I've never approved of the message "it gets better" as a way of surviving suffering. It's well-intentioned, but it teaches that suffering must be borne rather than changed, that everything depends on the hope of miraculous salvation. It's a toxic message—and I say that because for a long time, things didn't get better for me. The more that I depended on the promise that they would, the more I suffered: from the mental health issues that surfaced at the end of high school but oh, don't worry, it gets better when you graduate—through the first two years of hell at college but oh, it'll be better at a different school—collapsing utterly when I transferred, and reaching the lowest and most dangerous period of my life. It destroyed my hope, to be constantly promised a brighter future and always denied it. And as powerful as hope is, its absence is stronger.

I don't believe in promising that it will get better, if you just live through this, last until then, and wait for everything to change. I believe in supporting people in the now. I believe in not waiting out suffering, but trying to combat it.

Which is all well to say, but the truth is that I spent so long hurting, depressed, and hopeless that not only did I no longer believe that it could get better, I was afraid that it would. The higher I was, the further that I had to fall. For years people told me that I was afraid to be happy, and the truth is that they were right—because if even hope could hurt me, then imagine the harm that happiness could do.

I'm happy now, and it scares the everloving shit out of me.

I just spent a long weekend visiting Dee (century_eyes) up north. I met her family; I stayed in her house. I met Lyz (sisterite) on Saturday, for the first time since we became friends six years ago.

Each time that something like this happens, I'm certain that I'll fuck it up. I'll be quiet and boring, or desperate and self-conscious, and I'll definitely forget to say things and fail to be the engaging, intelligent individual that I purport to be. I'll be boring and boorish and awkward, and there will be no spark after all. There's such anticipation surrounding these things, you know—and there's always a fear, my fear, that it will turn out so mundane, with no magic at its heart.

And maybe that's precisely how it goes.

But I also gave Dee Persona 3, and I watched her play the first few hours, and we both loved it. I squeed to see familiar faces again (there are so many in those first few days, hiding in the background!) and she called me adorable. It's hard to give a gift of something that you really love, hard not to demand that the recipient love it too, hard not to fear they won't—but I think she can and will, and she's certainly enjoying it so far, and that's awesome.

Dee's mother is personable and kind and, even to misfit-me, comfortable to be around. Her brother cooks food to make the house smell like heaven, and baked chocolate lava muffins which were as good as promised—warm and delicious, crunchy outside and smooth inside, deep dark chocolate. Their cats are adorably strange, as cats will be; Casey the dog loves you, loves loves loves you from the moment you get to the door, and it is impossible not to feel wanted in the face of that love. Dee's mother's house is a gem, like something from a painting—everything so small and sweet, neat and precise, a triangle of light against the winter dark.

Lyz is beautiful in person—so vibrant, gorgeous coloring and fresh red hair, a rich voice and good sense of humor, a beautiful bohemian look and her umbrella had ruffles on it. I'd underestimated how lovely she would be—which is saying something! We ate remarkable flourless chocolate torte at Wild Ginger, which is saying something too because my tastes in that field are practiced and refined: chewy and dense with a hint of crunch at the crust, served with whipped cream (Chantilly cream, by the way, is just sweetened, sometimes flavored, whipped cream), and topped with crushed almond praline which to my surprise was the perfect delicate, crumbly, sweet counterpoint to the dense cake. (A+, would eat again.)

Downtown Seattle shined with rain and Christmas lights, and Dee and I shared an umbrella. (Washington flooded over the weekend from all that rain.) Pike Place was a new scent on the air each time the wind changed direction. Closer to home, Dee took me to a local used bookstore where the floor creeks and books are shoved into every cranny, where the paperbacks are a little warped and everything is refreshingly cheap. Driving out of town on Monday the landscape was still swathes of dim water, bare trees and yellow brush, and a shroud of creeping mist—and while it disturbed the train service, it was as beautiful as something in the best gothic novel.

And yes: I'm still nervous, and I will always be quiet and strange, and I forget to say things. I make poor eye contact. It takes a long time for me to get comfortable. I am mundane after all. These trips, these meetings, are too: just a few folk, in a place, together.

And outside of these incredible trips and meetings, my life is nothing special. I do nothing and contribute less. My mind's a mess, and it may always be.

But there is so much, these days, which is right.

Despite being awkward and normal and quiet, people still love me. Despite a strange and busy December, I can still have a beautiful holiday season. Despite it all, amazing things happens. Despite it all, they promise to happen again. Despite it all—

Despite being normal, imperfect, and scared out of my skin—

I want them to.

I went through long years when I wasn't able to be happy. I went through years when I thought it was impossible, when I was afraid of the very idea. But when happiness hits you this damn hard and unforgiving—when it hits me, like a bullet in the head—no matter how terrifying (and it is terrifying), it's undeniable too.

I love almost every Florence + The Machine song, and I sing them loud and find them so affecting, but every now and then I hear one of those songs—songs which I know by heart—as if I'm hearing them for the first time. I hear it deep down, and finally understand what it means—what it means to me. I listened to Dog Days Are Over on the ride up to Washington, and found it to be true.

This comes like a bullet, like a train, it hits so hard and scares me so much. I don't mean to exaggerate—I'm still normal, my life is still imperfect, and even this wonderful weekend was just a little trip up north. But even for a normal little girl there are apocalypses and revelations. These are mine. They are large and strong, and terrifying.

These days, I'm happy.

(And I never wanted anything from you, except all that you had and what was left after that too.)

A couple of days ago I was lying in bed not long after dinner, watching Devon play StarCraft II—and I realized that I desired nothing more than what I had. This is remarkable, for I am a creature of whim and discontent. There is never a time when I don't want something—as silly as a certain dessert* (usually desired an hour either side of midnight, when the store that sells it is quite closed), as essential as physical or mental comfort. I've mentioned Cats before, just a few dozen times, as one of those formative things which I can point to and say: "me." I am a Rum Tum Tugger (oh how I wish the original Broadway cast soundtrack were on YouTube! this version is good but not great; meanwhile, you can read T.S. Elliot's original poem here):

The Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he'd rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,
If you set him on a rat then he'd rather chase a mouse.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn't any call for me to shout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there's no doing anything about it!

This is not a cruel thing, it is not intentional—but just ask Devon: it can be infuriating. I can't help it! My disobliging ways are a matter of habit. I am whimsical and discontent, desirous and melancholic—there are often many things in my life that I want or wish were different.

That night, belly fully, curled on my precious modal bedding, entertained by game and conversation, I was comfortable and content. Devon asked me if I needed anything—and I wanted, for once I wanted, for nothing. There are times, these days—and they surprise me each time—when I am happy.

Since then I've been dealing with a sudden spike in back pain, the sort that has made it difficult to do things and harder to be happy. After all, the universe much maintain its delicate balance. And I'm not pleased about it, of course. But that wonderful evening is still worth mentioning and remembering.

* Number of times I spelled "flourless" as "flowerless" before I edited that entry? Two. This is why you should not live by spellcheck, kids! It gives you words, but not always the right words.

I've been meaning to post a couple things, but have been occupied and preoccupied enough to procrastinate for days. No time like the present, I suppose. How many things is it that make a post, again?

1) This line began as a typo* in a story I've been scribbling, but it's a typo that froze me when I caught it, and I have not the heart to delete it. Edited and isolated, then:

"Is that really what scares you?" I ask, whispering because this question, all of this, is meant just for you.

2) Speaking of scribbled stories (tangentially), I've been sitting on a pair of IOGraphs for a while now. I posted one of these a while ago, but my on/off obsession with the program continues. IOGraph is a simple program that tracks and records mouse movement. Lines indicate movements; circles indicate pauses—the bigger the circle, the longer the pause. Click through for larger versions and notes. Yeps, I'm a dork—but it's oddly fascinating, ain't it?


2 hours writing/transcribing fiction.


10 cumulative hours general computer/internet use.
(Sometimes I paused the recording when afk, and sometimes I forgot.)
3) As mentioned, century_eyes visited last weekend; that weekend was also Devon's maternal grandparents's 60th wedding anniversary. No huge post from me, this time; I came away with something perhaps more vivid but less revelatory: comfort, simple comfort. It was a busy weekend: Dee got in late because the Memorial Day traffic was hellish; we spent all day together on Saturday, and Sunday I split into social thirds: breakfast with Dee, early afternoon anniversary celebrations next door, and a long last conversation with Dee in the afternoon before she drove back (Sunday evening, to avoid traffic on at least that half of the trip). I went into Sunday wary and tired, but the family event was surprisingly enjoyable (Devon's grandparents were adorable, and had the chance to talk books with someone) and that last conversation with Dee—in Starbucks, in the early evening, with weather wavering between muggy and sprinkling rain—was my favorite part of the weekend. Conversation flowed, the atmosphere was lovely, and when Dee stayed a little big late for a little bit more time together...

It was a twilight time. Overcast weather and evening coming on made for literal twilight, but there was a sense also of the in between, of neither here nor there: the moment stretching on, intimate and shadowed, delicate and timeless. That's a rare thing, a magical thing. Quite beautiful, indeed.

So, yes. A good weekend, a good visit. Devon's threatening to ship me up North to visit her, sometime before too long. And, romantic rhapsodizing aside—and this does make me a geek, I know—but goddamn is it good to talk Sims, in person, with another simmer.

4) Today Maddy scratched on the bedroom door. Maddy is Madison, one of Devon's family's cats, although I think she's turned changling, been abducted by aliens, brainwashed or something, I don't know—because after a few minutes sniffing the corners of the room she found a corner to curl up in and slept there for a few hours, then switched to the bed for a few more. Little circle of fur and purr, warm and adorable, drooling all over my black sweater—it was pretty adorable. My life feels empty, my heart feels empty, without a cat of my own, but having one's not an option right now; since I go bereft, afternoons with Maddy are blessings, every rare one. It made for a good day, despite the fact that today was also spent installing Sims 3: World Adventures. And then uninstalling it, and the base game, and reinstalling it, and the base game, and setting up a new mods folder, and removing AwesomeMod because it doesn't work with the current patch, and then playing a few hours of Ghost and Aaron: Things Which Never Happened in France (and Riverview). There are many awesome Sims posts coming, let me tell you.

5) I think it's five things that make a post, but as I flip back through my notes and open tabs (and having finally finished the review which made up half of said notes), it appears that I've taken care of most I had to say. But when forced, I can pad with one more: I'm finally moving out of my women only music playlist phase, in part because Sims stories beg a different soundtrack but mostly because of the new How to Destroy Angels EP. HTDA is Trent Reznor's new project, a dreamy dark addictive sound. Check out and download the EP for free on the HTDA website, or first check out "The Spaces in Between" (although "BBB" is my current favorite):

( Under the cut. )

* The typo, for the curious, was the last word—"you" was meant to be "her."

I'm having one of those nights where I just don't want to go to bed. Not because I know I can't sleep (although that's always a possibility), not because I'm restless, but simply because I'm not in want of rest. I am, instead, in want of a diversion—but nothing appeals. I have a film I could start, but that would take too long. I have two films I could finish, but neither intrigue. I'm reading two books, but one is frustrating me and the other is slowly paced and doesn't appeal. I could start a new book and probably should, but none in my piles is calling out. I could probably lose myself in a few hours of Sims, but that isn't likely to seduce me into sleep.

So instead I'm poking around the internet, wondering what in a perfect world I would chose to entertain myself, and the answer is obvious because I've been thinking about this for the last couple days, as I dither over reading material while playing and writing Ghost and Aaron.

You see, I have a fetish for intimate relationships. Not any, not all—but unusually intimate relationships.

(I don't have to warn you, do I, that all text and links below may contain explicit content?)

In Adair's The Dreamers (my review) and the subsequent film, a pair of twins and their friend huddle together in a den of isolation and intimacy, breaking the boundaries of sexual orientation and incest while they build a boundary against the real world. In the film Threesome, a mixup leads to a co-ed threesome of college roommates whose type two love triangle creates an uneasy balance of unusual intimacy and repressed desire (ha—TV Tropes lists it as an example of this triangle type). In Brite's Lost Souls (my review), Nothing and his father Zillah curl together in their own den of iniquity where the incestuous aspect of their relationship only serves to draw them closer. In the manga Angel Sanctuary, the protagonist and his sister fight their attraction to one another—until they give into it, leave home, and share a brief and blissful period of love (before rocks fall and everyone dies).

Incest isn't necessary, although it's such an obvious, universal taboo that when that barrier is broken, the relationship is unusually intimate by default. But any relationship with an unusual level of intimacy scratches my itch. In the manga Boy's Next Door (my review; this manga is also by Kaori Yuki, who wrote Angel Sanctuary), a young prostitute meets a serial killer of young boys—and against good sense and all odds, falls in love with him. It goes further than that, still. Intimacy that appears unhealthy or inappropriate satisfies me: in the manga pair Kawaii Hito - Pure and Kawaii Hito - Cute, older men have relationships with high school/college-aged boys—and in Pure, the younger is so shy and vulnerable that he becomes entirely dependent upon his lover. A Perfect Circle's Pet croons, "Pay no mind what other voices say / They don't care about you, like I do / Safe from pain, and truth, and choice, and other poison devils / See, they don't give a fuck about you, like I do." Intimacy forged and expressed in unusual or extreme ways also satisfies me. In the BL game Togainu no Chi, Kau is scarred and pierced, his eyes and vocal cords have been destroyed, and he walks on all fours all because it pleases his owner, Arbitro. This is also what spawns and feeds my love of guro, where pain, mutilation, and even death can be signs of intimacy and love. But even the simplest love story can fit—in Ai no Kotodama (in volume 2, a prequel), best friends discover that their unusually close friendship may open doors to a physical relationship. And it's even the attraction of most slash: not the intrigue of gay sex (although that's great too!), but an unexpectedly intimate relationship read into heteronormative, plantonic canon.

Attraction which invades platonic relationships, which defies sexual orientation, which breaks the barriers of incest, which defies social mores, which finds unusual expression, which appears unhealthy, imbalanced, or extreme—this gets me, deep down; it tugs at my heart, my guts; it captures my interest and imagination. In part it's the guilty pleasure and intrigue of taboo, but it's also the sense that what defies the normal order must do so for good reason: this is a passion that runs so deep that it cannot be constrained by law or reason. In other words, I love unusual intimacy because it is unusual—and because it is intimate. I have a lot of fetishes, but this one may top the pile.

This is why Ghost and Aaron are cousins, why they were friends as close as brothers, why Aaron doesn't identify as gay (or even bisexual), why one steals and one dreams, why Aaron insults Ghost's mother and Ghost uses Aaron for sex, why this entire storybit exists. They are that way because the live that way, in their shitty house in my silly game while I sit back and let them have control. But they are still children of my consciousness and so they fulfill my desire for this sort of slightly discomforting, always meaningful, intimacy.

And that's the sort of story that I want, right now. The last one I stumbled upon—entirely by accident—was the film Threesome, which may not be great (the critical response certainly wasn't), but pleased me because it appealed so well to this little fetish of mine. But that was months ago, and I haven't run in to anything similar sense—save for Ghost and Aaron, of course, but I want something to consume for a bit, rather than something to make. So I appeal to you—anyone who's manage to read this far and may understand what I mean. Do you have in mind a book, a film, a story of any sort which might fulfill this desire? I would love to hear about it.

From the lovely tabular_rasa: a music meme!

1. Reply to this post and I'll assign you a letter.

2. List and upload (or link from YouTube) 5 songs that begin with that letter.

3. Post them to your journal with these instructions.

My letter was R, ergo:

The Rum Tum Tugger from the musical Cats (DVD performance)
I much prefer the original Broadway cast performance, but alas it is not on YouTube. Cats is one of those pieces of media which I can point to and say "me." I've seen it many time, I used to fall asleep to Memory, I know all the songs by heart. (I own the poems, too.) Of all the cats Macavity is my favorite, but Rum Tum Tugger is the most like me. Contradictory, whimful, curious, indeed.

Radio Song by Superbus (song with the lyrics)
I have a secret weakness for almost any pop which isn't in English. J-pop is my favorite but French pop delights me as well. Bright, peppy, mindless music is simply more enjoyable when I can't understand all of lyrics. I do understand this song (my French isn't that rusty), but I enjoy it nonetheless. I discovered it through Guitar Hero, and it was one of the first songs I learned to play on expert.

Ruby by Kaiser Chiefs (official music video)
As with the above, I discovered this song through Guitar Hero, and it was perhaps the second song I learned on expert. It (and Guitar Hero) also lead to the creation of a playlist full of music like this: Franz Ferdinand, Wolfmother, The Killers, OK Go—high-energy music with an edge of emo, all with by male vocalists. I listened to it through most of the winter.

Rats by Rasputina (set to the album cover)
Not my favorite Rasputina (it's be hard to narrow down what that is—perhaps High on Life, or Girls' School, or When I Was a Young Girl), but it's somewhere nearer the top of the list. When I grew tired of high-energy emo boys, I switched back to my usual playlist: Rasputina, Dresden Dolls, Poe, Imogen Heap, Kate Nash—odd songs sung by odd women. I find their oddness inspirational.

REV 22:20 by Puscifer (Underworld music video)
Devon told me once that before we met, even when he never planned to date, he knew that all potential girlfriends had to fit one requirement: they had to love Tool. My adoration for Keenan tends more towards Puscifer and A Perfect Circle, but I love a lot of Tool as well. There is little in the world which is not turned golden by Keenan's touch—he is a musical god among men. Of all of his oeuvre, Pet is my favorite. But REV 22:20 (surely, I will come quickly) is one of his best works—few things are as seductive as these five minutes.

I approve of memes which operate on a voluntary basis, rather than tagging; I approve even more of ones which indicate preferences, tastes, some sort of thought and identity outside of one word answers for age or favorite food. Tastes in media don't necessarily indicate anything about a person (goodness knows I've very good friends with tastes which oppose mine), but the reasoning behind them sometimes does—and I think it's all interesting, either way.

Having just discovered a new artist, I've lately been thinking on my listening habits—how and why I listen to music.

Said artist is s00j/S.J. Tucker. You can listen to and download her albums here, and to say it outright: I recommend her music. I discovered Tucker through saveours00j, a coalition of fundraising efforts that sprung up after she was hospitalized (as a traveling performer, she has no health insurance). I'd heard of her before, of course, through various journals that I read, but only recent began to listen to her music.

I never like music when I first hear it. At first listen—starting with Quartered: The Songs of Palimpsest because I had just finished the novel—honestly, I was not impressed. Tucker's voice was raw, the lyrics were too obviously based on the book, and there was just nothing there to grab me. But I've listened to Maynard James Keenan sing and not liked it, just because the song was new to me—and if you know my deep and abiding love for Keenan (and it was a Puscifer song no less, which is my favorite of his projects), then you can imagine how impressive that is.

Almost every time, I need to be familiar with a song before I grow fond of it. That doesn't mean I need to know it by heart; indeed, I usually spend my first listen or three with the song running in the background, ignoring it and growing unconsciously accustomed. Once the song is familiar, I can return to it—actively or just again as background music—and if the song is good, easily come to love it. This, I think, is even truer for a new artist which bringing with her a whole new sound, rather than the near-familiar sound of a new song from an artist which I already enjoy.

I don't know why that is. Perhaps because I prefer that music which I know and won't distract me unless I want it to, since I often keep music on in the background while I read or write. Perhaps I'm so distracted by the unfamiliarity of a new song that I can't appreciate what I'm hearing.

I do now—appreciate it, I mean, as Tucker is concerned. In fact, I can't stop listening to her. Her voice is richer by far than I thought. Many of her songs are based on myth, experience, or novels—and where in the latter case I suspect they do not quite stand on their own, but that doesn't decrease their value. (Some of my favorites have such inspirations.) But what keeps me coming back is so hard to name: her music is often simple, her own raw voice and a guitar, but Tucker imbues it with a spark, the very definition of "greater than the sum of its parts". Energy spills through her voice: the human which is the divine. It's difficult to explain without verging on purple prose, but—but hers is the sort of music which makes my heart and throat feel warm.

Finding music like this is why I push through my immediate apathy or dislike for everything when it's new. I listen to shite, too, and unremarkable music, and songs which I like well enough but which don't inspire long posts. All of that music is enjoyable in its own way, but finding new music which catches me afire with joy and inspiration, well—like the best books, the best films, it crosses that line between entertainment and art and makes me feel blessed for my exposure to it.

If you're interested in giving Tucker a try, my favorites (entirely biased no doubt, but there you go) and some of the I think more accessible (e.g. they stand independent of their inspiration or you're likely to be familiar with that inspiration already) are:

We Are Shangri-La
Firebird's Child
The Drowning
Wendy on Board
Red-Handed Jill
Green-Eyed Sue
as the Wendy Trilogy, along with Alligator in the House

Tucker still has medical bills to pay, an her fundraisers are ongoing—so of course it would also be wonderful to buy her music and contribute to the cause. I actually love listening to her albums on her website, but it's gotten to the silly point where I don't listen to much more. I expect we'll buy them tonight, that I can add them to playlists instead of listening to them on repeat.