Thamiris' Glossolalia

On Anonymous Hate Memes
The newest irritation? How some people in a fit of etymological spasticity have bastardized the suffix of "anonymous," calling anyone who posts that way a "mouse." Um, hello. If you're posting anonymous vitriol, you're not a mouse--you're a pussy. The attempt to cutify the emotionally-retarded is like PC-ness on monkey-crack: you're not a desperately jealous, pathetic loser if you post anonymous hate, but a cute little mouse. All part and parcel of not wanting to own your words and actions, and how five-years-old is that?

And then ratting out the communities? Can't you grok that it's the same thing, cheap anonymity in the same stinky rayon dress? Besides, fannish hate is a thinly-disguised compliment, with hate just jealousy of perceived greater power.

Snore.
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That said, Tom Welling is very pretty, so pretty that I've decided to forge ahead with an old story: it's so much more pleasant to be steeped in man-angst and cock.

Mirror, Mirror
Returning to Montreal, I looked into a mirror: I have churches for eyes, a cobbled tongue, St. Laurent hair. It was the first time I ever realized in a thousand-flashing-lightbulb way the extent that the city's inscribed on my bones...Or, truer yet, that my skeleton's made of Montreal.

My trippy, awkward, overthought relationship with language? From growing up in a city with language police, from the Anglo habit of saying everything twice, once in English, once in French, of ploughing ahead in the second if the first gets a blank stare or a nationalist glare then committing crimes against the rolling-R flow of la langue officielle. My ineffable sense of me-ness that sometimes reads like arrogance? From living in a city that knows who it is, baby, love it or hate it, not caring about its own contradictions, its contradistinctions, its contractible mix of greasy poutine and Josephian Oratory. My sometimes-feeling of outsiderness? Anglo alienation in a pure-laine world, words outlawed, no fleur-de-lys embossed on my inner eye-lids, no Grandmere of an endless brood to serve me tourtiere, ancestral coureurs de bois, and Kamouraska, no sense of oppression by the esprit-crushing maple leaf. My attraction to the hidden, the locked door, the secret discovery? Growing up in an anti-linear place, no boundaries between sacred and profane, old Cartier and new quartier, stone and glass, high-brow and Neanderthal, so that every turn of a corner takes you through a looking glass to somewhere unexpected.

Vancouver's given me openness, relaxation, a sleepy appreciation of the natural world, but Montreal? My birth-city owns me.
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Debauchery
debauch 2 make intemperate or sensually indulgent. One man turning another into a sensual slut--big, big kink of mine. Lex seducing Clark, forcing out his inner whore so that Clark will do anything for an orgasm? Steamier than Vesuvian lava. Lex throwing aside his reserve to become Clark's hungry bitch, following him everywhere for a taste? Hotter than the sun's inner core. Sirius becoming Remus' 24/7 cock-sucker? Remus becoming Sirius' eternal sex-slave, no thoughts of Harry, morality, propriety or place? Um...Woof! I'm essentially an equal-opportunity debauchery fan: it matters less who becomes debauched than that it happens, that plain ol' desire turns into something flamey and obsessive, orgasm as ontology. (Sidenote: obession has a disappointing etymology: ob- + the Latin root sedere, sit. I'd like a wilder, more furiously active verb, one that suggests masturbatory stalking, not window-side mooning.)

Mmmm. Kink. Doesn't it just make you all tingly to think of your favorites? Okay, duh, because that's the nature of kink: if it doesn't make you tingly, it doesn't qualify for that exalted category.
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Dear Canadian Idol,

While there are many obvious targets of attack on your show--a host with all the personality of Play-Doh left in the rain, a panel of judges whose combined zingers wouldn't fit on the head of Mulroney's dick, etc.--I choose to chastize the judges for their ubiquitous and egregious misuse of the word disillusioned. Judges, the decapitated chickens squawking before you are not, in fact, disillusioned about their singing ability (at least before they were booted from the show): they are deluded about said ability (or lack thereof). I, on the other hand, to give you an example, am disillusioned about the current state of Canadian literacy after watching you repeatedly upchuck on the English language, while you are deluded about your value as entertainment.

Yours with a whip,

Thamiris

Here's one for the Miss Manners amongst you:

Is it socially-backward to serve coffee in (uber-pretty) teacups with saucers rather than in mugs?

Edited to add the last clause.

It's hard to make conversation when your mind is spiked with a thousand pins. Because my brain is plagued with ten hundred butterflies, sniffed flower-hearts, and powdery orange trails, and when I want to speak, write, articulate, it's stab-stab-stab to stop the fluttering, and here's a dead diurnal insect to feast on. Appetizing in ten shades of not-ness. ...Which is just my lepidoteran way of saying that sometimes it's hard to translate what's in my head, and to get started I need to go meta on the problems of getting started.

lobelia321 challenged me awhile back to write an adjective-strewn hom(o)age to pretty men, as I am an adjectival champion while she loves her some adverbs. Not that I don't slobber for adverbs myself, but adjectives...When I first studied Anglo-Saxon poetry I fell for the kennings, the truncated metaphors with which the scops described their world--why call a body a body when you can call it a heart-box, or the sea a sea when you can call it a whale-road? I stole this sensibility, how it tail-spins ordinary perspective so you're forced to re-see the mundane with an added coat of beauty. So adjectives in my prose are all about surreal spin, you might say, or a day at the circus.

Except I started writing about Clark being gang-banged in ancient Rome and found in the little paragraph this chasmic dirth of adjectives. Am I wrong? Do I actually use adjectives more sparingly than I thought? ("Um, Tham," you're thinking, "you could be sharing gang-banged Clark and instead you're yappeling about adjectives?" And a mass defriending ensued...)

I'd intended to write something about "Vessel," which I enjoyed like mad, but that will rocket me straight to my Lexual issues. See, I loved ambiguous!Lex, and this season I'm not seeing the ambiguity, just a guy pathologically envious of Clark. The admiration that formed a key part of that envy was tremendously sexy to me, the big throbbing homoerotic root of their relationship, and now it's...I was going to say it's gone, but in fact Lionel has caught it two-handed: he's the one teeming with ambiguity, the one with the unpredictable edge, even more so than before because instead of inventing new flavors of evil he's also trying experiementing with the taste of good, creating even more intense sexual chemistry with Clark, with Martha...

Yes, I must face it: Lionel is the new Lex.

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As a final note, I'd be ecstatic, on the other hand, if people could convince me that this season has demonstrated Lex's wild longing for Clark. (And note the "for," which can't be replaced with "to be.")

The longer I stray from LJ, the more tempted I am upon returning to write that This Is What I Really Think post. You know, the one where I finally say, “If I see Mediocre Story X rec’ced one more time I’m going to gouge out my own eyes and use ‘em as marbles,” and, in the great tradition of Flannery O’Connor, “X might’ve been a good woman if there’d been someone there to shoot her every minute of her life.” But then I go all Canadian and seal my yap shut ‘cos in the end supercilious bitchery went out with Marie Antoinette. It’s so pre-Revolutionary, yo.

In other news, I had an uber-geek mindgasm when I discovered, after years of irrational longing for it, that English does in fact contain an adjective to describe things mousy: murine. Why I lusted after such an adjective is one for the Cool Cat in the sky, but there you have it: during a Scrabble-playing scan of le dictionnaire, there it was, in all its grey, Latinate glory. Actually, my investment in this word might stem from 1) Herbert, the cancer-riddled, doomed (and, given that she was actually female despite her name, perhaps transgendered) rodent whom I once mouse-sat and 2) the Love to Eat Them Mousies Kliban cartoon that never fails to make me laugh.

Not that anyone gives murine ass, but I continue to live in the moist jungles of wild fangirl lust: Smallville, as always, is my show, the show, the one true show of shows, the vibratorial spectacle that always leaves me flushed and nicotine-needy. I’m still not buying the Lex-Lana thing because that girl’s pure brainless catalyst, the stone in the pond, but then there’s no accounting for taste, right? I still maintain her lure’s only in her Clarkian connection—hell, I might do her myself if she kept my motor running with dirty-talk about Clark’s sexual prowess…

I’m still hanging out with Dean and Sam, too, because a girl can’t have too much pretty in her world. Besides, I like Supernatural—I’d even watch it if the boys were uggers (I think) just for early Stephen King mixed with homo-bro-erotic tension.

So, what else? The world continues not to revolve around me, a fact I still lament. For instance, if I were Grand Imperial Poobah-ess of the Universe, ( Collapse ) wouldn’t have been booted from America’s Next Top Model; my students would be a mix of Stephen Hawking, Albert Einstein, and Geoffrey Chaucer; my Prime Minister would be Jack Layton, and not that dead-eyed, Conservative peckerhead, Stephen Harper; I’d live here; and, of course, I’d have a harem for sexual satisfaction and light housework.

Whoo! It’s my birthday today, and I’m forty! Forty and fabulous! I thought it would be traumatic to screech into this culturally-loaded age, but no. It’s great, a no-bullshit, kiss-my-ass-if-you-don’t-like-it brilliant time, and I’m positively glowing. It’s like I’m pregnant with me, which is odd and freaky and true, like there’s this new me who’s been struggling to pop out and now she’s…Well, perhaps I won’t extend that metaphor, but, you know, whoo!

Thank you so much to all the lovelies who sent me emails and LJ notices and the like! You’re so kind, and you’re making my day even more fabulous than before! Now if I could just get someone to write me porn…

Heh. Some things never change.

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I do love the slippery flow of poetry, the sighing puffed breath from the rounded belly of an a, the clanging of c's thrown horseshoe, the broken gasp of t's dying cross. Words never cease to stun me, even the simple sounds of each individual letter. Truly, humanity's greatest feat has been the invention of the alphabet, with its lullaby cadence and divine powers.

Speaking of gods (she wrote, tripping over the awkward segue), I'm mired, happy and porcine, in my muddy belief that Ronon is the bastard love-child of Ares. Not just the plain old god of war, but THE Ares, my gorgeous, bad-tempered, violent, leather-clad tormentor of Hercules and panter-after of Xena. You know, the tv god, the one who carried me whimpering into fandom nearly a decade ago. Ah, good times.
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Happy belated birthday wishes to ethrosdemon and violetsmiles--all the best, chicas!

Thanks to the mysterious Valentine's Day fairy who has been leaving pretty icons all over fandom, including here! You've brightened many people's day, including mine!

Thanks too to the lovely person who sent me the cyber-rose with the sweet note attached! Happy Valentine’s Day to you!
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Other than the little Valentine’s surprises mentioned above, my day has sucked mashed worms and pooping puppies. I forgot how February 14th is designed to leave one feeling snarly and inadequate. I’d like to take Cupid’s arrow and shove it up his bum.

I think I’ll play hooky and bypass my office hours to see a movie. Nothing like a little naughtiness to perk a girl up…

You know, if y’all could remind me why I shouldn’t commit tvicide because of the recent minimalized-to-bug-size interaction between Clark and Lex on a certain show written and produced by homophobic twats, I’d be ever so grateful.

Ed. Note: There's currently a spoiler here for the SGA finale, a minor one, but I thought you should know.

Title: The Day the Weather Broke
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Length: 219 words
For yavannauk

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Title: Nothing Like the Sun
Fandom: HP
Pairing: Remus/Sirius (Marauders Era)
Rating: NC-17
Length: 694 words
For amberlynne

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