that it had to end so soon (although I couldn't help playing it into the wee hours of the night...the story is just so good), but also happy at how the game turned out to be faithful to the Phoenix Wright series but also innovative in certain aspects. I don't think this game deserves to be called a "rehash" of the Ace Attorney series. It is a complex creature on its own. But the melding of old and new was done so smoothly that it didn't feel awkward stepping into a green horn attorney's shoes after a long time playing a 'wizened' lawyer. Rarely do I find sequels that show respect to their predecessors and the fans that have followed them and learned to love them. Fans have grown to love the world of Phoenix Wright, and I'm glad that the developers showed their love and respect for that world in "Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney".

On the new protagonist, Apollo Justice: I admit to some skepticism with regards to this new character's charm. He tolerates being called "Polly", like a parrot, which is worse than Phoenix's old nickname, "Nick". And though both attorneys share the qualities of having bird names and not-being-birdbrains and making those ridiculous 'loser' faces in court, by the time I finished the first case, I had the impression that Polly was more of a shrimp than his "mentor", Phoenix. Not a very good start for me, but I stuck with the game, and I was glad I did.

One thing I noticed when I was playing this game was that the cases seemed more challenging, especially the first few ones. I usually could finish a case with Phoenix Wright in a couple of hours, but with Polly not having a magatama, I felt the investigation part was more difficult but nevertheless enjoyable thanks to Ema's new scientific "toys". Also, the "perceive" ability seemed to me to be more difficult to use than Phoenix Wright's psyche-lock system. (Thank CAPCOM they limited its use to the courtroom or all hell will break loose, as well as my patience for the game.) In retrospect, I realized that Apollo's ability relies more on focus and intelligence rather than luck, which was Phoenix Wright's chief asset. The introduction of the "perceive" ability, I think, is a great move by the team behind the Ace Attorney series because it sort-of re-orients the whole story's thrust from crimes solved by chance, luck and mysterious props to something a bit more on the logical, scientific side, incorporating a bit of psychology (I guess, although I doubt if the theory of 'subconsciously-triggered nervous twitches' holds true in real life) and scientific analysis to help bring out the truth. The leap from mere conjecture to solid fact is more believable with the "perceive" ability; however, I do have a fondness for Phoenix's magatama tactics.)

I missed Miles Edgeworth very much while playing this game, and it didn't help when a certain witness-turned-victim mentioned "psycho locks". I remember laughing so hard my gut hurt every single time Edgeworth used that term during the third game. His relationship with Phoenix Wright both in and out of court was amusing to follow, and I mourn the fact that his last words to Phoenix Wright in the end of "Trials and Tribulations" were not followed through...or, at least, in my head, I need to see them together doing some buddy-buddy stuff before I could let go of the whole issue. This never happened, of course. I craved for Edgeworth in the fourth game...I so wanted to see him, any evidence of him! But, alas, it was as if he were a ghost of the past, unremembered and unloved. I dearly wish he'd make an appearance, maybe as a special prosecutor for a case, or even just a cameo (fishing in Gourd Lake with Larry Butz, of all people) .

Toward the final case of the game, I developed a certain respect for Polly's intellect. He made less monkey-faces in court, he acted cool under pressure in situations where he had previously choked, and he successfully obtained that certain aura and charm that was once unique to Phoenix, which is related to a thirst for truth and justice, and law that is fair for all. It is interesting how the story developers were able to inculcate this in the game. With Phoenix Wright, gamers were able to touch, just briefly, the fringes of that higher truth and deeper meaning which makes stories (of any genre or through any medium) worth loving. It was, I believe, chiefly through the dynamics of prosecutor (Edgeworth) and attorney (Wright) that we realize that the practice of law is not a game, and the courtroom not a playground. I wish--no, I expect the second generation of the Ace Attorney series to continue this tradition. On that note, I look forward to Polly's interaction with Gavin the Rockstar, and its development both in and out of court. (squee moment! ^__^)

just airing my thoughts...

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 12:36:21 GMT

Life can be distracting sometimes... I wish there was more than an on/off switch to it. I could certainly use a 'hibernation' or a 'standy' button, if only to ponder the big concepts that glue the pieces of chaos into the universe as we know it before diving into deep waters. Concepts like RESPONSIBILITY, MATURITY and DECENT EMPLOYMENT.

I don't want to rant about things that I can't even begin to understand. If I were an animal driven by my natural instincts, I wouldn't even know how to spell these words. There are times I wish I were such a lowly creature. (Like a panda or a cat. Life is simple, and it generally boils down to the next meal...but then, in the case of the panda, it kinda gets complicated when it realizes that there isn't going to be a next meal...) But then, unlike animals, people have to confront these issues whether they like it or not because they won't just go away.

Maybe the real problem here is that the current education system, the established institution for nurturing youth, doesn't prepare kids to deal competently with these concepts. We are cushioned to the point that we are terribly surprised by the 'real world' when it comes a-knocking on our doors, and if the children are lucky, they get to live in an alternate universe until college or even way after, before reality drops the A-bomb on them.

I'm just frustrated by the fact that it took me so long to wake up. And even now, I'm rejecting reality. Or, perhaps, just persistent in postponing what I know to be inevitable--no, not even that; it is, in fact, immanent. What I'm talking about of course is adulthood. "Real adulthood" as post-modern neo-capitalistic society has generously defined it. Which consists mainly of standing on your own feet, living off your own wallet, and thinking with your own brain. This kind of perspective is what has led such activities as writing (novels, fanfiction, blog entries) to be regarded as "hobbies" and watching dvds, playing video games, and surfing the net (for heck) as terribly addictive vices, and therefore to be condoned by the free market and exploited to the nth level.

I don't know if I'm for this version of real life...or not. Sadly, I don't think I have a choice. And if I'm to be bitter about this...I'm not going to get anywhere. The world has metamorphosed into a shallow facsimile of an idealized past--a part of that idealized past was a bunch of people dreaming of a future of infinite possibilities all lived out by the people in this one tiny, (seemingly) lonely planet. But, hello reality, I don't think that life as it is lived in this day and age is in any way similar to that dream. The paths may seem to branch out infinitely, but most of them have at their root a happiness tied to material wealth, i.e. money. Neo-capitalism has made money the lifeblood of the world.

Is that fair? Is that just? Is this the way things ought to be?

I don't think I'm getting anywhere with this. (Thank you, Nabokov and Kant, for inspiring it though.)

meme!

Thu, 31 Jan 2008 13:49:29 GMT

Pilfered from soodonim:

1. The first article title on the page is the name of your band.
2. The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.
3. The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.
4. Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together, and post it in your own journal.

The random search results turned up some pretty funky words, so I thought I'd post it. It would've been not so tacky if I wasn't forced to work with Paint; nevertheless, the concept is nice.

on a lighter note...

Tue, 29 Jan 2008 12:02:48 GMT

Some things I just wanna post to help me remember them in the future:

1. I'm playing Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney right now and I haven't felt this way with any game before. It's some sort of excitement I can't explain. Snooping around for clues, debunking fishy testimonies, and ultimately getting your client a full acquittal is quite exhilarating. For a game that relies heavily on text (and gamers who are patient in reading between the lines), it's surprisingly not boring at all. It's made courtroom drama a lot more...well, not really fun, but perhaps more palatable to the average joe who normally doesn't have any interest in any legal mumbo-jumbo.

When you get down to it, the Ace Attorney games by Capcom are a little too controlling, story-wise, mostly because you know for a fact that your character is going to win in the end. It's very straight-forward in that sense. But the cases are still juicy and all the detective work you are forced to do just to make the plot move forward don't get too tiresome to solve. What's best about this game is that the characters are very likeable, and the personalities, although sometimes obviously just strange caricatures concocted for the story, are interesting enough. I'm actually a big fan of Phoenix Wright and Miles Edgeworth, as their American counterparts are called. (Their names are better in Japanese though, and they match better too--heehee.)

2. I watched Sweeney Todd a couple of weeks ago, and it's still in my head. Something is off about that movie, but at the same time, something feels very, very right. Like maybe the fact that one of my dreams in life came true: Seeing Alan Rickman and Johnny Depp in a movie together. I almost had an apoplexy watching Sweeney Todd, where they didn't just act in the same scenes together, they even sang together. Ohohoho! It's just fan-fucking-tastic! And it induces such a terribly wonderful feeling in me that it's worth the cussing.

About the off part...well, maybe it's all the blood. I didn't expect it. The singing kinda softened it up, you know, the violence...but it was still very, very much violent. I think...maybe Tim Burton didn't want to dilute the wrongness of the whole story--the grave immoral acts committed and the social cancer that permeated and polluted every single character in that story--by editing out the gore, or holding back on the fake blood bags and the cgi. It's an interesting case of making the most out of the current media and technology to create the perfect story...or movie in this case. This is only my theory, of course, but I kinda like the idea that, for art, one doesn't hold back. Let loose the dogs of hell and all that, but the 'no compromise' policy in this case has an interesting effect--or at least, I think so. I think that, when done aptly and with dead-accurate instinct for aesthetics, the overt display of violence can be analyzed as a jarring reminder of the presence of evil, and the need for morality and goodness to reign in people. I mean, taking into consideration even the shock value--a factor that is often viewed negatively in any artwork--this can shake people back into the real world--not the bloody, dark world, but the world that can be, that ought to be. A world where goodness reigns.

Maybe I'm over-analyzing and just imposing my own ideals for this movie, but I'm just thinking of a possible future for film and art in general. It's just about all the time that we debate about ethics vs. aesthetics in art. How those two cannot mesh, and the artist's integrity suffers when either of the two is sacrificed. Maybe...maybe it's not really an issue of sacrificing one for the sake of the other. Maybe it's just that we ought to think out of the box, and to use what is viewed negatively and turn them into tools that can bring positive effects on the audience, on society.

Art doesn't have to take sides. Art, I believe, is naturally good. Creation is naturally good. When art is pure... well, it will take some time to finish that sentence.

For now, I'm just posting this for the record.

passings

Tue, 29 Jan 2008 11:30:38 GMT

I didn't really want to write about my reaction to Heath Ledger's death. I'm really sad about it, especially since it happened a few days before my birthday, and I just kept thinking, 'Oh my god, what about his daughter?' I'm scared stiff about death, and I don't like writing about it. But I realized I have to do this, to write this little bit of my thoughts, in order to move on.

It all came back to me, the anguish and concern over a total stranger's demise, when I watched Gone Baby Gone. That movie made me feel like I'm some insect pinned onto a cork board, squirming while the morality police weighed my worth. There was this little girl in that movie, and all the trouble and aggravation and trauma and death that happened to the characters in that movie happened because of her. Because of her life, and how some people treated it carelessly, treated her freedom carelessly. Sometimes, death brings freedom. But then, at other times, it can also take it away. Some characters in that movie died indirectly because they basically messed with that girl's life. She got tossed around like a doll. But for her not to grow up with her parent, for her to be alienated from her real family, that's also a big crime. It's an injustice to the oldest institution of man.

I'm thinking, what's it feel like to be deprived of a father? To have that freedom to experience life in a complete family, to feel a father's love, taken away from you?

It's hard enough when the circumstances can't be helped, when it is natural, and inevitable. But when it's because of carelessness, of human frailty, because of the social structures that are all messed up and throwing human dignity into the gutter?

Who should be blamed for this?

I don't know. I look myself in the mirror, and I don't know.

This movie's got me depressed, you betcha.

Anyway, here's a poem inspired by this semi-coherent rant:

The Banquet

We eat from Death's table
everyday we breathe
the scent of his banquet
strong in our lungs
in our guts and in our souls
we know the nameless flavor
that marks his presence
strong in our tongues
in our guts and in our souls

There is
sky-blue sweetness foaming
in the horizon of that great sea
mother's womb, that great sea
heaving and pushing
giving and taking
strong in the womb,
life awakening:

We drink from it, that great sea
and relish the nameless flavor
strong in our minds
in our guts and in our souls,
exclaiming, This is!
Yes, this is!

We eat from Death's table
and look at our watches discreetly;
he's late? one asks
In his own time, one comforts
In his own time, he'll arrive,
everyone agrees,
while the little girl stares;
for in the corner, she sees
Death has already arrived.

Here he is, she breathes.
Here he is.

fanning the fannish flames

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 06:34:16 GMT

Tuesday, and I missed philosophy. Traffic sucks and the world's half-grey at times and more than half-bright; so bright, the light spilling out of cracks in the pavement and the backs of leaves.

I watched the whole Season 1 of Heroes over the weekend and had time to spare to fan the shipper's flames. Yes, I heart a new pairing. It's even part-canon, haha. And that's all I'm gonna say about it here.

Anyway, apart from fic binging for my new ship, I wanted to revisit an old, undying ship as well. I found this poem in a book I picked up at random in the school library. When I flipped to this page, I knew it was destiny. I find the metaphors in the poem apt and fitting for my fangirlish needs: El, the broken hoe; Sands, the summer moon. And considering my fondness for 'ponderous hoes', I liked it immediately. Here's to you, my favourite killers from Once Upon A Time in Mexico:

The Land of Night
Jorge Teillier

Let's not talk.
It's better to open windows
mute since the death of the oldest sister.

The voice of the grass makes night hush:
It hasn't rained for a month.
Empty nests fall from the vine.
The cherry trees go out like vintage songs.
This month will be for the dead.
This month will be for the ghost
of the summer moon.

Shine on, summer moon.
Stone stairs worn down
by the steps of ancestors come alive.
Bats don't stop chittering
among the crumbling walls of the Brewery.
The broken hoe
waits for fresh earth from new graves.
And we shouldn't speak
when the moon shines
whiter and more merciless than the bones of the dead.

Shine on, summer moon.

On matters of life and death...the post-Yuki world

Thu, 29 Nov 2007 12:59:41 GMT

marimorimo sent me A Eulogy for a Dead MP3 Player and I was nearly moved to tears because Yuki, my laptop and stalwart companion in Net-junkie life for nearly 6 years had kicked the bucket not two weeks ago. Anyway, it's a good eulogy, great laughs all around--with all do respect to the memory of Mr Sansa--if not for the fact that I am also newly widowed, and very much bereaved.

I remember when I first got Yuki; I pulled him out of the Compaq box and marveled at his elegance. Immediately, I wrapped my arms around his solid presence and knew then and there that he belonged to me, and only me.

Oh, we had our tough times, our rough quarrels and arguments. He was never timid about showing his true feelings to me, more so to others; his black silences were as much a part of him as his glowing moments, and oh, did he glow, did he outshine and bedazzle other superior laptops with their fancy tricks! He was a real gem, my Yuki. A bit quirky, with odd days just like his PMS-ing mistress, but smarter than any old toaster, and faithful as any good friend ought to be.

In the sunset of his final years, when vision dimmed and the keyboard whined of arthritis, Yuki's heart (or rather, motherboard) fought valiantly against the rising tide of obsolescence, the siren call of siblings and relatives long forgotten, abandoned to the deep trenches of the consumer sea. He was brave, Yuki, and by God I stuck to him, through all the rough times, when Alzheimer's robbed him of Adobe and Macromedia, and the ability to play pirated anime videos. By then, Yuki and I had more than just an appliance-consumerist relationship; we were genuine friends, tolerant and patient to each other's flaws.

For the longest time, I lived in self-denial. I never wanted to think Yuki was old, that he needed to be set aside. He was no old dog to be put down! He was my laptop. Moreover, he was my friend. When Yuki's power supply unit did its last El Bimbo and announced its demise with thin wisps of smoke and the acrid stench of burnt silicon, all I could think of at the time was how Yuki at least went silently into the night with a smile, courtesy of a yellow smiley face sticker on his LCD frame.

I will never forget you, Yuki. You will always be forever-young in my heart, with that fresh out-of-the-box smell as I had held you that first day, knowing that you belonged to me. I hope you're getting full benefits in whatever Paradise semi-sentient laptops go to, because you damn well deserve it.

life...and the movies

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 01:15:49 GMT

It's been over two years since I decided that to write is what I want to do for life. And now I'm at the threshold of my final chapter in college, and it's just awful thinking about what happens next. So, I'm taking a break from all the crap that makes me anxious and depressed, and for the meantime I'll just focus on what happens now.

To start off, I still need to grieve properly for one of my favourite sites that has kicked the bucket recently. Its name begins with a "d" and ends with a "noid". I think I've been in shock for the past couple of days ever since receiving an email of its demise from a good friend and fellow free-thinker. I finally confirmed the news for myself last night. Well, The Man may have won the battle this time, but the System will never win the war! Goodbye, dear old friend. We have shared many, many, many fond memories. Rest in peace, wherever your remains may be floating in the Web.

I find myself wanting to watch a movie. Is Beowulf really as good as what RottenTomatoes.com says? I want to believe so. The last time Angelina Jolie did a fantasy-ish flick, it buried the character's rep six feet under. But then, I still can't help but look forward to Wanted, where she plays The Fox. Too bad Sweeney Todd isn't out yet. Argh! Why did they have to push it to Christmas, when it has to contend with campy laughtrips? People always prefer the latter since Christmas tends to depress pockets and majority of kids wouldn't sit still anyways so why bother with an honestly good movie when you have to cook, clean, and wrap gifts? Right after New Year would be a better showtime. Johnny Depp may be just the man to start your year right. :-)

I also want to watch Eastern Promises. I miss Viggo. I want to see him again! I

sloth on a stick: a halloween special

Wed, 31 Oct 2007 06:21:30 GMT

I finally got hold of Holy Black's 3rd book, Ironside, and it didn't disappoint. I didn't get any sleep last night because I just had to read it cover-to-cover. There were these moments between characters that you just gotta love. There is maturity and growth in all of her dysfunctional characters. Holly Black makes kitschy (or should I dare say trashy?) subjects look and feel natural, human, and forgivable, if not altogether good--this last making her stories all the more believable and at the same time entertaining.

In other news, I finally found time to reacquaint myself with the Final Fantasy series, FFX International to be more specific. Blitzball is driving me crazy (and not necessarily in the *ahem* "right" *ahem* way) but I had developed a craving for its FMVs the other night and Auron is a god I am willing to drool on publicly.

What else is in my itinerary this week? Well, watching DVDs, I guess. I want to keep my life this holiday sloth-like if possible, after spending the first two precious weeks of sembreak out of the casa and literally getting my skin fried. (Argh! I'm so stupid for not caring about trivial things like sunblock! Never again!) I've seen too much excitement and I really, really need some wind-down alone time; a responsibility-free period to recharge my brain for the upcoming sem. Otherwise, I might find myself in the looney bin before the year ends.

Mad Times

Wed, 10 Oct 2007 16:52:24 GMT

I read Holly Black's Tithe last night, and ended up well into her second book, Valiant, before I had to quit it for a while to cram some theology notes into my brain and get through the orals by the skin of my teeth. I've just finished Valiant, of course, and am craving for the third book, Ironside, which is totally not within my means to acquire...yet.

I was pleasantly surprised to find myself liking the books. At first I was ambivalent about how to treat them. Before, what I new and appreciated about urban fairytales can be summed up in Gaiman's Neverwhere. The narrative style of Holly Black's books is more simplistic in comparison, and clearly intended for a younger generation. I was skeptical about her bald use of pop culture references (ie stuff internet lurkers and geeks would know) and illustrations of juvenile delinquency and dysfunctional lifestyles because I had initially no reason not to think of them as kitschy ornaments to hook teenage readers into her stories and nothing more. But, gradually, I learned to appreciate the books because, once in a while, out of all the glamor and weirdness and juvenile dialogue that are to be expected of a YA novel, an unexpected gem of insight is unearthed--the odd line that fits smoothly, that allows the story to re-shape itself into a more mature creature. And in those few, brief times, that tired, cynical voice in my head that goes "I've read this before, I've watched this in Buffy or something like it" goes away for a while, to be replaced by this flash of amazement that goes, "Hey, this isn't so bad after all."

ponderous hoe

Mon, 08 Oct 2007 13:41:37 GMT

Never have I seen two such disparate words compounded. And every time I try to run through it in my head, I can't help laughing. Just goes to show that I might as well have been a canny farmer in a previous life, and stuff like "ponderous hoe" makes me day. Better than MTV, anytime. "Ponderous hoe," haha!

I owe this newfound bit of craziness to Tom Holt, and his crafty interpretation of Virgil.

Yes, I have finished A Song for Nero in one sitting.

It was a bit of a job in the first third or so, mainly because the narrator was weaseling his way through the story. It's hard to pull that stunt when the story's a historical fiction for one, and the reader doesn't know any good historical facts, not even good historical bits of facts, about Nero (except that the infamy of the name is vaguely familiar as it is used by one of Crash Bandicoot's nemeses). Usually, you have got this feeling that someone's pulling your leg, and this is no proper treatment of a piece of history. But then, Tom Holt manages to skirt around the pit of bad vibes and pull off his crazy idea of telling a story with all the funny bits in all the odd but timely spaces, nevermind that it's dabbling with history and all that because that's just flavoring to the essential story. And then halfway through the first third I sort of decided to wing it and go with the flow, the way you do when you're naive and enthralled by a book and generally too lazy to get off your comfy couch to pick up a dictionary and fish out the proper meaning of the word you thought you recognized and brushed off quickly with the handy all-around-excuse of 'it's clearly this and that because of the context' because you're too lazy by half to even admit to your ignorance.

But then that was all right until I got well into the second third, when I realized that the story was being funny with me, and pulling off my leg (again), for having me follow a ferret-faced petty thief with a rat's arse for a brain, and though admittedly I was slow on the uptake, I was getting there, finally getting there, to that thought where I say to myself, 'This book's kicking me in the shin when I've up and put effort on no good thing at all!' Because even when we say we don't, we all like our stereotypical protagonists to be that we don't think twice about before slipping into their shoes and hitching a ride in their heads for a jolly good romp in fantasy land. But the character of the narrator didn't fit the stereotype. I'd say he was the opposite. And nobody likes that sort of thing, and they avoid getting within ten feet of it even with a pole, because if not for the fact that clearly, a story needs its losers and pondscum extras as much as its heroes, if only the better to show off how good the latter's fate was by comparison, then people like weasely Galen wouldn't even dream of existing in stories.

It was getting to that point in the second third when I was starting to feel a bit slimy and I maybe have to wash my hair now, but then it was all gone in a flash when I'd realized the book had done it again, it had tricked me into staying long enough to the final third, where all the good laughs are and pieces of the puzzle start to fit into place on many levels and you feel like you've made an achievement, and it's all right now, there's perfectly nothing to be embarassed about. It was then that I realized that Holt may well have the last laugh over me, and there was nothing wrong with that, because he managed to twist all manner of stereotypical concepts around in my head so that straight was actually straight and bent was bent. Most writers get away with only half that; with getting straight to be bent and vice versa. But Holt did the full three-sixty, and with enough devious cunning and psychological hoopla that you can't help but nod your head and think, 'Why there's no other way about it than to think of it like so.' And that's just amazing.

I'd say the book is a riot, but then all that plodding in the first part was, in hindsight, a bit tedious as if I'd done lots of ponderous hoe-ing myself. And there was a lot of nearly-pulling-my-leg incidents too...which goes to say that it's really pulling my leg by I just don't want to admit it, because there's no middle ground there except on a theoretical and therefore totally useless perspective. But I'd rather forgive the book all its devious tricks and celebrate its success for pulling off nicely a great big caper right under my nose instead of dwelling on old grudges against it. It did, after all, deliver, in the end. The very ending, however, an epilogue of sorts, is another matter entirely, but like I said, I'm not one to dwell on old grudges.

All in all, a very good read and a spiffing, light treatment of what had been one of history's cloudy moments.

to read: more Pratchett-esque fantasy and humor (and small rant)

Sun, 07 Oct 2007 11:38:49 GMT

I just finished Moving Pictures. And that was right after finishing Small Gods. It's almost like this feeling you get when wolves are snapping on your heels and you have this great and reasonable urge to run very, very fast. It's exhilarating. It's addictive. Not the wolves, but the books. Particularly, the humor.

I'm not sure why suddenly my hunger for comedic fantasy (and fantastic comedy, come to think of it) is suddenly so, well, big...although that sounds pathetically inappropriate for a description. But words fail me. I fail me. I'm not doing anything productive except an occasional jog to the convenience store for some bread and instant cocoa mix. I'm just reading. Against better judgment, I'm reading.

My fiction teacher once told me: there are writers, and there are readers. Reading is as much a profession as writing, and it is a seperate school that has its landmarks and pitfalls, its devotees and scorners, its scholars and its prodigees, its madmen (and women) and gods (and goddesses). They are usually quiet, for reading demands silence, attention, nay, full concentration from its disciples. I suppose that is largely why its celebrities and masters are unheard of. (Except for those in the audio book industry, the sell-outs!)

Anyway, on to lighter things...

I've run out of Pratchett books to read. Not that I've read all of them. I just don't have the guts to begin the Death (and family) Arc, and I'm still admittedly a bit ambivalent towards the Feegle books. But practically everything else, I've all but devoured. So, in desperation, I turn to Google to provide me with an adequate excuse to keep the dream-state alive.

Et voila! I found this site.

Whoever created the aforementioned site, thank you so much.

And now I have a few books on my To Read list, which will probably cost me a few more nights resulting in a few less brain cells as the sem finally wraps up and omg I actually have a couple of orals waiting in the wings. I'd cry, right now, but I'm just too excited to start reading...

First stop: Tom Holt
1. A Song for Nero
2. Alexander at World's End

Next, I'll probably try Esther Friesner. I have a feeling that I will need time for her, since she has lots of books, and I don't think I'll be disappointed with any of them...

And then there's Daniel Pinkwater...I'm not sure yet if I'll like his books, but I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

I am still debating whether or not Christopher Moore is worth my time (and death of brain cells). It's a risky business, getting hooked. If you're not prepared for it, if you're not good enough, or if the book has plainly gotten the better of you, then it's downhill from there with no convenient brakes and a sure crash and burn shebang spectacle at the end.

A day in bed with philosophy and Discworld

Sat, 06 Oct 2007 10:19:08 GMT

Spoilers for Small Gods...
I'm relieved that I chose today to read Terry Pratchett's Small Gods. It wouldn't have been half as fun if I had read it last summer. All the quips about religion, philosophy and even philosophy of religion would have just flown over my head without even me noticing. I'm feeling strangely grateful that I decided to stick doggedly to philosophy of religion enough to get its precepts into my head where I could give them all a thorough existentially-righteous bashing. But Pratchett does a wonderful job with this novel, and it now feels as if me and metaphysics can be friends again.

What I find most admirable (and utterly hilarious) about Small Gods though was towards the end, when Om began to speak in Testament, haha. It's amazing how rewarding it feels to land in that oasis of comedy and witticism after what felt like a ton of ideologies being crammed into your brain unremittingly by a ham-fisted sausage-maker. I consider the narrative nothing short of brilliant...although this consideration, I must admit, is made in circumspect conditions, such as perhaps the light-headedness of not having eaten for eight hours straight and in danger of being too lazy as to miss dinner altogether....

Argh...I think I have to buy some semblance of dinner now, before it's too late. I always tell my dearest friends and family that I can't function properly without food, and I am not even discreet in my incompetence at such times as I have not had three proper meals a day. It's sad, but true. Even if sometimes I force my body to deny the truth, it springs back with a vengeance. I wonder, if more people in the world actually manage to feed themselves a proper three-meals-a-day, would the world have less morons than it usually does? (Heaven strike me down for the utterly conceited thought, but I can't help it...and so I better get to feeding myself properly now!)

Wanted!

Fri, 05 Oct 2007 09:40:29 GMT

omg, I'm thrilled to find out that Wanted, an awesome comicbook series by Mark Millar that just twists your moral knickers, is coming out in theaters in spring 2008! Angelina Jolie as The Fox is a big bonus, although the comicbook version was more of a Halle Berry. But I'm just really happy that the comic has been adapted for the movies and it's all good. Mind you, this is pretty violent, and I'm sincerely hoping that the movie is up to par with the likes of Kill Bill or else there is going to be a lot of teeth-gnashing come next year.

reading list update

Fri, 05 Oct 2007 09:06:03 GMT

I picked up a book meme from sahiya, and decided to give it a go, just to keep track of what I should be reading. For example, I recall my philosophy professor recommending Brothers Karamazov, and really, I've been meaning to pick that up, but well, fantasy got in the way, as it usually does. Which reminds me, I should really start working on organizing The Reading Cat's Library so that it' is not just lying about in one big lump of uselessness.

Bold the ones you've read, italicize what you started and couldn't finish (embarassing, but for the best), and strike through what you couldn't stand, but I'll settle for some small side comments.

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (149) - I've only read half...
Anna Karenina (132)
Crime and Punishment (121)
Catch-22 (117) - I got through the first chapter. I really mean to finish this, sooner or later.
One hundred years of solitude (115)
Wuthering Heights (110)
The Silmarillion (104)
Life of Pi : A Novel (94)
The Name of the Rose (91)
Don Quixote (91)
Moby Dick (86)
Ulysses (84)
Madame Bovary (83)
The Odyssey (83)
Pride and Prejudice (83)
Jane Eyre (80)
A Tale of Two Cities (80)
The Brothers Karamazov (80)
Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies (79)
War and Peace (78)
Vanity Fair (74)
The Time Traveler’s Wife (73)
The Iliad (73) - but that was back in high school, although I did enjoy some funny, if rather gory, scenes
Emma (73)
The Blind Assassin (73)
The Kite Runner (71)
Mrs. Dalloway (70)
Great Expectations (70)
American Gods (68)
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (67)
Atlas Shrugged (67)
Reading Lolita in Tehran : A Memoir in Books (66)
Memoirs of a Geisha (66)
Middlesex (66) - I mean to finish this before this year ends. I felt awful when I had to set it aside for philosophy, and then I clean forgot about it afterwards...
Quicksilver (66)
Wicked : The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West (65) - I'm reading this right after I post this entry! I liked Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister fair enough
The Canterbury Tales (64) - I don't think I can claim to have read this sincerely yet, even if I breezed through it in high school.
The Historian : A Novel (63)
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (63)
Love in the Time of Cholera (62)
Brave New World (61)
The Fountainhead (61)
Foucault’s Pendulum (61)
Middlemarch (61)
Frankenstein (59)
The Count of Monte Cristo (59)
Dracula (59)
A Clockwork Orange (59)
Anansi Boys (58)
The Once and Future King (57)
The Grapes of Wrath (57)
The Poisonwood Bible : A Novel (57)
1984 (57)
Angels & Demons (56) - honestly, excuse the sarcasm, but Dan Brown - a classic?
The Inferno (56)
The Satanic Verses (55)
Sense and Sensibility (55)
The Picture of Dorian Gray (55) - I stuck to it for 3/4 of the book, and then my interest was invariably caught by Rimbaud, sorry
Mansfield Park (55)
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (54)
To the Lighthouse (54)
Tess of the D’Urbervilles (54)
Oliver Twist (54)
Gulliver’s travels (53)
Les Misérables (53)
The Corrections (53)
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (52)
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (52)
Dune (51)
The Prince (51)
The Sound and the Fury (51)
Angela’s Ashes : A Memoir (51)
The God of Small Things (51)
A People’s History of the United States : 1492-Present (51)
Cryptonomicon (50)
Neverwhere (50)
A Confederacy of Dunces (50)
A Short History of Nearly Everything (50)
Dubliners (50)
The Unbearable Lightness of Being (49)
Beloved (49)
Slaughterhouse-Five (49)
The Scarlet Letter (48)
Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation (48)
The Mists of Avalon (47)
Oryx and Crake : A Novel (47)
Collapse : How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed (47)
Cloud Atlas (47)
The Confusion (46)
Lolita (46)
Persuasion (46)
Northanger Abbey (46)
The Catcher in the Rye (46) - A pity, I always tell myself I have got to read this...
On the Road (46)
The Hunchback of Notre Dame (45)
Freakonomics : A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything (45)
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values (45)
The Aeneid (45)
Watership Down (44) - Okay, I deliberately "lost" a library copy for this, so I better read it in the near future
Gravity’s Rainbow (44)
The Hobbit (44)
In Cold Blood : A True Account of a Multiple Murder and Its Consequences (44)
White Teeth (44)
Treasure Island (44)
David Copperfield (44)
The Three Musketeers (44)

All in all...still more things to read. I have hardly explored the bulk of the literature classics. Argh...I have to have more time for these things, honestly! But of course, even though I am perfectly fine with living as a reading hermit, it would drive everybody else in my life crazy.

laissez-faire

Fri, 05 Oct 2007 00:44:48 GMT

I think I let my brain get away with too much. I wrote one too many fanfics in the past few days, and being the sloth that I am, it has now dawned on me that I could not possibly keep enough of my attention in writing a fanfic serial until it has seen itself through to its end. This is, of course, a tragedy.

The fanfic in question is none other than Gods and Monsters, which I have deliberately posted on FF.net so I don't have to keep wincing every time I see it here. I look at my lj seldom enough that it just won't do to have it spoilt further with a grim reminder of my lackadaisical attitude to writing more than one-shot stories. I'll never be able to write a novel this way!

In the meantime, I am dreaming up a fanfic for the Temeraire fandom, which I feel needs more support. There are far too few fanfics of it out there, and the communities could do with more enthusiasm for the series. I thought that the first book, His Majesty's Dragon, had enough incentive to spur on the eager slash writer. Nevermind though about the attempt to "hype up" the series by associating it with Peter Jackson. I thought that was in poor taste, because Naomi Novik's novels can well stand on their own, especially after she has proven her craftsmanship and dedication in the fourth book, Empire of Ivory. But, enough gossip; it doesn't really help to bicker about moot topics. I hope I can come up with a fanfic before week's end though to ease my conscience.

On a last note, I fancy that more and more sci-fi/fantasy authors are using websites and wikis as online encyclopedias to complement their books and to help fans gain a more solid footing in the worlds they have created. I think that these clever interactive appendices are a very good way to hook fans, and even make dedicated fans out of those who once vowed only a 'passing interest' in their books. Such is the case with hp-lexicon for Harry Potter and l-space for Discworld. But then, I think that Temeraire's wiki had won me over because of its sheer simplicity (and, well, I have always had a bias for Wikipedia's format. It has the cleanest and most efficient layout I have ever navigated in my whole experience of the Internet.)

If I come up with my own fantasy series (in the far, far future, when I am hopefully good enough to take on the task), will I have my own wiki for the worlds I create? I rather think this is a very, very good incentive for me to write more. :-)

Visiting Rights, a Discworld fanfic

Wed, 03 Oct 2007 13:03:28 GMT

Oh, dear me. Afer a long, long hiatus, I finally managed to write one! This one came out immediatedly after I finished reading Making Money, the latest novel to come out. I had a lot of fun reading it, though not as much fun as some of the earlier installments. I think though that I have grown accustomed to Moist von Lipwig, enough that I am seeing him as a fixture in Discworld and not a totally dispensable character. I would love to read more Rincewind, though, always, and Vimes is always on my good side.

VISITING RIGHTS

Author: abernaith
Fandom: Discworld (Spoilers for Making Money)
Pairing: Havelock Vetinari / Moist von Lipwig (only if you squint, really)
Rating: PG
Summary: Right after the events of Making Money, Vetinari invites Moist to dinner and arranges a pleasant reunion with a Mr. Fusspot.

Notes: Comments would be nice, especially to tell me if there are any inaccuracies in portrayal of characters herein. BTW, insert official disclaimer here: i.e., Discworld and all its beloved characters belong to Terry Pratchett and I don't own a single iota of it. I'm just a fan!

It was just a dinner invitation. Moist von Lipwig stared at the single sheet of smooth, eggshell-colored parchment like it was a coiled viper for a good five minutes before picking it up again and pondering the simple words in a tidy, elegant script that he supposed Lord Vetinari had jotted himself this afternoon before sending it to the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork.

'I suppose it's no harm,' he thought, fully aware that such an idea belonged to a fool, and was as harmless as similar foolish ideas went, such as 'It was only the one bit I et' and 'Oh, and what does this button do?'

He dearly wished for Spike's advice, or her presence, more preferrably. Miss Dearheart or, as it was widely known nowadays, the soon-to-be-Mrs. von Lipwig, was currently in an expedition to Genua at the behest of the Golem Trust. Her latest correspondence via clacks suggested that she would be further detained for an entire forthnight at the very least, pushing back the already much-postponed wedding date they had previously agreed upon. Personally, Moist thought that it would be lucky indeed and probably owing to the intervention of no less than Miss Dearheart's mother herself, if they would be exchanging vows before Hogswatch.

'When', Moist muttered to himself. He ought to think in terms of when. He didn't count himself an outright sod for the slips in grammar for, as far as he was concerned, it was the mildest stroke of wedding jitters a man could experience. There was no doubt that there could only be one lady in his life, if for the sole reason that such a life that he always found himself leading was, as it were, "hanging by the thumbs and forefingers off a cliff's edge". Such dangers, Spike was fond of telling him, he drew to himself unconsciously. To which, Moist's mouth took the liberty of running ahead of him by replying, "But of course, Danger is my Middle Name."

Looking at the Patrician's simple and maddeningly inscrutable invitation, Moist couldn't help but succumb to the fact that he had to eat his words. He had then to stop himself from bursting out into mad laughter, as he realized the terribly bad pun he just thought up, and the mirth died as a choke in his throat.

"What Was That, Mr. Lipswig?" rumbled Gladys from her desk. She was presently re-shuffling files from her Inbox to her Outbox with superb efficiency, to which Moist owed at least 50 of the Royal Bank's current performance rating, and had halted her work to look up at him with the bright red glow of a golem's very inquistive, and rather feminine eyes. And was that an appealing shade of eyeshadow that softened the golem fire to a rather seductive red-violet tint?

"Yes, It Is, Mr. Lipwig. Ochre Passion. Miss Susan Of Counter Six Highly Recommended It."

"Oh," went Moist. He didn't realize he had spoken his thought aloud.

"I Am Pleased You Noticed, Sir," continued Gladys, with a tone that hinted slightly towards coy flirtation. For a man of the world such as Moist von Lipwig, it was nothing to be surprised at. Certainly, this had not been the first time Gladys had conducted herself in such a manner. But then, he did wonder at her persistence. Didn't Spike have a little chat with her...it...Gladys some time ago?

"And There Will Be A Coach Coming By Promptly At Seven, To Pick You Up," she said.

"Oh?" said Moist. It occured to him that he was getting too attached to the monosyllable. For someone who bent words to his will, he was doing a rather poor job of keeping up his reputation.

"Yes, Mr. Lipwig. The Man Who Came By To Drop The Letter You Are Holding Said So."

With the way Gladys said it, it couldn't sound anything but ominous. Moist couldn't blame her, as well could he blame a tuning fork for sounding like nothing other than a tuning fork. He looked up at the clock and noted the lateness of the hour. "I suppose I should be getting ready then. Will you be all right by yourself, my dear?"

The sudden sharp gaze seared into Moist's back, so that he fortunately missed half the sting of the reply, "I Couldn't Possibly Imagine Why Not." He didn't miss the hint, though he let the words slide.

In the course of a few months, Gladys had gone from a servant bent on pleasing its masters to a full-fledged Feminist, some new movement or other that Spike had tried to explain to him over dinner one time that almost ended in disaster and an impaled foot on Moist's part. Fortunately, disaster was abated, and the foot was saved, thank Anoia...for now.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Moist found time for a quick bath, a shave, and a few minutes to pick the lint off his second-best dinner jacket. His best was, of course, the gold one, complete with trim and tack that would make any mother proud (and any old warhorse even prouder). But Moist wasn't off to impress anybody, and Vetinari was the last person in the Discworld to be dazzled by cheap flair, even Moist could see that. But, as he was dining with a powerful man, and powerful men deserved a measure of respect especially in a setting so intimate and casual as a dinner table, Moist honestly felt it his duty to at least satisfy all expectations of his current honest image, that of Master of the Royal Mint and Postmaster General. So he donned a suit that was by all accounts a somber black, a black bordering in funereal if it were not for the fine, midnight-blue lacework on the turned-down cuffs and collar that made the whole ensemble an altogether sleek black affair. He had found the lacework funny and a tad too fancy even for him when the tailor first proposed it, but then when the tailor threatened that it was all about the person who carried it off, Moist felt it no less than a personal failing if he did not accept the challenge. And so he purchased the suit, to the tailor's satisfaction and his secret regret, and he had unhappily stuck it in the back of his closet until tonight.

When he emerged from his private quarters, Gladys looked up from her work and, unexpectedly, gave him a compliment.

"You Cut A Fine Figure In That Suit, I Must Say, Mr. Lipwig."

Moist fought the blush that he belatedly felt was ridiculous and unwarranted for a comment from a golem. But then, that part in the back of his mind that was filled to choking with smoke and spoke with the voice of one Miss Adora Belle Dearheart, kicked his cerebellum with a distinctly stilletoed heel for the prejudicial thought. Moist sighed.

"Good night, Gladys. Please don't wait up for me."

"All Right, Sir. A Good Night To You, Too."

Moist headed down and sure as promised, Vetinari's black coach stood waiting at the entrance of the bank at promptly seven o'clock. The coachman held the door open for him, and when he stepped in he was surprised to find himself alone. It was the first time he had ridden Lord Vetinari's private coach by himself, and it was an astoundingly dull experience, he had to admit, without the ominous presence of the Patrician that seemed to fill the carriage, or any space he occupied bearing relatively four corners, as a matter of fact. It was entirely in an impenetrable sort of black that even the lamps couldn't dull, and it surrounded him like a coffin. Moist was okay with dark, cramped spaces; one couldn't hope to live the kind of life he led without a friendly agreement with tight places that presented him with a unique position of getting out of them. But the inside of Vetinari's carriage was a different animal altogether; uncomfortable at best, and washed of any personality whatsoever at the very least.

Moist wondered what proper attitude to adopt for the upcoming dinner with the Patrician. He had only experienced Lord Vetinari up close and personal in a very different way, a way that only the damned and desperate ever get to appreciate, a way that involved angels and madmen. The dinner would be a first for him. It tempted one to think, 'What could Lord Vetinari be thinking to invite me to dinner? What sort of impossible task does he have up his sleeve for me that he had to give it to me decently, which is to say through duplicity, rather than in a straight-forward fashion as in a show of force, such as offered by an alternative of walking through a door into a pit of spikes?' But then, Moist thought, throat gone dry with worry, that way lies madness.

The coach arrived at the palace without incident. Moist was met at the courtyard by Mr. Drumknott, the Patrician's quiet, efficient secretary. Drumknott wasn't a person who inadvertently struck one's curiosity, an admirable trait in Moist's opinion, and in fact he did try to be as inconspicuous as possible despite having to walk with Moist down the corridors that led to the Oblong Office. Having noticed this, Moist couldn't resist exercising a bit of his so-called people skills to upset the silence, which to Moist's irritation had hung around even after he got off the Patrician's carriage.

"Do you have quarters in the palace, Mr. Drumknott?"

The question caught the man off-guard. The curious thing was, Moist knew this only because he knew what to look for. The man had jerked a shoulder, almost imperceptibly, and Moist wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't paid attention at the right moment.

"Yes, I do," came the reply, so soft as to be almost a whisper.

"Must be hard working for a ty...er, for the Patrician, eh?" said Moist, wincing inwardly at his near-fatal slip. He watched Drumknott closely for any sign that he was caught. Vetinari was known to hang men for less...cheek.

Drumknott looked at him and gave him a wry grin. A totally unexpected reaction. And then he shrugged, and said, "It's in the job description." Which meant, he expected as much, and never hoped for otherwise. Whatever this placid, stoic creature may be, for the Patrician's de facto yes-man, he didn't lack for intellect or ambition, but Moist was convinced that what surely qualified Mr. Drumknott for the job was his ability to appreciate humor, despite all the grimness of being the man what he had to be.

The rest of their walk was conducted in a much more comfortable silence, and Moist didn't mind it at all. Drumknott led him to the foyer in front of the Oblong Office, where he was told in very polite terms to wait while he was being announced to the Patrician. And then Drumknott went through a different door that Moist concluded could not lead to the Oblong Office itself, and thus he hypothesized must lead to the Patrician's private dining room, whereupon Drumknott returned via the same door and confirmed his suspicions when he said Lord Vetinari will now receive him for dinner.

"Good evening, Mr. Lipwig," the Patrician's greeting was warm, convivial. No, Moist revised, it was deceptively warm, convincingly convivial.

"Good evening, Lord Vetinari," said Moist. He debated making a leg, as he didn't know how to conduct himself in the abode of a tyrant, but decided against it at the last minute.

Vetinari seemed to notice. What he noticed exactly was beyond Moist's comprehension. However, he had an eyebrow raised slightly, almost mockingly. For one panicked moment, Moist was at a total loss. Was there something on his face? Maybe he ought to make a leg after all? His damn nerves were getting in the way of his wits, and he didn't know why he didn't feel like himself, which was to say, he felt too much like himself that was the vulnerable, unmasked scallywag from Uberwald and any minute now he just might start squirming like a red-eared fool caught with his hands in the pie.

"Do sit down, Mr. Lipwig. I'm sure the food will serve very well to calm your nerves." The tone was inviting, almost friendly. It carried no hint of mockery, much to Moist's head's distress. A part of him thought that he was very well nearing a complete breakdown in front of the tyrant of this city. It was a disconcerting thought.

"You are looking very pale, Mr. Lipwig," Vetinari said, as Moist forced himself to sit across from the Patrician, where the only other place setting was to be found. The table was rather small, a simple thing of rosewood in solid lines built by a craftsman who was careful with his work if not too imaginative. It could seat eight people comfortably, and currently Vetinari occupied one end of it, with him at the other.

Moist tried to give a decent answer, which was to say his mind worked in a frenzy to recall some suitable dinner-type conversation that was fancier than "Please pass the salt, Tom."

"Oh, um," he replied, a little unsteadily, "it was a hard day at the office summat, and I am used to getting an early dinner from Aimsbury."

"I see," said Vetinari, and his tone did the rest of making sure that he saw entirely through Moist's boorish, unmannered speech.

Moist wanted to smack himself in the forehead for the unintentional slant, but instead he said, "No, sorry, that went out wrong. I really appreciate your gracious invitation, Lord Venitari—"

"Havelock," the Patrician corrected, sounding too casual. He gestured off-handedly to the table before them. "I'd rather not deal with formalities in such a setting, if you don't mind."

"Um," started Moist. 'Um' had grown from a mildly dull syllable to a moderately interesting word. Recently, it was being associated to that long ago great civilization that was known for the one and only invention: the golem. But as a conversational piece, 'um' lacked flair. It lacked spark. It was downright boring. And so Moist's mouth, sensing the lack of speech to fill the dull void of an uncomfortable silence, rose to the occassion. It meant well, really.

"I appreciate your generosity, sir, in extending this informality to me, but I'm afraid it would be a tragedy and a crime if I were to oblige people to address me by my given name. Why, it would be like giving a rude offense in exchange for a polite gift. I could never impose it on you."

Against all of Moist's expectations, this made Vetinari laugh. The Patrician actually laughed! And it was the first time that Moist ever heard it, meaning it was the first ever laugh from Lord Vetinari that reached his ears without a promise of some unpleasantness lurking under the rich baritone.

"Very well," said Lord Vetinari, and he gave Moist a curious look, "I'll forgive you, this time, Moist." And here he emphasized the name; with Vetinari, it sounded a tad crisp, not as slick or slimy as it sounded in most other tongues. Moist fancied that with Spike, his name rolled off her lips like grainy smoke, and it was that, among other little things, that endeared her to him.

"I beg your pardon, Havelock," Moist tried the name on his lips; it didn't feel that bad, although on instinct his nerves did frazzle just a bit. "for not being able to start off on the right foot. I’ll try not to make a fool of myself, erm, too much.”

“Indeed,” came Vetinari’s reply. It was the same word he used on the guild leaders and the toe-kissing mongrels who entered the Oblong Office with heated demands and challenges and left, rather in a daze, properly tamed and humbled. But it sounded different, somehow, right now over the dinner table, although Moist couldn’t quite pinpoint what exactly was different about how Lord Vetinari—Havelock, rather—said it.

Moist mulled over this thought while chewing his way through the wonderfully tender veal steak on his plate. Not to look down on Aimsbury’s cuisine, or what passed for it, but the veal steak was clearly superior to anything that had gone through Moist’s palate in his whole lifetime, and even the one before he was hanged. His thoughts kept him quite busy, during those moments when it was not occupied with the matter of chewing, which, a recent pole in the Times declared occupied a full 100 of the average individual’s attention if he didn’t want to choke on that fishbone and die horribly, and so he had no opportunity to fill the silence between him and Havelock, which was altogether not unpleasant.

Havelock resurrected the conversation with a timely, “Enjoying your meal?”

Moist swallowed. And then he swallowed some more. He had been preoccupied with a rather large piece of veal which required a whole lot of chewing. His throat ached momentarily with the strain of having to push down large lumps of the meat at one go. And then he said, “Of course, sir, um, Havelock. I’ve had nothing better in my life, my compliments to the cook.”

Havelock nodded at this. Moist noticed that the Patrician had all but finished his meal. The plate was clean—too clean, in fact. It appeared that the rumors were true, Havelock Vetinari lived on bread alone.

Moist was glad he took a ham sandwich with his afternoon tea. Gladys had been kind enough as to oblige making him sandwiches again. Moist suspected that Spike had something to do with it, and Gladys wasn’t very subtle in her hints about keeping him healthy and fit amidst all the stress of being a banker, what with Added Responsibilities in the Near Future, as One Might Expect, With A Family.

Moist hadn’t even thought that far yet. He wasn’t even entirely won over to the whole marriage thing yet.

Oh, but what was he thinking? He should be happy! He should be proud! Getting a woman such as the likes of Adora Belle Dearheart to tie the knot with him was no ordinary feat and certainly not for the weak of heart, and he had done it. He should be thrilled about the wedding.

The only thing that disappointed Moist about the whole affair was the fact that he felt he wasn’t happy enough, that he wasn’t thrilled enough, to suit the occasion. It had left him sleepless many a night. It worried him a lot, so much so that people around him started to worry, too; hence, Gladys making sandwiches for him again, for example. On the nights he was weary enough to want sleep, he always had these dreams, too. He would dream he was a pigeon, free and flying over Ankh-Morpork, the city that he grew to love, that he grew to respect, and that in turn returned his affections in various odd ways that were not all of the time involving an assassin’s arrow or the Tanty. Every time, he flew the same route. Over the Post Office with its newly-installed statues of gods and goddesses on the roof, and then over the Royal Bank with its marble columns and the deep shadows it cast over the neighboring buildings, and then on to the Palace, where he was sure he saw the Patrician looking up at him from a window in the Oblong Office. And then, with a loud bang, there’d be pain in his chest and he’d be falling, falling, and then he’d see Spike, his dear Spike, seizing him from the sky and shackling him in fine nearly-gold chains, and her eyes would glow like a golem’s.

“It seems you’ve got a lot on your mind, Moist,” came Havelock’s voice, like thunder crashing in the night. With it, Moist shook himself out of his reverie. In a flash, his eyes darted quickly from left to right, reacquainting himself with the place as if he had been momentarily lost, and then his gaze drifted to Havelock and locked with the Patrician’s eyes with surprise, and not a little embarassment.

“I’m sorry, I seemed to have wandered off in my head,” said Moist. “On account of its Friday, sir, um, Havelock, I may have slipped into the weekend mood a tad early.” He knocked his head with a knuckle for emphasis.

“The ‘weekend mood’, you say? Or is it wedding jitters?” Havelock retorted, in a teasingly light voice.

Moist shrugged and smiled one of his most guileless smiles. Later, he would attest that it came naturally and was not in any way at all deliberate. Havelock would have to agree, of course, although he had known it from the start.

Dinner ended abruptly when Moist finally finished his veal. The Patrician suggested that they repair to the sitting room for some wine and, to Moist’s surprise, to have some time with Mr. Fusspot.

Moist would be the last man to admit that he missed the mutt. He had genuine affection for the dog, sure, and he still missed him every morning when he expected to get slobbered but didn’t and every time he ate lunch, when usually Mr. Fusspot would provide a fine entertainment wrestling with his special toffee pudding. But he was the Patrician’s lapdog now, and of course there was nothing one could do about it but shrug and go on with one’s life. Besides, what with all the Times had to say about it, it wasn’t hard to see that Mr. Fusspot rather liked Lord Vetinari very much, and enjoyed a more princely accomodation and a certainly higher calibre of security for his person, as well the 51 shares of the bank that he represented. It was true that sometimes Moist still envied the fact that Mr. Fusspot did not so much as mind feeding off Lord Vetinari’s hand, in a literal sense at the least, but it was no real issue of pride to him. Moist had done his duty by Mr. Fusspot, and he had done it well and good.

Which is not to say that his heart veritably went to mush when Mr. Fusspot ran up to him in that cute little way with his stubby legs and wide, open face and jumped onto his lap to give him a wet, slobbering doggy kiss.

“I am keenly aware that you and Mr. Fusspot have yet to have a proper…parting, I should say, for lack of a better term. For the dog’s sake, I would at least have you spend some time with him now, with all due respect to your care and affection for him in the past month.”

“That’s very kind of you, Havelock,” Moist said, laughter bubbling up from his throat as Mr. Fusspot continued to lick his face like it was the biggest wad of toffee in the room. “Isn’t he now, Mr. Fusspot?” he asked, and the dog assured him it was so with a jolly little “Woof!”

Moist didn’t notice Havelock approach from behind until a squeak startled him and made Mr. Fusspot go mad with excitement and wag his pudgy little tail like it was on fire. Moist didn’t have to turn around to know it was a squeaky toy, and as Vetinari reached out over his shoulder to have Mr. Fusspot seize it in his eager jaws, Moist recognized the rubber doggy bone that was his favorite toy not so long ago, before the…erm…vibrating object of suspicious manufacture occupied his attentions.

Speaking of which, where…?

“I had discreetly removed it from his person not a week ago, and have since convinced him that there are other…less controversial…toys at his disposal.”

“Heh, good of you to manage it,” Moist said, as one dog-keeper to another, “I had a bloody hard time getting it away from him, and I never did succeed.”

“It is all a matter of timing,” said Havelock, enigmatically. He reached over Moist’s shoulder to pat Mr. Fusspot’s head. The little dog was chewing happily at the toy bone, which squeaked merry hell in his jaws.

“So,” Moist continued, having felt that the night, with the addition of Mr. Fusspot, was now getting to exceed ‘endurable’ as to even be considered ‘pleasant’, “where do you keep his doggie biscuits? And is it too late for a walkie?”

“Oh, it’s never too late for either,” Havelock said, a smile teasing its way from out his lips.

* * * * *

Moist got home that night at a very late hour, almost unrespectable even. He hadn’t been out climbing walls this time though, or breaking and entering into establishments of his own command, such as the Royal Bank. The night had gone from terribly uncomfortable to unexpectedly pleasant to surprisingly enjoyable, what with it ending with two grown men laughing at a dog’s old tricks, and Mr. Fusspot had many, when provided with his special toffee pudding. Moist had promised to have Aimsbury deliver the recipe to Havelock’s cooks, and Havelock had insisted that another dinner in the very near future would be conducive to a Mr. Fusspot’s health and demeanor. He had confided to Moist that the dog had not displayed such a willful state of abandon to doggie bliss before, and it was certainly entertaining to watch.

For once, Moist thought, he had no pressing need to seek the thrill of dangerous adventures. Something about spending a night with a dog and a tyrant laid something in his chest to rest. He rather thought that there wouldn’t be any horrible dreams tonight either, and Anoia help him, he wouldn’t be wrong. He turned the key in the lock to the bank’s front doors and entered with a much lighter heart than when he’d left.

This is so surreal...

Mon, 23 Apr 2007 10:35:40 GMT

A few days after I submitted my application to the Dumaguete workshop, the depression hit me hard. I Googled up several blogs from past fellows in the workshop, cursed my ill luck and cried to my friends that my summer is a living hell of the hottest days ever recorded in the Philippines and the coldest nights (not kidding--15C) in the frigid icebox that is the call center I work for. In the weeks that followed, I drowned myself in the monotony of work where only a few brain cells are required to function, and then I threw myself wholeheartedly into the rare times that I could be with friends, or shopping or work with Gawad Kalinga.

I just got back last night from a weekend-long GK R&R in Lucena, Quezon. This morning, I decided to torture myself by Googling up the Dumaguete workshop. And then, of course, I went batshit crazy with the good news.

http://www.geocities.com/nwwdumaguete/2007.html

I e-mailed my penpal from South Carolina. We both fervently believe that we are braintwins, a term we coined up to describe the uncanny resemblance of our lives; the joys, relationships and misfortunes. We actually think that if we get together someday, the world will blow up into smithereens. Of course I told her of this good news, and I said, "Does this mean that our shared bucket of luck has grown into a big fat barrel?" She has yet to reply but I know for a fact that her life too is in the upswing and she's going to Japan as an exchange student for the summer. That's a dream I haven't fulfilled and I'm happy and proud for her that she fulfilled it.

I do hope our combined fortunes have risen. But it is just too much to believe that there is no price for all this... I have faith in the Higher Power, I do. But I have a deeply personal knowledge of my karma, and this is all just...so weird... "Somebody up there loves me." That's what other people might say, in reaction to this awesome blessing. But me, what I have to say is that this blessing is making me love EVERYBODY. Thanks one and all, whether or not you prayed for me. More power to you all, more power to Gawad Kalinga and thank you God!

Bordertown, writer's angst, philosophy and just plain being human here...

Sun, 15 Apr 2007 13:47:43 GMT

I just finished watching Bordertown, that movie with J Lo and Antonio Banderas about the women being murdered in Juarez, Mexico. I've known about the murders for a couple of years now, when I was researching about Mexico for an OUATIM fic yet unpublished in the net. At that time, I was looking for supernatural stuff, and came across the Black Virgin. Well, anyway, that's a story for another time. For now, I just want to get out of this deep funk I unexpectedly acquired from watching the movie.

I never expected to be this traumatized. But J Lo was very good, and she put out just the right kind of energy, showed just the right mix of unstable emotions that really pulled me into the story. I have never worked at a factory, never experienced the blue-collar life, but I do have first-hand experience of monotonous work--the kind where you're only required to have a few brain cells to accomplish an 8-hr shift 5 days in a week at minimum wage--and how women are still treated as the weaker sex by the law of the land. (Are feminists anti-capitalists by nature, I wonder?) But what frustrated me the most...and deep down, what also scrared me the most...was how the movie showed how truly dangerous being a journalist could be.

In Bordertown, J Lo and Antonio Banderas portray people who go above and beyond their duty to seek out the truth and bring it to the public. They risk their careers and even their lives just to see that light is shed on the Juarez killings no matter how deep they have to dig and that justice is delivered in full without compromise even against those in places of power and influence. But, see, real life is all about compromises...about privelege and prejudice and injustice. There is no balance. Liberty, equal opportunity and fairness are figments of the imagination. Might as well believe in Santa Claus.

What upset me the most was the bullshit of governments and corporations that prey on people. They're all devils wearing human skins. But those are old truths, and I regret saying that we now take them for granted, but that's the reality. What particularly scared me however, what shook me the most, was Diaz' (Banderas) death, and the rejection J Lo faced and the futility of all her sincere efforts to help a person, as was her human obligation, as was her responsibility as another woman. In one scene, she even expressed how she could have been one of those women working in the factories, or perhaps even one of those who were raped and killed, if only Fate had been less kind to her when she was orphaned. I believe I have to credit J Lo for her superb acting skills here, because she was able to convince me that her character had become deeply and personally involved in the story she was writing. It was no longer a story for her.

When Lauren (J Lo) described to Diaz how she felt when she went undercover, when she told Diaz that she felt that she was actually living the experience of the victim...how she felt fragile and vulnerable... well, it reminded me of Levinas' philosophy, about how trauma brings us out of ennui, out of our self-ish thoughts, out of our self-absorptions in our own lives, in our own careers. We build walls from the medals, awards and accolades we receive from our peers. We use them to fatten up our ego as well as our barriers from the outside world, from the real world, from a world where others are not as important as we make ourselves to be, not as fortunate as us, not as wealthy nor well-fed nor at peace with their surroundings, with the state of their lives, with their lack of dignity. J Lo's character showed how a journalist had managed to step out of her fortress--cross the border, so to speak--and reach out to the other out there that needed her help.

I'm all set to become a writer. I've made my choice, and I want to see it through. But it is things like these, like this movie, Bordertown, that remind me how much of a naive weakling I still am. I mean, if you really want to live your life to the fullest, it's not about chasing the adventure, but rather, answering the call. There will come a time that you are made to face, not of your own choice, your greatest fear, your greatest challenge, and it is entirely up to you to get out of your shell and take action or just curl up and allow yourself to be silenced. I think it is one of the most painful things, if not the most painful, for the writer, esp. for the journalist, to be silenced. To have to stand down, back out, surrender to the higher-ups and give up your story. For me, that is already giving up the dream.

One of the first things I decided upon when I chose to live my dream of becoming a writer was that I must never, under any circumstances, give up the dream. Hence, I could not give up any of my stories. It would be like giving up one of my children. So now, I think to myself, if I was ever put in a position like Lauren, what would I do? Should I fear the devils and monsters that prey on women and on journalists, to the point that I will get right back into the plane and not bother to see the story through? Would I be content with mild stories and just focus on getting the perks that come with a fat paycheck so I could live my life the way I want it--in luxury? Why should I force myself to experience suffering anyway? Is it not my prerogative not to endanger my own life?

I have been angsting about this for the past couple of hours now, and this is what I have concluded: When Lauren "crossed the border" and immersed herself fully into this life of fear and danger for the sake of Eva, the girl she was trying to help, she was no longer chasing a story. She wasn't trying to "further" her career anymore. She wasn't thinking as a writer, hell-bent on seeing her story through for the sake of her career--no. She was thinking as a human being who was hell-bent on getting justice for a fellow human being who had been wronged and whose life was in danger. It's the kind of thing you do for the closest kin and closest friend, but for a total stranger? I guess that's what puts Lauren UP THERE, and me WAY DOWN BELOW with all the bugs you crush underfoot.

I think now: would I let myself be blinded by my career passion that I forego even my humanity? Is not answering the call that puts your life in peril just plain wrong--and even a bit disturbing? The philosopher Levinas had his ideas on that. When I was a student beginning to learn about his philosophy, I took his ideas in stride. I saw the logic, I saw the true humanity in it. But now, all I see is myself being a hypocrite. When I told myself I was going to be a professional writer, I didn't plan on getting traumatized by stuff like this--it's just a movie, for Pete's sake! But I can't help but be emotional...because I want to be a writer! And however that all these thoughts and feelings confuse me right now, I still want to be a writer!

*sigh*

So, then, if 1/2 of the equation is a constant, unchangeable variable, then does that mean the other half of the equation would be easier to solve?

Only God knows...

P.S.
And after this emo talk about my feelings towards the movie, I get it into my head to Google up what the critics say about it. I was very surprised by the very bad press it got. This is upsetting because the poor reviews are a lot of bullshit cleverly sewn into blankets of truth. It's traps like these that catch well-meaning humanitarian contemporary films off-guard. You nitpick on the formalistic qualities, point out ever so kindly but firmly that the plotholes are so big that the story can barely hold together--but it's actually not the story--the screenplay, the characters, the actors that give them faces--that makes this movie real and alive and worthy of praise but the attachment it has with the masses, the effort it has made to dig up rotten cores of conspiracies that are real anyway even if the vehicles of these truths were cobbled together poorly!

What do the likes of Kirk Honeycutt know about "police and institutional failures" such as the likes in Juarez, Mexico? It's so very different living in a third world country gripped by the balls by the US government and the soulless corporations that are masters of the craft of capitalism. They don't even have to sweat to find loopholes in the laws that govern the "lower sectors". By the third generation, the hopeless life of drudgery that is living below the poverty line is bred into the masses and is already, usually, taken for granted. It is virtually impossible to digest this experience, to distill it and allow others to comprehend it fully. And as long as it is only the upper classes--either native or outsider--that get to write about it, people will never fully comprehend the sub-human treatment that the masses have had to endure for countless generations.

When I searched through Google for comments and reviews, I found only a pitiful few. Why is it so quiet in the Western front? For that matter, why is the rest of the world still so quiet about this film? Perhaps it is the fact that it still hasn't been shown in many areas--that being 99+% of the world, perhaps. But for those who have already seen it, those who haven't yet spoken, why hesitate? Is it "just another film", to be left in the dust because a few people with the right connections but the most tragic and terrible of intentions regarded it as a piece of lint to be brushed off? This has made me very disappointed because I was hoping to find a lot of talk about this film--either bad or good, it doesn't matter--the point is, people should be talking about it.

I wonder what's the hold up? It can't be that nobody knows it. In this day and age, it's very easy to disseminate information around the globe in a matter of days. What I can't fathom is why even the Internet is quiet about it. As for myself, well, here is what I have to say about it: Watch Bordertown. Open your mind. Start talking. Start Posting. Spread the News. Spread Awareness. And, as the philosopher Levinas would say, BE RESPONSIBLE. BE TRULY HUMAN.

Wot Have I Been Doing Today...

Tue, 16 Jan 2007 12:50:27 GMT

See "Wheel of Time" at Amazon.com
I started reading WOT on December 24, 2006. It's been 3 and a half weeks since, and now I am in Book 6: Lord of Chaos. I never really thought about it much, before picking it up. Even the first book wasn't as compelling or as explosive, by my standards. (Wherein G.R.R.Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire reigns supreme.) But I stuck to it, because I told myself I would, and more the fool I am for doing that because now I can't stop reading WOT. And it didn't help that my best friend lent me her old Palm, Kazutaka-chan. Now I can't even let go of li'l ole Kazu in class! Palm should be BANNED! It just quadruples the intensity of my addiction. Or better yet, I should be banned from all forms of technology that could possibly give me access to WOT! Piracy is at fault, for supplying my WOT needs so easily in the first place! AARGH! I'm mad as hell and crazy to boot and WOT is just sucking all my time and energy I'm all but a walking zombie in school even if I get 6-8 hours of sleep. AAAARRGGH!!!

No other fantasy serial has made me this angry or this crazy about it. It's not as sophisticated as Martin's work, but that's just in a purely technical perspective. Often, the lines and the plot can be a bit cheesy and cliche, it's almost like a successful marriage of S. Sheldon romances and hardcore swords&sorcery fantasy. And if you're purist enough in either of those genres, you might think WOT is almost sacrilegious that way. But that's just my opinion. My crazy raving mad opinion.

I've a lot to be bitter about WOT. I can't stop reading it and it's taking up all my time. It means humungous effort on my part in trying to manage my timetable in school...which is a right bitch without WOT in the first place, but now nigh impossible because I barely scrape by in the hours and effort department to study and get my homework done on time. BARELY SCRAPE BY, I tell you.

Ugh...so many gripes, and even now the urge to read is strong. (It is always strong, of course, but WOT absolutely controls my life now, to my chagrin.) I just hope I finish book eleven before I turn into a real zombie. It's a race against the calendar now, esp. since I still have so many things to do..nevermind what I want to do..