Digging around last night in the valley of death that is my gdocs, I found both abortive attempts at an opening section to the Upstairs Downstairs fic I always sort of wanted to write.
I remember distinctly thinking, two years ago, that they were both fundamentally terrible. I actually (breathe, darling, you're not going to be hounded to death for saying this) really don't think that anymore. I think they're both quite good opening attempts at a project -- making emotional sense of ANYTHING about that show -- that is fundamentally impossible on a basic level.
And I've already actually said everything I want to about Persie. I have not actually said everything I want to about Hallam, or at least his character type, but it's a type I can find or create elsewhere very easily without the twenty-ton weight of this particular canon slung around my neck. There were going to be Agnes and Blanche sections as well, but saying anything coherent at any length about either of them is -- well -- it was above my skill level when I cared enough, and I don't imagine I'll have started caring enough again by the time I acquire the skill.
Mostly I'm just sad that it's a waste of quite a good title.
The poem in Persie's section is DH Lawrence; the epigraph is the Indelicates' Patty Hearst song, not their Unity Mitford one, but I always thought it was more Persie-applicable; the atmosphere owes everything, whole and entire, to hostile reading of The Pursuit of Love. The title of Hallam's section is, annoyingly but inevitably, Eliot; the epigraph is a paraphrase of an extremely rambling and elliptical statement from the Deadwood DVD commentary, which I was going to source and transcribe accurately if I ever damn well finished it.
I have a title -- the mirror crack'd -- an epigraph -- When I say this, it should mean laughter,/not poison. (Richard Siken) -- and exactly one line -- Hallam has faith in his own correctness as though it were air or gravity, stitched into the fabric of the world. -- for the Agnes section, and absolutely nothing for Blanche. According to the file notes, I was listening to Michael Nyman's Drowning By Numbers score a lot, which probably makes a better soundtrack than the mix I linked above.
Contains: imagined self-injury; inexplicit but evident sex; inexplicit but very evident toxic relationships of all varieties; romance that makes absolutely nothing better for anyone; that dream where all your teeth fall out; untrammelled 1939.
( the dolls' house, openings mk. i and iiCollapse )
Reading over them now, I actually sort of like the first one better, on a prose level, as a whole -- which was ASSUREDLY not my opinion at the time -- even though I still think the quotation is a bit shoehorned in; I think the second one comes pretty close to saying what I wanted it to, in places, though.
This entry was originally posted at http://thatyourefuse.dreamwidth.org/4831
My taste in perfumes is going weird.
I thought I had it worked out: I like big jungle-of-death florals and bitter leather and skank. I hate anything that smells like dessert. Easy.
I think Un Lys may have been the first crack in the wall. And then the huge billowy dry vanilla drydown of Coty L'Origan (which I need to blog). And today, I have received the vial of BPAL Dorian which ceebee_eebee kindly picked up for me at NYCC: "a Victorian fougere with three pale musks and dark, sugared vanilla tea."
That should by all rights translate to Eau de Get It The Fuck Off Me.
I am sniffing my wrist like it's 1921 and I think there might be cocaine on it.
Which is by way of saying: fuck, FINE, I know you all saw this coming... I'm abandoning my "no Angel EVER" position. I mean, at the very least, I need it as a reference point, right?
Also Annick Goutal's Eau de Charlotte, which sounds like less of a flaming clusterfuck.
Pray for me.
This entry was originally posted at http://thatyourefuse.dreamwidth.org/4759
Anyone remember this? Anyone remember how I said I was going to do a S2?
SO YEAH THIS IS HAPPENING.
SUMMARY: 1974. Ten months after his driver and -- unbeknownst to him -- his wife attempted to unseat Terry Marsh from his position as ruler of Lynchester's criminal underworld, the Firm is getting its feet again with the aid of Big Eddie Acton, a legendary porn producer back in town with big ideas. However, the consequences of past actions are proving increasingly difficult to dodge -- as are Terry's still-mutinous wife, his restless subordinates, and an unexpectedly compelling new business associate.
TAGLINE: The boys are back.
( New CharactersCollapse )
( Episode TitlesCollapse )
( Soundtrack AlbumCollapse )
This entry was originally posted at http://thatyourefuse.dreamwidth.org/4612
Dior Poison: ( I bought this about half as a joke and half because it seemed obligatory.Collapse )
This entry was originally posted at http://thatyourefuse.dreamwidth.org/4596
Um, okay, so.
Apparently, in eight to twelve months my parents will be moving.
And in three months, either I will have found a job and an apartment and moved out, or I'll come home and find the locks changed.
I have no college degree and no qualifications and no savings. I work entry-level retail. I don't drive.
If anyone has any idea what the fuck I can do about this, or knows where in Massachusetts I can start looking for a job and an apartment on really short notice, I... would really appreciate hearing it.
Signal boosts would also be deeply appreciated.
This entry was originally posted at http://thatyourefuse.dreamwidth.org/4575