i'm a professional cynic but my heart's not in it.

fic: and under day-old sheets

2010-03-06T12:12:57Z

and under day-old sheets
Merlin, Arthur/Merlin (Arthur/Gwen, Gwen/Morgana), modern AU (PG)
2 396 words

notes: Written for a kinkme_merlin prompt: Modern AU, second chances. Arthur and Gwen fall in love; Merlin's heart gets broken. Then, some time passes, and Gwen and Arthur don't work out. Somehow, Merlin and Arthur start talking again, but I want Arthur to work for the relationship. Originally posted here; original - longer - prompt here. One line shamelessly stolen from this.

In his head, Arthur makes a list of things he thinks he might love about Gwen – the arch of her spine; her veracity; her hands pressing against his shoulders – after the second time.

He files it next to the litany of things about Merlin he's never said he adores.

(This is how it begins:

The District line is suspended for some unexplainable reason and for a second Arthur thinks no, no, no; please god no because he vividly remembers a day in July five years ago, turning on the radio in the office, and he never wants to experience that again. Then a message about an earlier failure at Edgware Road is put through the speakers and that's all right then, he thinks, exhaling in tandem with the woman next to him.

He's late for supper, though; a note on the kitchen table says At the pub with Gwen. Reheat something from the fridge, TWAT and he feels a bit guilty at that.

Merlin is suitably pissed for a Thursday night when Gwen rings the bell, and when he stumbles into the flat Arthur just barely catches his wrist, strokes his forearm absentmindedly. Gwen smiles and it's a bit brilliant; Arthur grins, hiding his face in Merlin's hair. The front door closes and he stares at it for a minute, until Merlin's weight slumps against him.

He dreams about curls and freckled cheeks.)

Their bed smells of Merlin's shampoo and it's lovely, it's comfortable, it's so very warm –

it's nothing like the way he knows he sometimes looks at Gwen.

They kiss on a dare and it's sort of wonderful, tracing the outlines of someone else's mouth.

Later, after the whispers of oh and shit and what is this? the guilt will press the thrill back, just barely.

In his head, Arthur makes a list of things he thinks he might love about Gwen – the arch of her spine; her veracity; her hands pressing against his shoulders – after the second time.

He files it next to the litany of things about Merlin he's never said he adores.

It's not falling out of love so much as it is falling in love, really.

They have the conversation on a Thursday, fifty-two days afterwards.

Merlin is working, fingers dancing across a keyboard; Arthur breathes in rhythm with each press.

'Do you think –' he begins, without really thinking, 'Do you think you can be in love with more than one person?'

Merlin's eyes don't leave the screen. 'Yes.'

'Merlin,' Arthur says, 'Merlin,' and there must be something in his voice because Merlin knocks his cup over and watches the tea spill over the table with a set jaw.

'Who?' he asks, and oh, Arthur really doesn't want to do this.

'I –' and he doesn't know what to say because how does he explain something like this? 'Gwen.'

Merlin snorts, but his eyes are hard when they meet Arthur's.

'Oh.' He flexes his hand and for a second Arthur thinks he's going to hit something – someone – but Merlin just digs his fingers into his palm. 'The truth is important, I used to think.'

Arthur presses his fingers to his cheeks; pushes them into the wet skin so hard he's certain there will be bruises. He wants to tell Merlin I'm sorry; I'm so, so sorry but the only things he manages are whimpers.

'Monogamy was always your favourite word,' Merlin says and looks away.

Arthur isn't surprised to find two boxes of clothes and books outside the door when he comes back; every shirt folded neatly and novels in alphabetical order.

He tosses his key into the mailbox before he leaves.

He gets an email three days later: I'm keeping the flat is all it says, and Arthur doesn't know if his hands shaking means relief or something entirely different.

Morgana never rings and it's uncomfortable for Arthur but devastating to Gwen. They spend a weekend with fingers tangled and muttered reassurances and don't think about whether it's supposed to be so difficult, this.

There are good days: days when Arthur presses kisses against Gwen's stomach and it's soft and welcoming and everything his father ever wanted for him; days when he remembers how she takes her tea and she smiles into his shoulder; days when he wakes up with the sun in his eyes.

For a few weeks, he thinks that yes, this is it exactly. Five weeks, maybe six, before he catches Gwen mumbling Morgana's name in her sleep and wonders if that might make sense, too.

(They never talk about the way their mouths say maybe against necks and hipbones.

There are only absolutes, son, Uther used to say. Arthur thinks that perhaps he was wrong.)

They are having breakfast the first time doubt hangs over their heads: heavy raindrops fall against the kitchen window and it's so wretchedly appropriate that Arthur wants to draw the blinds.

'I love you,' Gwen says and he doesn't want to think about how the timing is completely wrong, 'I've always loved you.'

'Me too,' Arthur manages. His mouth is dry. 'Not enough, though, is it?'

'Where's your romance?' Gwen asks and grimaces, just a bit.

'I don't know if I was ever romantic,' he sighs, because he doesn't know what else to say.

Gwen nods, slowly.

He lets himself think about Merlin a lot more after that.

On Morgana's birthday Arthur wears tailored trousers and polished shoes; there are things that are expected of him and Morgana is his sister, still.

He doesn't bring Gwen. He doesn't really ask her to come and it's probably better like that, they both know.

His aunt claps his shoulder with a stiff hand and Arthur recognises the disapproval even before he sees Nimueh's set lips. It hurts more than he would like it to, and for a moment Arthur aches for his father even though he would have turned his back completely, his face whispering of disloyalty.

'I'm having drinks with Merlin and his boyfriend later,' Morgana smirks and it's so bitter that he almost wants to mention Gwen out of spite.

He doesn't; Arthur isn't a good man, but he desperately wants to be.

(This is how they end it:

A brush of fingers and a suitcase filled with clothes; whispers of regrets but not mistakes because Gwen tells him, resolutely, that she refuses to make them into an error, as though they were something shameful.

'It's just time,' she says softly. 'It'll pass.'

Arthur mouths Morgana to her before he leaves; her eyes widen and she looks at him like she wants to respond in kind.

He is relieved that she doesn't.)

Lance buys him an inadvisable amount of bitter and it's probably a mistake to go to the pub that's just round the corner; every time Arthur sees flushed cheeks and black hair his stomach clenches. In the corner of his eye he notices a straw-coloured head that looks like it could belong to someone who used to be a friend of someone and it's so painful, this, not knowing how to move in a familiar space.

'I don't think you've been very happy for months,' Lance says, almost in passing and presses his elbow to Elaine's side.

Arthur looks at them, at the traces of complete devotion in her face and the uncomfortable grip Lance has on his glass, knuckles white; wonders if that was how they looked, sometimes, before and realises that it doesn't really matter if he's thinking about Merlin or Gwen because both press thick bile up his throat.

'I know.'

There are traces of sometimes I miss you on every street corner and in every face in the tiny part of London that used to be theirs.

For half a second Arthur thinks that maybe he would be happier if he left Newington Green.

It takes him seven weeks to call Morgana; another two pass before she decides to answer her mobile.

There is a party and everyone is invited; Arthur doesn't mention how Lance has never been particularly good at diplomacy even though he really wants to. Morgana nods at him when he arrives, her hair brushing across Gwen's cheek and it's a relief to see that some things are maybe the way they are supposed to be.

'I don't think Merlin is bringing Kay,' Gwen says and that's all their interaction amounts to that evening; Arthur tries to taste something other than very slight pleasure on his tongue, but his mouth refuses to form around the names and Merlin and Kay is so uncomfortably foreign that he really doesn't try very hard.

It's much later when he does approach Merlin, and Arthur's made certain that he is at least a little drunk, almost tiptoeing around the table in the front room as though he's scared of everything in the enclosed space.

'Hi.'

Merlin barely nods, but his shoulders tense for just a second when Arthur sits down a few feet away and clears his throat.

'I –' and god, he really should have rehearsed this, 'I meant to talk to you.' He doesn't say I wasn't sure if you wanted me to but when he looks at Merlin he thinks it flashes across his face anyway.

Merlin swallows and presses back into the sofa.

'I'm afraid I'll say something stupid like I miss you, you understand?'

'I miss you,' Arthur says, before he can think about what that means, hand hovering an inch above Merlin's, 'I miss you.'

Merlin rises and takes a step towards the hallway, and if he moved any closer Arthur could reach out, stroke his thumb against a wrist.

'And I don't know what to do with that information.'

Suddenly it seems that Merlin is everywhere; but then, maybe he always was.

When Morgana stops tossing around Kay like it's just another word they're having dinner, all of them, and Merlin tells him – in a moment Arthur assumes is a little defenceless – that it was not because of him.

He knows that much is true.

Arthur gets thoroughly sloshed more often than he used to:

'I've got a list,' he murmurs (slurs), 'A list of things I forgot to tell you.'

Merlin looks thoughtful for just a second.

'Not I'm shagging our mutual friend, then?' It's a little bitter but he almost smiles, lips turning soft around his smirk.

There's a half-empty bottle of vodka tipped towards a vase of orchids. Arthur isn't sure when Morgana started getting flowers.

'No,' he says, slowly, because this is important, he's certain, 'Things I loved about you. Stupid things.'

When he shifts his weight his shoulder bumps against Merlin's elbow.

'Stupid things?'

'Just –' Arthur mumbles and tries not to focus on the way his fingers flex around the neck of his beer bottle, 'That it takes you half an hour to buy the paper because you know the newsagent is lonely so you always have a proper chat with her. I love that.'

'Things like that?'

'Things like that,' he replies and looks up.

'I promised to myself that today I would do something I'd regret,' Merlin whispers and kisses him, quickly.

Arthur breathes into his skin before Merlin leaves.

(When they were seventeen Arthur had woken up with Merlin in his bed; with a day-old ashen aftertaste in his mouth and promises of cocking this up terrifically breathed against his hair.

He had interrupted Merlin and said that we don't need to promise each other anything.)

On a Sunday he almost forgets that he hasn't got a key any longer:

Arthur's hand wavers in front of the door; he makes a fist but that shakes, too, back and forth until he's knocking without really meaning to.

With the first inch of an opening the sun blinds him; somewhere in the background Arthur hears Kirsty Young and he thinks oh, Radio 4.

'That's another thing,' he says to the interstice, 'Another thing I love. That you only listen to middle-aged radio.'

Merlin kicks the door open, arms crossed; everything about him seems so familiar and it makes Arthur's skin prickle until Merlin's body tenses into a stressed line that's uncomfortably foreign.

'Gwen a massive fan of Fearne Cotton?'

Arthur doesn't say I haven't got a clue when his hand almost reaches out but ends up pressed against his thigh instead, sweat sticking to wayward fibre.

'I think I'd forgotten about everything,' he says instead.

Merlin asks, 'Everything?' on an exhale.

'You. And – well. What beginnings are.'

He can practically hear Merlin biting the inside of his cheek.

'It wasn't like I thought it would be,' Arthur tells him and traces the lines in the palm of his hand.

Merlin rolls his head to the side; his sigh is almost lethargic but his words are clipped.

'Is anything?'

'I don't think I know what expectations mean,' Arthur says.

'Then maybe you should learn.'

He flinches when the door closes and stays absolutely still until he hears the lock turning.

It's May and nine months past –

Morgana and Gwen take a holiday.

The first time Merlin steps back when he is at the door Arthur's head has been murmuring of leaving something out for three weeks. At the kitchen table his mouth tries to form around something like an apology.

(It's almost enough.)

'This is the thing,' Merlin sighs, 'I'll become comfortable and you will be bored because you're impatient and you've got less than no attention span.'

'Maybe we know better now.'

'Do we?' Merlin wrinkles his nose; Arthur's skin feels too tight and he wants to scratch at it until there is nothing left but shadows of please and let me try.

'I don't like promises,' he says and inches just a little bit closer. 'I'd rather have faith.'

Merlin snorts and shifts his eyes to the window for a second, tries to hide a smile.

'I don't believe in God,' and it sounds like a speech Arthur remembers really well.

Merlin presses his lips together, gaze flickering from his hands to the hallway to the plethora of papers next to his computer. They breathe in rhythm and with every exhale Arthur thinks he can taste something familiar on his lips.

'I don't like surprises,' Merlin says and closes his eyes.

Arthur tries not to think about reassurances.

'I know.'

There is another fifteen seconds before Merlin looks at him. (Or maybe it's four minutes – time is an illusion, everyone knows.)

'Okay.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.'

Arthur leans in.

(This is perhaps where no endings end.)

fin.

no, you don't move me any more.

2010-02-27T23:35:30Z

I meant to do a picspam featuring my favourite Doctor Who guest stars, because there are so many who have been brilliant but who haven't necessarily catapulted into stardom. (That's not to say that the aforementioned picspam wouldn't feature Carey Mulligan, because it would. Of course it would.) I ended up spending the day looking for caps of four of my favourite actors who should be more famous than they are. In short: I talk a lot about how wonderful they are and mention that someone should see them in the theatre productions they're currently in. Today's lesson is that the London acting community is terribly, terribly incestuous.

Nathalie Press (caps from My Summer of Love): The thing about Nathalie is that she's not unrecognised; she was nominated for an Independent Spirit Award this year, for god's sake. It's just that she wasn't the break-out star of My Summer of Love; Emily Blunt was. And that's a shame, because Nathalie is the better actress, I think. She's been in a lot of great independent films and in Bleak House (starring almost everyone I've ever loved) and apparently she's in Island with Colin Morgan, which will be either terrifying or excellent.

Samuel Barnett (caps from The History Boys): He's my favourite History Boy. Partly because I think he's one of the best - if not the best - actor of the lot and partly because he's only done things I've enjoyed since THB ended. He's also, of course, one of the less known (raise your hand if you recognise Russell Tovey, Dominic Cooper and/or James Corden!). This saddens me greatly, because he's fantastic. He does do an awful lot of West End theatre (he's doing Women Beware Women at the Olivier come April!), but he's one of those people who pops up everywhere for about four minutes: in John Adams, Desperate Romantics, Beautiful People and Bright Star, where he drank tea and had a total of three lines. (He was Joseph Severn. Joseph Severn!)

Anna Maxwell Martin (caps from Becoming Jane): I still sort of think of her as That Actress in That Regency/Edwardian/Victorian Thing; I get a bit of a shock every time I see her in trousers. She's got two BAFTAs but I don't think any of my friends would know her by name and that's just wrong. Remember 2004 and 2005, when she was in North & South and Bleak House? Becoming Jane is a bit pointless - great, great supporting actors though - see Miss Austen Regrets instead, but Poppy Shakespeare is brilliant. She was in a series one episode of Doctor Who, though I can't remember much of it apart from Anna and Tamsin Greig guest starring. Anna does a lot of theatre too - she was in His Dark Materials with Samuel Barnett (how incestuous). At the moment she's in Measure for Measure at the Almeida.

Nina Sosanya (caps from Casanova): See, Nina Sosanya is that actress you always recognise and who is always very good, but never gets to be the star. She's so great and in so many things that I'm not even going to attempt mentioning them all, but a few of my favourites: Teachers (Jenny!), a two-minute cameo in Love Actually, Nathan Barley (look at that cast!), Casanova, Manderlay, the Much Ado About Nothing episode of ShakespeaRe-Told, Wide Sargasso Sea (also featuring Rebecca Hall, with whom I'm a bit in love) and FM, which I loved but I don't know that anyone else really noticed. Nina, too, was in an episode of Doctor Who, of course.

Caps: e-blunt.net, davidtennantfan.com, dominic-cooper.com and darciana (notice how the cap sources prove my point about these actors not being famous enough?).

On a semi-related note, I'm glad that the BAFTAs and I still mostly agree on what excellence in film means.

fic: from this town the english army grind their teeth into glass

2010-02-09T20:20:00Z

from this town the english army grind their teeth into glass
Merlin with a High School Musical cameo, Gwen (Gwen/Morgana, Gwen/Taylor, Arthur/Gwen, Lancelot/Gwen, Arthur/Merlin)
Maybe a tiny bit of spoilers for HSM3; references to both series of Merlin (PG)
1 084 words approved by crystal_lily, my favourite ex-goth.

notes: bana_05 wrote excellent meta on black women and slash; this is what happened when I'd read it. Not, in fact, as absurd as the Taylor appearance would suggest.

In which five people are reincarnated: In the space between then and now Gwen forgets what it's like being born with another name and the foreign taste of someone she'll never really know.

In the space between then and now Gwen forgets what it's like being born with another name and the foreign taste of someone she'll never really know. (She hated a Sophia once and every bone in her body refuses to respond, still.)

You're a bit difficult, Soph, her dad tells her when she's sixteen and she wishes he were a little less unfamiliar; wishes the planes of her face and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes were less like hers.

At college she throws herself into her schoolwork because she hasn't found any of the people she loves yet and she can count on two fingers the number of times she's been allowed an education at all.

Gwen is told that everyone is very impressed with her A-levels and something like accomplishment washes over her for the first time in this life. She feels liberated, almost.

She decides on Nottingham because it's nothing like the London she's meant to call home; the streets whisper of Mercia and Gwen feels an old discomfort give way to something not unlike conversancy.

She traces the walls of buildings with calloused fingertips and tries to recall what she used to hear about warfare.

She meets a girl with a brilliant smile and fuchsia headband two weeks into her first term. 'Taylor,' she says, reaching across the pub counter, all American easiness.

Exchange student, Gwen thinks and almost misses propriety. 'Where are you from?'

Taylor laughs. 'New Mexico by way of Yale University.' She smiles. 'You?'

'Oh,' Gwen mutters, where from indeed. 'I, er – Hounslow. London.'

When Taylor nods her lips set in a determined line and for a second Gwen recognises it as a little bit powerful; she gulps down her beer before she can say something about herculean features.

She doesn't even realise she's introduced herself as Guinevere until later; does not know when she became reliant on habit.

Lancelot finds her on a Sunday. His eyes are knowing and as kind as ever; Gwen doesn't even bother to ask how or when.

She snorts when he passes her a business card like it's a promise and reminds him that making promises is always a mistake; Lancelot responds by pressing a kiss to her cheek.

'You're in my way,' she sighs, but her mouth twitches.

She does not tell him that it is not time yet; another few years, Gwen thinks, just for her.

Taylor wants to be President of the United States. When Gwen is told, she interrupts Taylor with hands underneath waistbands and a hot breath on her earlobe.

'You'd make a good politician,' she says, later, with Taylor's fingers at her ribs.

Taylor looks a little smug and a lot brilliant. 'You think?'

'Yeah. You remind me of someone, sometimes.'

'Good politician?' Taylor asks, rolling them over.

Gwen nips at her collarbone. 'He learnt how to be.'

Sometimes Gwen misses proper ale.

Four years after leaving university she visits Wales for the first time, this time; searches for history in places she's not even sure are the right ones. Gwen takes deep breaths, tries to find something recognisable in the winds, but there is no familiarity in Caerleon, Cardigan or St David's.

She never travels to Carlisle or Stonehenge. She is afraid of the memories but terrified of forgetting; Cornwall lies untouched and Gwen dares not mention Tintagel even to herself.

She starts to look for Morgana.

Gwen's body aches for open fields.

She does not leave London for fifteen months.

When her dad – her dad – dies she arranges the funeral with an almost procedural severity. Gwen cries more than she expected; the church is light and the vicar speaks so softly that she feels a bit guilty about the relief of having very little family, this time.

A month later she apologises to his gravestone; covers it almost completely with daisies and knows, somehow, that he would appreciate her not-quite release.

She changes her name by deed poll.

It makes things easier; Arthur rings after sixteen weeks. 'Guinevere, you clever minx,' he says and everything is almost like it's supposed to be. 'Morgana lives next door.'

'She always does,' Gwen murmurs. 'Lancelot found me at uni.'

Arthur's voice is a little like hope. 'I'm glad. Merlin?'

'No. I've – I only started looking properly last year.' Disappointment, Gwen has learnt, never becomes easy.

I wanted to stop time, Arthur tells her, afterwards. (Yes, she thinks, yes; this exactly.)

Sometimes she can hear echoes of what if we don't remember, the next time? in everything they don't say.

Gwen holds on tighter and thinks of five pairs of hands joined instead.

Arthur kisses her and it's soft but a little disappointing. Gwen wonders if she should be used to it by now; has an intense catalogue of lifetimes and first kisses and she knows that this is a mistake, maybe.

She files it in her head; shelves it under perhaps, next to Lancelot.

Gwen looks for meaning in the curves of Morgana's body; in the slope of her neck and the edges of her shoulder blades. She etches a map of each of their pasts on Morgana's skin, like a draughtboard of memories that never quite make sense.

Maybe some lifetimes are just for this, Lancelot will tell her, later, when the space between realities unfolds too quickly.

She finds Merlin online. Facebook is the most embarrassing thing about this time, he writes and Gwen thinks it's ridiculous, but when he's at her door she hugs him tightly, ruffles his hair.

'Took you long enough,' Arthur says and his entire body relaxes.

Gwen wonders if this is what complete means.

Some things always stay the same. The feel of Morgana's thighs underneath Gwen's fingers; Merlin's fierce loyalty; Arthur and Lancelot, constantly teetering somewhere along the border of brotherhood and resentment.

Then again, some things are only Gwen's to keep as memories so vague she sometimes mistakes them for dreams.

They go to Glastonbury Tor; Morgana presses against Gwen's back and Lancelot brushes hair out of her eyes in rhythm with the thunder above. It feels a little like home.

Merlin tangles his fingers with Arthur's. 'Lead the way, Wise One.'

This time, Gwen thinks, this time I will.

The dry grass is rough under her feet.

fin.

you'll carry on until you're dead and you drop.

2010-01-28T16:44:46Z

(J.D. Salinger died? My world, it's shattered.)

Hello. I'm not dead (yet). I'm writing my Master's thesis, though, which is about as exciting as expected - particularly because my adviser is the most stoic man I've ever met. Then again, I wouldn't have trusted a professor of German Literature to be anything but.

(crystal_lily, I've been watching Merlin and enjoying it immensely. So much better than Robin Hood.)

...and because there was a point to this post, this is an icon dump. I don't like people snagging my icons without asking, so here we are: twenty-odd icons I don't actually hate for public consumption. Maybe I'll even update this! (Er.) Mostly for personal reference, I suspect.

01.    02.    03.    04.

05.    06.    07.    08.

09.    10.    11.    12.

13.    14.    15.    16.

17.    18.    19.    20.

21.    22.    23.

01. Grey's Anatomy (I hate this show with a passion but I also love this icon. Er.)
02. Queer as Folk US
03. Sports Night
04-05. Veronica Mars
06-10. The West Wing
11-12. Doctor Who
13-17. Merlin
18. Good Night, and Good Luck.
19. Der Krieger und die Kaiserin
20. Lola rennt
21-22. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
23. Pride and Prejudice

Oh, and credit would be lovely if someone actually took an icon.

fic: six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver

2009-12-29T10:34:16Z

six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver
High School Musical, Chad/Ryan, spoilers for HSM2 (PG-13)
1 180 words, with thanks to autoridade, my ever-present partner in crime.

notes: Secret Santa gift for fools_game. I'm sorry about the lack of Christmas in this; I tried. Happy New Year!

It's not very good, but the waiter has pretty eyes and that's all Ryan's asking, really.

Before Andrew, Ryan had never been in love. (He doesn’t think, anyway.)

He was the love of Ryan’s life –

No. No, not at all. For that, Ryan is still too young; it’s just that he didn’t know better at sixteen.

Andrew had been – well, keen, really. Horny is maybe a better word, Ryan knows; people are far more willing behind locked doors, especially if they also have a spot on the football team to keep.

Ryan would like to think that Andrew taught him something about caution.

He remembers being very angry –

Taylor, smiling like she had known something that he didn’t: ‘Ry-yan,’ she had sung, lips smirking all the way to English, ‘Who are you taking to the Christmas party?’

Ryan almost hid an eye roll. (Almost.) ‘You and Gabriella can’t make me bring one of your friends. That Sophia girl making eyes at me is not helping.’

Taylor backed him up against the wall. ‘I’ll take that as an insult.’

‘You will?’

She didn’t even bother trying to hide the roll of her eyes. ‘Honestly. I am not Troy.’ Ryan remembered, belatedly, that Taylor was attentive.

Taylor leaned in against him. ‘I seem to recall Andrew stumbling out of a classroom last week,’ she had murmured. (Always discreet, Taylor.)

‘Yes,’ Ryan whispered, lips all angry edges. ‘He’s an athlete. Willing to be open about his pre-game activities, do you think?’

Taylor had looked a little sad at that, too.

Summers are for regrets and things that should better go unnoticed (and what happens on a baseball diamond stays on a baseball diamond, someone told him once). Ryan has not been interested in athletes since. He thinks of it as some kind of accomplishment; his sister doesn’t. He’s not entirely sure how much she actually knows, but between her looks and the very, very unsubtle packs of Trojans she hides underneath his pillow Ryan doesn’t really want to tell her that Andrew’s hands had been interested, but not that interested.

He thinks he’s starting to get a little bitter.

A week before his last high school semester begins Ryan catches a pair of willing hands and an even more willing mouth in a restaurant, fingers tiptoeing over his back in rhythm with Auld Lang Syne. A bathroom stall sounds so clichéd, but he indulges in his own self-pity for a while and it’s slower than he expects.

It’s not very good, but the waiter has pretty eyes and that’s all Ryan’s asking, really.

He tells Taylor and Kelsi but not Sharpay, because he knows she’ll find out eventually anyway and he dreads the moment when she’ll tell him how common and vulgar sex with someone who hasn’t paid for your dinner is. (Ryan knows that this is her way of saying I love you, but sometimes he hates it more than he’d like to admit.)

Kelsi pats his shoulder and says that at least he didn’t charge you for your coffee and Ryan chokes on his lunch. Kelsi smiles, shyly.

Taylor wonders if he wants to talk and nods thoughtfully at every pause he makes. ‘I don’t think it’s supposed to be good,’ she murmurs and studies her hands.

Ryan snorts. ‘Probably not.’

She gets up to leave but pauses at the door. ‘I broke up with Chad.’ Her hand flexes twice and her shoulders tense for a second but there is no sadness in the way she looks at him.

Ryan drops his bag.

Taylor doesn’t really talk about Chad. Ryan doesn’t really ask.

He catches a glimpse of Taylor smiling for the first time in two weeks, Chad’s hair brushing her cheek. Ryan would have taken it for a date, except the hand on her thigh really doesn’t look like it’s ever seen a basketball.

Chad throws a glance in his direction and licks his lips.

Ryan turns away.

They all go out for lunch on a Saturday, and it’s one of those things that would have been enjoyable if they were five years older but now is exceptionally awkward for everyone but Gabriella and Troy, who spend half of the meal in each other’s laps. Ryan can’t bring himself to be even a little annoyed; instead, his eyes follow a pair of torn Chuck Taylors across the room.

Chad sips his water and puts his elbow to Ryan’s ribs. ‘No sex in public places, please.’

Ryan accidentally bites his tongue. ‘Excuse me?’

Chad smiles, barely. ‘He doesn’t look like your type anyway.’

‘What, male?’ (He sounds bitter, he knows.)

‘No, not that. Just –’ Chad takes a breath. ‘Just you being interested, is all.’

Ryan raises his eyebrows. ‘Really, dear,’ he says, and pitches his voice just so, ‘You have no idea.’

Chad stares down at his plate; Ryan doesn’t catch him mumbling I have a pretty good one, actually.

Taylor emails him two days later, and Ryan really should have learnt by now that nothing escapes her. I kind of liked David Ferrer last semester. Chad didn’t mind.

It looks a little cryptic, maybe; Ryan knows that it’s not.

He steals Taylor from Gabriella at lunch the next day. ‘Chad,’ he says, and makes very sure that her eyes are soft, ‘Is an athlete.’

Taylor squeezes his arm and nods. ‘But he’s not a football player.’

‘Um,’ Ryan mumbles and wonders if this is what permission means. He doesn’t really want to linger on the fact that he never asked for it.

Taylor looks at him, voice steady, and tells him that Chad would never fuck you in a public restroom.

It’s mostly her using the word ‘fuck’ that unsettles him.

Ryan puts it off for two weeks; Taylor gives him meaningful looks at least four times a day. In the end, it’s not even really up to him, because Chad blurts out I wasn’t sad about Taylor dumping me, you know in passing, like it’s unimportant.

Ryan just latches onto his arm and drags him into a corner. ‘I –’

‘Baseball,’ Chad interrupts and smirks, and Ryan badly wants to tell him about tact.

He studies his fingernails instead. ‘You’re pretty annoying sometimes.’

Chad just wiggles his eyebrows.

They don’t really talk about it, but Ryan thinks it’s maybe unnecessary now that he’s become fairly intimately acquainted with Chad’s bed. It’s a lot like love, except they’re graduating in four months, so it’s probably not –

apart from the times when he thinks that it’s better like this, quieter.

Ryan doesn’t think they’ll ever become Ryan and Chad, the way that Troy and Gabriella are Troy and Gabriella, because there used to be a Chad and Taylor and he doesn’t really want to go there. He drums his fingertips against Chad’s knee and leans back, into the living room sofa; leather protesting loudly against his jeans. ‘I loved a boy, once,’ he says, without even really thinking.

Chad grins and kicks his foot against Ryan’s. ‘Did he have awesome hair and an even more awesome dribble?’

Ryan kicks back. ‘He did not.’

fin.

with the lights turned on.

2009-11-21T21:00:55Z

Four things:

1. I wrote High School Musical fic and people seemed to like it. I'm surprisingly pleased with both of those things. I'm also still kind of itching to write more, which both embarrasses and amuses me.

2. Apparently I caught the Cold from Hell yesterday, because since I woke up I've done nothing but blowing my nose and drinking Cold & Flu Relief. I feel more than a little guilty about maybe having to cancel every class I'm teaching on Monday. UGH. (Annoying mostly because one of them was about Coleridge and Lord Byron and the effects of opium, which seventeen-year-olds always appreciate.)

3. I got my wrist tattooed for the first time a few days ago. (In Yiddish, because I'm both pretentious and geeky; apparently the tattooist thought that Hebrew letters looked very 'futuristic'. Ironic.)

4.
Chris Colfer, I adore you. I want to put you in my pocket and take you home and have you tell me embarrassing stories when I come home every day, but I will never forgive you for making me genuinely like a song from a Broadway musical. Please make me stop humming Defying Gravity.

I genuinely like every supporting character (and Rachel!) on this show and don't really mind the presence of the rest, but Kurt and Sue make Glee for me. It could be the Chris Colfer and Jane Lynch chat show, and I would not mind one bit. Bonus points for special appearances by Kurt's dad, Puck, Tina and Artie.

It's weird watching something and not actively shipping anyone. I prefer Puck/Rachel to Puck/Quinn but don't really mind the latter; I don't mind Will/Emma but hope that they both recognise how self-absorbed he is before anything happens; and while Artie and Tina were very sweet for an entire minute, I was underwhelmed. Apparently I'm mostly hoping for Kurt to find an adorable boy and am vaguely intrigued by Rachel/Quinn.

...I really did love this episode, though.

fic: medium-sized american hearts

2009-11-16T18:21:31Z

medium-sized american hearts
High School Musical, Chad/Ryan, post-HSM3 (PG)
1 360 words. Thanks and love, as always, to autoridade.

notes: I promise that this is the last HSM-related post I'll make in weeks.

Gabriella forwards an essay-long message from Chad. Ryan knows that this is probably all Taylor’s doing.

It doesn’t really say much; that, more than anything, makes him uncomfortable.

Gabriella makes them all promise to keep in touch after graduation; passes around lists with email addresses and marks colleges with pins on a map. Ryan’s is purple, because Gabriella doesn’t know about subtlety, and very, very far away from New Mexico.

That summer, they make a lot of promises they don’t keep.

He sees Kelsi at least four times a day, every day, and Gabriella sends updates on Troy’s adventures in theatre and basketball dutifully once a week. She signs every email with far too many x’s and equally many o’s, and Ryan has given up pointing that out.

Taylor always sends carbon copies of her replies to everyone, though Ryan never really understands why. He thought, briefly, about asking her to come down to the city over a weekend, but that way lies memories of other people, and Ryan has enough of those under his bed as it is.

He has not deleted a single photo from his phone in a year and a half.

Sharpay writes emails with terrible punctuation; Ryan saw this coming at eight, when their dad bought him his first computer. It’s amazing to me, he replies to one, that I’m the dyslexic one but still manage not to write like an eleven-year-old. (No smilies; this is a given.)

His sister calls twelve minutes later, yelling into his ear. Ryan is not surprised.

He tries so hard not to focus on the names she ticks off that he stumbles over his shoelaces when Sharpay mentions that Danforth and I keep bumping into each other and I swear to God, I never know what to say. Curses her under his breath.

It’s not that he doesn’t have an email address or a phone number or a home in the right part of Albuquerque; it’s just that some things are better left alone.

All the same, Ryan has to keep reminding himself that college is about moving on. (It’s not like Chad has called him, either.)

October is hellish in every way –

Ryan ignores the phone every time it rings.

Taylor comes to visit, eventually, but Ryan knows it’s probably mostly because she’d feel guilty otherwise. With Kelsi off in a practice room, they spend two quietly uncomfortable hours in a diner and he thinks that it makes sense, now, why they were never really friends.

Taylor drinks her coffee like she’s disappointed. ‘Um,’ she says, and looks out to the street, ‘Do you still talk to him?’ (No, Ryan realises, this is why they were never really friends.)

He shrugs and hopes it looks just a little bit nonchalant. ‘I –’

‘Yeah,’ she replies as though she knows exactly where this is going, ‘Me neither.’

He gets Taylor drunk on margaritas in his dorm because he doesn’t know what else to do. ‘I always thought about you two, you know,’ she says like it doesn’t matter and tilts her head back to look at the ceiling.

‘You knew?’ Ryan tries very hard not to sound surprised.

She nods slowly and wraps her fingers around his wrist. ‘I knew.’

He mixes her another drink. (This is probably a bad idea, considering.)

Ryan starts replying to Gabriella’s emails with more than two sentences. He sends blind copies to Sharpay and Taylor; if something should happen, he theorises, one of them will let the rest know.

Gabriella forwards an essay-long message from Chad. Ryan knows that this is probably all Taylor’s doing.

It doesn’t really say much; that, more than anything, makes him uncomfortable.

At some point in high school, everyone had a crush on Troy. Ryan would like to think that his tastes have improved, since.

He knows they probably haven’t.

He doesn’t quite drunk-dial Chad a week before Christmas. There’s a text message and he realises, later, that even drunk he spells correctly, and isn’t that ironic? Ryan thinks it’s in his thumbs; his muscle memory has always been impeccable.

He understands perfectly well that I miss you would be innocent to others, but none of those people has a name starting with C. Ryan wonders if he should tell Sharpay to ignore Chad more than usual on campus, but he knows his sister and she’d probably ask more questions than he is willing to answer.

Ryan doesn’t really want avoidance. (That’s a problem, he’s pretty sure.)

He’s about to board a flight to New Mexico when Sharpay calls, voice high and impatient. ‘Don’t even pretend that you’re not elated I’m calling you four times a day,’ she begins and Ryan can’t quite keep from rolling his eyes. ‘Please tell Danforth to talk to you about you. I cannot have him following me around like a puppy. It does nothing for my reputation.’

Ryan drops his boarding card. ‘He does what?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ she sighs and smacks her lips together loudly. ‘Ryan, promise me you’ll fix whatever weird long-distance sexual tension you’ve got going on, because he is clearly too stupid to figure it out.’

Ryan rubs his face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Obliviousness is very unattractive,’ Sharpay says.

He swallows slowly. ‘You don’t say.’

His sister hangs up.

Gabriella throws a party and Ryan tries to fake a fever, because mistletoe and eggnog are not things that go well together with Chad. He’s really rather convincing, but Sharpay only glares at him and throws a pillow in his face. ‘You can’t lie to me, Ryan; you’re a performer.’

‘So are you,’ he replies and bites his tongue to keep from adding and we both know who the better actor is.

Sharpay doesn’t award him so much as a snarl. ‘Besides which,’ she says and measures her voice carefully, ‘You promised me to get Idiot Boy off my back.’

‘I did no such thing,’ he smiles. Turns his head to the wall and mumbles and that’s not his name under his breath.

He dresses up anyway, of course. (Makes very sure that he and Sharpay clash, however.)

Troy hugs him like he’s important and Ryan is surprised at how much he cares, still. (He maybe hasn’t moved on, then, at all.) Gabriella smiles, eyes bright and arm hooked with Taylor’s. Ryan fixes on a point on the wall behind them; Jason to the right, to the left – oh.

Taylor offers him a glass of eggnog. ‘Virgin,’ she murmurs and looks a little too pleased, ‘I know what you’re like drunk.’

Ryan shifts his gaze to his shoes.

It’s later (much, much later), when he has exhausted Martha’s interest and Kelsi’s patience that Ryan searches his sister’s eyes out. Idiot Boy, she mouths, and it’s the least subtle she’s ever been. He knows she’s right; Troy and Gabriella are not drunk enough – will never be drunk enough – not to notice avoidance, and people talk.

Ryan’s hand shakes a little as it taps a shoulder. Chad’s eyes are soft and unsure and this is not how it should have played out, dammit, but Ryan clears his throat anyway.

There is no hi, I’m really sorry about that thing where I said I missed you –

‘There is less mistletoe here than I thought there would be,’ Chad says and sounds almost certain.

Ryan smiles, barely. ‘Gabriella has shown surprising ornamental restraint, yeah.’ Clears his throat again, for effect; Ryan is an actor. ‘Sharpay claims that you stalk her.’

Chad chokes on his drink. ‘The campus isn’t that big.’

(Oh, but Ryan recognises a lie when he hears one.)

‘So,’ he says and glances at Taylor across the room, ‘Is college everything you expected? Playing ball and finding yourself or something?’

Chad stares at Ryan’s hands like he thinks Ryan doesn’t notice. ‘Or something,’ he mumbles.

‘You never called,’ Ryan blurts out and decides that this was a very bad idea the next second.

Chad looks down at his feet. ‘You didn’t, either.’

This is not the beginning of an end –

Eggnog knocked over and a bathroom door locked. Mouth to collarbone and arms wrapped around him and hands, hands, hands and Ryan quietly going crazy.

(Yes, he thinks. Like this.)

fin.

fic: testing water with another's daughter (i'm not saying you're pretending)

2009-11-10T15:49:15Z

testing water with another's daughter (i'm not saying you're pretending)
High School Musical, Chad/Ryan, spoilers for HSM2 and HSM3 (PG)
825 words, with an embarrassing amount of love for autoridade.

notes: I tried to write my mother a birthday present; this happened instead. I'm so sorry, Mum.

Taylor dumps him two days before his eighteenth birthday, all honest eyes and set lips. He wonders, briefly, if he should feel something other than humiliation.

Jamie Gow was his first kiss; he coaxed Chad's lips open and Chad remembers a second's soft breathing and Jamie's eyes writing insults on his back when he tickled Frieda Sastre to the ground, later.

At twelve, Chad was probably smarter than he gave himself credit for. (Scared more easily, too.)

This starts well before musicals and dancing lessons and the worst summer job Chad has ever had;

Gabriella, he knows, is not the beginning of everything.

When he wakes up with his hands digging into his pillow and images of blond hair behind his eyes for the third time in a week, he takes Taylor out to dinner. Halfway through her soup she strums her fingers against his wrist and asks if he's met someone else.

'No,' Chad says, but he's not stupid, and Taylor is really, really not, so he shifts his gaze to the floor. 'I used to be a better liar than this.'

Taylor shakes her head; a strand of hair sticks to her lips and Chad wishes so, so badly that she hadn't bothered to dress up. 'You really didn't,' she grimaces and nods towards the toilets.

Chad looks at her back retreating and thinks that this is what loss feels like, maybe.

Taylor dumps him two days before his eighteenth birthday, all honest eyes and set lips. He wonders, briefly, if he should feel something other than humiliation.

Chad catches her in the audience at the last game before winter break, leaning slowly into Aaron Piccio. He makes sure people know that he doesn't begrudge her that, at least.

In high school, everyone talks.

Aaron passes him a note in Spanish six weeks before prom: Danielle was my date before me & Taylor, so if you still wanna take her… and it's really very tempting. Troy, of course, thinks that it's an excellent idea. 'It'll be great, dude! Me and Gabriella and you and Taylor in a limo…'

Chad mutters something about how he and Taylor will probably not be doing what Troy and Gabriella will, like, at all, until he realises that it's Troy and Gabriella and it's very possible that they don't even know what the word 'sex' means.

Still, he is not entirely certain that Taylor is on speaking terms with him.

He finds himself cornered by Taylor on a Tuesday morning; back against his locker and knees almost giving in.

'If you want to take me to prom,' she says and almost smiles, 'You'll have to make it worth my while.'

Chad looks at his hands. 'Um.'

He almost feels Taylor's pity when she says that Ryan, I think, is bringing Kelsi. Hates her a little for knowing everything; hates her a bit more for making his decision just a little bit easier. (This, too, she knows.)

The entire cafeteria watches him make a fool out of himself on a table –

Chad notices, barely, a blond head turned away.

They are spared an (almost) platonic double date at prom. Alone, in the limo, Chad thinks that he is practically grateful.

Taylor pats his hand and it feels close to something like forgiveness. 'I always liked you best, you know,' he says before he can change his mind.

'I know,' Taylor replies and looks out the window.

Chad remembers to open the door for her when they arrive.

Taylor has never in her life played baseball. Aaron didn't make the team last year and apparently gave up any athletic aspirations, after. Chad has heard the whispers in the locker room.

In his head, it all used to make sense. (Still does. Maybe.)

He wears a clown suit because Kelsi asks him to and he knows better than to argue. Ryan looks triumphant and mocking, and Chad recognises it as payback even though it's months too late.

He plots revenge with a smile and wonders how much damage he could do to a trilby when the word scholarship is thrown around, again.

Quietly, he looks up the distance between Tingley Beach and the East River.

Later, when he's all sung out and not quite high on graduation endorphins any more, he finds Ryan leaning against the wall of the gymnasium, eyes closed and breaths deep.

'New York is a long way from Albuquerque,' Chad says. Doesn't really mean to.

Ryan waves his hands around. 'That's kind of the point.'

Chad kicks a stone; it narrowly escapes Ryan's polished shoes. Ryan knocks their knees together in response.

This has nothing to do with baseball diamonds and locker rooms soaked in sweat.

Ryan's hands are callused in places he doesn't remember; the rest of his skin, warmer. With his fingers on Ryan's thighs, Chad thinks that this is illogical. Or maybe he doesn't.

Chad has never cared for logic, anyway. (This is where he and Taylor went wrong, he realises.)

There are no public declarations of love.

fin.

i'm not saying you're pretending.

2009-11-08T17:48:02Z

I'd like to apologise in advance to whatever pride I may or may not have left for what I'm about to say:

I'm writing High School Musical fic and it's the first thing I've written in three months which I don't actively dislike. Someone needs to read this and tell me whether I'm losing my mind or not.

with your insane skin and my lion's mane.

2009-10-29T14:30:21Z

I am, in fact, not dead. I'm not really watching any American TV at the moment, with the exception of Glee, which I find a) wonderfully snarky; b) irritatingly earnest; and c) amazing any time they give Artie, Tina, Puck or Kurt more than one line in an episode.

I've seen three How I Met Your Mother episodes so far; feeling surprisingly 'meh' about the whole thing. How is this series of Bones?

Stuff I've watched instead:

This really worked for me. Maybe because the other two adaptations I've seen are the Kate Beckinsale one (too murky and with, er, Kate Beckinsale) and Gwyneth Paltrow (who I really don't mind, except she made Emma whiny rather than someone who is bad at scheming but generally well-intentioned), maybe because this one actually starred people I genuinely like as Emma and Knightley. (Romola Garai's face! Jonny Lee Miller's flailing hands!)

It probably helped that Sandy Welch wrote it, and she always does adaptations that I end up loving.

I spent the summer trying to find things I didn't care for in Torchwood: Children of Earth, but I've realised that I kind of loved it all. Mostly, I suppose, because it was really about how power corrupts and that's generally my sort of thing. I've also watched In Bruges, which for a good three months was the only thing I had on repeat; and In the Loop, which is amazing and really just like four episodes of The Thick of It in a row.

A week (few weeks? I can't remember) my ten-year-old cousin made me watch two High School Musical films with her (in a row). The second one features this, after which I laughed for ten minutes. (It's only subtext if it's subtle, yeah?) I may or may not have watched the third one on my own and discovered a surprising amount of good fic. I am only slightly embarrassed.

-

I've also had time to go to New York to see some family and marvel at how idiotic dollar notes are (all in the same size! All in vaguely the same colour! I keep forgetting that they're impossible until I actually have to use them.). and spend some time at home in London. (Why is it that Ginger Nuts always, always taste better than Swedish gingerbread? Am I projecting my homesickness onto biscuits now?)

Sometimes, I even have time to tweet things.

the pilots going out, and then.

2009-05-17T11:14:44Z

I saw Star Trek. Three times.

Hi, Zachary Quinto? I don't watch Heroes, as it bores me to tears, so I don't know if you're brilliant constantly, but I feel I have miscalculated your abilities as an actor. I'm sorry, I didn't know you were this good. I'M SORRY.

I haven't watched too much of the original series, but I did watch Voyager religiously in my early to mid teens, so I went in expecting campy fun. This film? Is not campy fun. This film is fun, yes, but it's also all kinds of fabulous and gorgeous and everything I've ever wanted in science fiction (except for Farscape, but FS continually breaks your heart, whereas ST is a generally happy universe). Things I liked:

- Every single principal cast member is perfect. Chris Pine is just cocky enough; Karl Urban is hilarious; Anton Yelchin makes me want to take Chekhov home and put him on a shelf; John Cho and Simon Pegg every bit as fantastic as they always are; and I loved Zoe Saldana in this.

- Speaking of Zoe, it was such a relief to have a female character who doesn't just sit around prettily or whose main purpose is to be the love interest in Uhura. She was cool and capable, and the fact that she had a romantic subplot doesn't take away from that. (taraljc has an excellent post on that here).

- Spock/Uhura. Not only because it served as Spock's emotional catalyst (and really, this film was all about Spock for me) or because it made sense for their characters, but also because I desperately wanted Kirk not to be the rebel with a heart of gold who gets the girl. It's not just that he doesn't get the girl, it's that she's not a girl to be got and a girl who doesn't want to be got.

- Spock. This film reminded me of how much I love rigid perfectionists and emotional repression in fiction. And did I mention that Zachary Quinto is fantastic? Because he blew me away.

- The death of George Kirk and the destruction of Vulcan. Kirk is fatherless, Spock motherless (and a member of a nearly extinct species). An excellent reworking of the original series, because this allows for the characters and relationships to develop differently.

- The production design is beautiful. So, so pretty. Also, the use of colour and lens flare.

In conclusion: Dear J.J. Abrams, stop creating television programmes that are either boring or cast terribly (I'm looking at you, Lost), and make more films like this one, please. Why is it that blockbuster are good all of a sudden? This happened with Iron Man last year (though I liked ST better), and now I'm confused as to what my taste in cinema is.

(Also, you have no idea how desperately I wish I had written this song. I wish I wrote that guitar line so badly. So, so badly.)

last night i told a thousand lies to you.

2009-04-22T17:01:10Z

I don't know if I've mentioned that my favourite thing about living in Gothenburg (and honestly, they are only a few - despite loving this city, I'd much, much rather be in London), but over the last few years, it's been the Way Out West Festival. In 2007, I went to see Devendra Banhart, CocoRosie, The Go! Team, Voxtrot and a load of others. Last year, it was Sigur Rós, Neil Young, The National, Nick Cave, Lightspeed Champion, Sonic Youth, Yeasayer and well, a few others. This year, they've booked Vivian Girls, Chairlift, Ladyhawke (!), Antony and the Johnsons, My Bloody Valentine and Arctic Monkeys. I don't know the men behind WOW, but one of them is clearly my soul mate.

I don't know if it's because I've not rewatched the original programme in a year or two, but I don't remember the Paula Marshall version being quite this overtly romantic. Watching this, I just want to hide out of embarrassment half of the time. I don't do well with romance. Then again, I'm really only watching this for Sarah Paulson, so. Bobby Cannavale doesn't annoy me the way I thought he would, but I doubt that I'll miss this show if it doesn't survive the summer.

Speaking of Rob Thomas, is anyone else loving Party Down? I'm willing to attribute my affection for the show to Paul Rudd rather than Rob, though. Apart from that, Chuck is really the only TV show I genuinely look forward to every week. Which is why it's on the brink of cancellation. Naturally.

Also, today I met the sister of this man together with a few pupils of mine. Occasionally, teaching German is the best job in the world.

don't think i'm being mean (just can't find a gift to send).

2009-02-07T21:49:56Z

Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I have, however, had the flu for two weeks, which has meant that I've missed all but two lectures this term. The good news is that the most challenging thing I'll be doing until May is pronouncing 'thermometer' correctly. The Department of English clearly has its goals set high.

This is the most amusing thing I've read in months. How have I been unaware of Avrilution for all this time? Comedic gold!

I've been writing a few album reviews as a favour to a friend of mine who works for a Swedish online music magazine. Her comment? 'You're so fucking mean, Helena.' I was under the impression that that's why they wanted me in the first place.

on the first night of hanukkah my bube gave to me a jon stewart for president tee.

2008-12-23T19:56:51Z

I went to Brazil, got a tan, saw enough alligators to last me a lifetime, met fabulous people and had an embarrassing amount of meze. (I have been craving nothing but falafel and baba ganoush for the last four weeks. Thanks, dtissagirl and autoridade. ;) Turns out, though, that someone stole my credit card number and had spent a little too much money for me not to notice at post offices and petrol stations. (Honestly, if you're using someone else's money, why not be a little more adventurous than buying petrol and stamps?) I only realised last week, which meant that I couldn't buy food for four days, while I waited for a new Visa card. I felt a little violated.

Apart from that, though, Brazil was lovely. And warm.

Look, no one watches this show for intellectual stimulation. I expect idiotic dialogue and wooden line delivery; that's fine. But 'I am me. Chuck and Blair. Blair and Chuck.'? You can do better than that, Josh Schwartz! If Blair keeps being silly instead of wonderfully bitchy, I'm done with you, GG. Chuck can keep being tormented, though. I rather enjoy Ed Westwick desperately trying to feign depression by whispering and squinting.

-

How is it the third night of Hanukkah already? Where did my year go? (Side-note on Hanukkah: next year, if I ask if there's such a thing as eating too much levivot, remind me that yes, there really is.)

Also, those cards I sent out last week? I forgot to put prioritaire-stickers on them, so they might not have been sorted as priority mail. In which case they're upheld in a post office somewhere, and will arrive once both Hanukkah and Christmas are over. I'm an idiot.

Happy Christmas, by the way, to the 90 per cent of you who celebrate it. Here's to hoping that you'll have a lot of food and even more presents.

well, the left wing was broken years ago.

2008-11-13T21:49:30Z

So. In the interest of full disclosure, I have to say that I've been ridiculously stressed over the last few days, which has in part been due to me having a load of pupils bombarding me with questions and being their loving, but grating teenage selves; not sleeping very much; and maybe possibly obsessing over the fact that I'm going to Brazil tomorrow, and I don't really know what to expect. (The general fabulousness of Raquel and Tissa aside, of course.) Wish me luck in Rio, Brasília and Manaus.

Re: 401: Am I the only one not quite grasping exactly why Barney needs to change his slutty ways? As long as he doesn't have Robin, who cares who he sleeps with? I, much like Mr Stinson, fail to see the connection.

Also, one thing I've loved about 405 through 407: Barney lusting after Robin meanwhile she bonds with Ted! I don't hate Ted/Robin, I just think they're boring. I appreciate the recognition that it's difficult to let go of someone you went out with for a year, and I really, really like them reconnecting. This is fantastic.

Lastly: GET A HAIRCUT, JASON SEGEL.

I'm also still full of glee about the presidential election, and I don't believe I'll calm down until Obama's inaugurated. Rahm Emanuel only contributed to my gloating, because I've loved him since the 2006 midterms.

I've got mediocre Israeli pop stuck in my head. Thank you, Dana Berger.

oh-bama.

2008-11-05T04:07:54Z

I've not cried tears of joy at anything but football matches for the last ten years, but apparently, this is what the electoral maps do to me. I don't think the fact that I've been up all night helps, but I refuse to go to bed.

Good morning!

i'll be waiting in the photo booth at the underground station.

2008-10-11T20:29:04Z

Interrupting my (embarrassingly) busy day (which mostly, honestly, has consisted of me correcting tests and planning lessons) to say that a) thank you, Swedish Academy, for completely making up for the choice of Elfride Jelinek in 2004. Harold Pinter? Excellent choice. Doris Lessing too. And fuck yes, Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clezio!, and b) I'm seeing Leonard Cohen tomorrow. Leonard Cohen. This is a man I have loved since I was thirteen, and I hope he seduces me with that voice tomorrow night.

Thank you, and good night.

fitter, happier, more productive.

2008-09-22T16:25:09Z

I fainted five times last week. Fantastic, I thought, and rang the university's health care. They told me to contact my local health centre, which I did. They: We can't make room for you today, sorry, but it sounds like you need to have your blood pressure measured. Can you contact the central emergency clinic? I ended up spending more or less all of Wednesday at the emergency clinic, during which I got to experience exciting things, such as urinalysis and an ECG. And five different venipunctures. It all, of course, amounted to nothing except the diagnosis that I 'might maybe possibly suffer from hypotension', and can I have my blood pressure measured every other day? So now I'm the proud owner of a sphygmomanometer.

Two (?) weeks into the American autumn TV spectacle, I am underwhelmed by Gossip Girl; intrigued by the so-bad-it's-almost-good True Blood; happy that Bones is exactly what I always expect it to be; and finding Greek charming and juvenile.

Also, autoridade and dtissagirl? I'm most definitely in Rio from the morning of November 15 until the morning of November 18. I have no idea what I told you the last time I even looked at my travel itinerary.

you're only coming out because you came back in.

2008-08-15T20:21:38Z

As a result of being halfway scared out of my wits that I'd cock something up at work (I don't know if it's a merit or not that I - a trainee teacher - get to do semi-serious engineering work) and not really wanting to see people, because I've been so tired, I've spent the last seven nights

And I kind of love it. It's soapy and fairly predictable at times; I wasn't at all sure I liked any actor aside from Gale Harold (who, incidentally, I've been told others don't like) until the third episode; and I still find half of the lines laughable. It's really sort of the perfect show to marathon, because I'd imagine that the storylines would drag a lot if you had to watch it only once a week, but watching six episodes or so in one sitting is instantly gratifying.

It works better for me than the UK version, and I don't really know why. I like the original version; I haven't watched it more than a few times, but I've enjoyed a lot, and I'm one of those people who like Russell T. Davies, so. I think that Nathan Maloney is one of the greatest teenage characters ever created, but that's also the reason I loathe him. He's so much of a teenager that I find him completely grating after a while (which, again, is why he's a good character - I just can't bring myself to like him. Much.). I think that Stuart is wonderfully creepy, and that his relationship with Nathan is interesting, but awkward at best.

It took me about ten minutes to realise that the American version, on the other hand, would be so very much about Brian for me. (Obviously also about Brian/Justin, because if you watch five series for the sake of Brian Kinney, you also have to watch five series worth of Justin Taylor.) QAF is, essentially, The Brian Kinney Show, and I've yet to find one thing I don't love about him. I love his hatred of everything straight and that he stereotypes anyone not part of his very, very Special and Gay World. I love that he's unapologetic about it, even after the show ventures away from the UK storylines. I love that his emo!music of choice is Sigur Rós and I love that he has ridiculous blue lights above his bed. I don't love Justin quite as much, but that's only because it took me a few episodes to come around, I think. He's so very much a teenager - just as much a teenager as Nathan is, but in an entirely different way - and I don't much care for the way he clings to Brian in the beginning. But that's probably only because I over identify with Brian (and the fact that I do identify with an arrogant, condescending arse of an anti-hero is something I'm not quite ready to talk about here yet).

(Secondary characters? What secondary characters?)

So, point is: I'm incredibly immersed in this universe at the moment, and fiercely protective of it. It's ridiculous, really.

Last weekend, I spent some time watching Neil Young, Sigur Rós, Lightspeed Champion, Nick fucking Cave, The Flaming Lips and a load of other people play. It was fantastic, and one day I might talk at length about that too.

PS: This song was randomly picked out by iTunes just now. Sometimes my computer is hilarious.

but she's still a germanic queen.

2008-07-05T22:38:44Z

I'm twenty minutes into the series four finale of Doctor Who,

DALEKS SPEAKING HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE GERMAN! Ahahaha.

Also, the German woman's accent was... off. In German, I mean. Didn't sound particularly Bavarian to me. Then again, while I do have roots in Munich, I speak with such a Berliner accent that it's ridiculous.

and the troublemakers riding on the back of the bus.

2008-05-01T07:12:39Z

I don't know if I've ever mentioned that I love Labour Day - I'm talking about May Day, and not the American holiday - but it's always been my favourite holiday. I think it has to do with the teenage version of me romanticising the union movements, and I still really like the idea of an international workers' day. Of course, it helps that May Day is celebrated massively in Sweden, and that I'm still angry, I still think that labour unions are of incredible importance, and that I still vote left. That said, I have the day off, I'm doing my laundry and trying to find a rally that I want to take part in.

Oh, and I have actually watched maybe three TV episodes over the last two weeks. Excellent.

Really, I watch this show for Chuck and Blair, and for Chuck and Blair only. It's just not fun when it's about Serena. Especially not when it's about Serena and her past troubles with Georgina. Also: I hope I never have to watch Chace Crawford juggle more than two lines at a time again. The boy really can't handle it.

I've been watching Bones, but don't have much to say, really (I'm mostly just gleeful because I enjoy it and its campiness so, so much). As far as Doctor Who goes, I'm still incredibly excited about the last five minutes of the series première.

...and now I'm back to packing books. I'm moving over the next few weeks, so I suppose I'll be living in a box for a while.

and if a double-decker bus crashes into us.

2008-03-19T09:12:58Z

Today's my birthday, which so far has been neither exciting nor boring. Then again, so far I've only decided that it's fine for me to have pancakes for breakfast, because it's my birthday. Sometimes I'm so timid that I want to strangle myself.

I've not really been keeping up with LJ at all, because I see this as a pop-culture outlet, and with no new TV, its purpose is sort of lost for me as far as posting goes. The FL is still interesting - but then again, I never doubted that you are more interesting and smarter than I am. ;)

-

Hey, Brazilians? It looks like I'll come to Rio on November 14 and say to the 16th. I believe that's a weekend. Tell me what to do in the Rio area (autoridade is apparently planning to get me drunk in kitschy bars, but apart from that, I don't really have any plans). I know I want to go to the Contemporary Art Museum in Niterói if I can (because dtissagirl always makes it look so pretty); what else should I do? I rely on your expertise, here!

In other news, I've rediscovered the Smiths. Oh, Morrissey, I'm so sorry I neglected you for most of my late teens and early twenties.

hypocrite opportunist.

2008-02-02T13:54:19Z

So, the last two weeks have really all been about a) critiquing German literature post-1945 and b) the Gothenburg Film Festival. And I actually have something to say about two (!) films this year:

I'll admit, I only really went to see it because Tom Tykwer produced it, and because I like Nina Hoss. That said, it was very, very pretty. A strange mix of a fairly realistic drama about a marriage that's falling apart, Medea and Eyes Wide Shut. It had these little interludes on stage that I really liked; without any props (very Dogville, in terms of cinematography) and with very fragmented dialogue, which is something I for some reason have always liked. That said, I don't think I really took anything from the film except that I've probably always underestimated Devid Streisow as an actor before watching this and Die Fälscher.

Eh. In the festival catalogue, some film student had said that it was really 'ninety minutes worth of female encouragement', and that it should be obligatory to show in secondary schools. While that's probably true, it lacked some fundamental character development. The group of protagonists is a study in stereotypes; there's the butch girl, the serious and truly politically active girl, the art girl, the transgendered one, the one everyone falls in love with, and the newly recruited, insecure main character. The main character, Anna, could have been interesting, if her development weren't so bloody ridiculous: she goes from being quiet and scared to being what she thinks is a true feminist. This involves, of course, pink highlights, Le Tigre-albums and track suits. While each and everyone of the characters talks about not conforming to society's idea of what women are or should look like, they instead, obviously, look like what I assume they think 'radical' people should look like. It's like the main message this film has is that you can't be a feminist and like to wear eyeliner or enjoy clothes, which is so incredibly ridiculous that I don't know what to say. Interestingly, the characters with the most depth are the ones who are slightly more 'feminine' than the rest. The ambiguous ones were far too one-note for me to really care.

It ended like a romantic comedy, too: everyone is happy and politically active! Everyone has a girlfriend (because god help us if there is even one member of a feminist group that isn't gay or is single)! Everyone goes to Sarah Lawrence! Etcetera, etcetera. I think my focus for about half the film was that Carly Pope was pretty, heh.

I've also seen Lou Reed's Berlin (which was lovely), Getting Home and Los Olvidados (at which I met my former Film Studies teacher. He apparently almost fell asleep during the film - I'd wager he's as big a fan of neorealism as I am.).

i told you about the walrus and me.

2007-12-01T20:41:14Z

Things I have been doing, rather than updating LJ: wading through course literature, working, looking into maybe buying a flat, having my social life ruined by Facebook. Heh.

I have, however, also been watching TV:

Oh, Bryan Fuller! I'm so glad you're back on my TV. By far my favourite of the new shows; if nothing else, it's as gorgeous and rich in detail as anything else Fuller's had a hand in.

I started out fairly ambivalent about Olive, but after that musical number in 1.03 (1.04?) I came around. I love Ned, I love Emerson, I love Chuck most of the time (though the sugary sweetness that occasionally comes with Ned/Chuck? I could live without it.), and most importantly: I love the clothes they're having Lee Pace wear. I never underestimate a man with good shoes. I'm a bit worried about the non-touching aspect of Ned and Chuck's relationship; for now, it's fine, but if there's no chance of them ever having sex or something remotely like it, that relationship will grow stale quickly. Really, how many adults can handle a sexless relationship? Also, if they would stop having Alan Dale recount the premise of the show before every cold open, I'd be happy. I've heard it before, cheers.

It is making me want to rewatch Amélie and marathon Dead Like Me, though.

I've not watched this week's episode; I hear there's no Chuck, so really, what's the point? ;)

It really is a terrible, terrible show. I fast forward through half of the scenes, and I only watch the Dan/Serena ones because I think that they have a little bit of nice chemistry. That, and the fact that if Dan were real, he'd be the exact kind of person I'd fall for. Sad, but true. I was close to giving up a few weeks ago, but then they won me (and the rest of the internets, it seems) over ridiculously quickly by making Chuck/Blair happen. I don't even know why I all of a sudden became invested. Help.

Also, Kristen Bell's voice grates immensely. I never liked the voice-overs on VM, and I absolutely abhor them here.

I've been watching with very little continuity, just a random episode here or there (mostly because the entire second series is incredibly difficult to find online), and really, I'm not wild about Meg. I can't even put my finger on why, exactly; I just find her a little... unexciting. She's either the good girl or the dismissive teenager, and that's fine - it's not that the character or the portrayal isn't nuanced, I just don't particularly care about her. In fact, I don't care about too many characters. I don't mind any of them, but I've yet to love anyone but Roxanne and Luke. Those two, though, I really do like. Apart or together is all the same to me (it's not, really; I like them better as a couple, but I like them individually, too). Roxanne is just spunky enough, and I have a feeling I'd be about as elitist as Luke, had I been a teenager during the sixties. I missed his glasses during the third series, though. I loved his little sixties take on Elvis Costello.

I'm annoyed at the fact that some of the music they use doesn't fit in with the timeline, though.

I've been watching Chuck, too, but at the moment, I don't know what to say. Also, far too many TV characters have that name at the moment.

To catch up on: Bones, the second half of Weeds, Friday Night Lights, Spooks (!).

and the all-night girls, they whisper of escapades out on the D-train.

2007-09-29T14:43:16Z

So, moving and therefore being connection-less for the better part of four weeks? Not fantastic.

When I don't have two hundred pages worth of literature on ethics for teachers/in school to read, I'm going to catch up on my flist. And post that 'Shonda-Rhimes-Is-a-Feminist's-Worst-Nightmare'-essay.

Also, consider me underwhelmed regarding TV so far this season. I'm watching Weeds and Friday Night Lights. I think that's about it.