Raven's Flickr

Media Viruses: Things You Wouldn’t Say in Broad Daylight.



Still Not Dead Yet

Well, it’s been hell central as usual around here.  I’ve been posting my thoughts exactly nowhere, which is why you haven’t seen them here or on VOX.

I came on today and found the funniest post I’ve read in a while at [info]jwz’s LJ.  Posted a comment, then wished I could take it back, then couldn’t decide—which pretty much sums up my attitude about everything for the last four months.  Grrr.

Hmmm.  What else?

School sucketh.  
Wedding planning sucketh.
I have exactly 0 hours to do anything, regarding anything.
Wa is learning more programming than I am, which is good for him, but of course pisses me off.
I haven’t written anything, even anything bad, in a long time, with the exception of some Firefly fanfic which I’m working on.
Writing fanfic makes me feel icky, like I’m one of those Fangirls who goes to cons.

I’m going to post this now.  Then I’m going to wish I could take it back.

Then, I’m going to not be able to decide.


I considered putting a long list of bad pirate jokes here, but eschewed that in favor of printing one or two representative samples:

Where do pirates live in trailers?


What’s a pirate’s favorite color?


You get the idea.

So Everybody Who Is Cooler Than Me saw Pirates last night at a midnight showing somewhere, and I probably won’t see it until Sunday at the earliest.  Bummerific.  I hope it’s good, and anyone who has seen it could post comments here as long as there are NO SPOILERS.  SPOILER POSTERS will be tracked down and forced to walk the plank.  (And you won’t like it, and no, Johnny Depp will not jump in and save you).

Random upload:

I’m noticing summer to be a particularly depressed time for me.  I tend to write less, to get less done and the things I do manage to write are more depressing.  It’s like inverted Seasonal Affective Disorder.  Normal people get depressed in the winter, when they don’t get enough sunlight.  But the hot weather makes me constantly queasy.  I’ve thrown up twice today already and it’s not even noon yet.  I was even sicker earlier this week when it was hotter.  I have all the shades in my office pulled down, so that almost no light comes in, but it doesn’t seem to matter—-I have a massive migrane from the light.  If I went outside I’d probably faint.  I lost my prescription sunglasses years ago, and I can’t seem to get my hands on a pair of contacts (so that I could wear cheap shades), so I may have to resort to wearing those crappy clip-on sunglasses, which I hate.

More later.   Lunch break is over.

Dead to the world, and happy about it!

Dead to the world, and happy about it
Well, the term is finally over. It is actually the end of spring break, and I’m happy about it.

I managed to pull another set of A’s this term, so it’s still with the 4.0 average. God, I’m so cool. (and modest too!)

If you’ve wondered why I haven’t been updating this blog lately, it’s pretty much a combination of school sucking hard those last few weeks and that I discovered World of Warcraft.

Wa and I have both become WOW junkies (Wunkies?) and we fight each other for time on the only one of our five computers that will run the game. Our next purchase is another machine, so that we can PVP eachother. I’ll kick his lily-livered arse.

Next term, I’m only taking one class…and it’s an elective. Ceramics. If that doesn’t reduce my stress level, nothing will.



My Last Blog From the Gulag

I’m calling this my last blog because it may be so. I’m not sure this aircraft is entirely stable. Oh, I know I said that last time, but this one is even more of a dog. When I got on, I noticed a pervasive scent—at first, I had trouble placing it, but eventually I remembered where I had smelled the smell before: on the 1979 Volvo that was my first car for the entire two days I owned it. It is the smell of antifreeze. I’m sure they probably had to de-ice the plane this morning, since there was a lot of frost, but that doesn’t re-assure me all that much.

Flying over this area Saturday night, it was too dark to see much of anything. Occasionally, I would see the familiar patterns of lights, first a few solitary ones, then a few lines of lights, spiraling in from several directions into the grid-shaped pattern of lights in the center. When we were about 30 minutes out of Billings, I began to see an interesting thing. We were still cruising at 23,000, so we were above the level of the cumulus clouds. They were dense at first, but later we started to descend a bit, and the clouds cleared, then disappeared entirely as we pierced the cloud veil. I knew this meant we were going to land soon.

I closed my eyes for a few minutes, and when I opened them, what I saw out the window made me think I was upside down. I actually reached up to touch my hair, to see if it was hanging downward.

Out the porthole window, below the plane, I saw stars. White, blue, orange, burning balls—both large and small. And there were clouds. Not cumulus clouds, which are the lowest clouds, the fluffy white “cotton ball” ones, but CIRRUS clouds. The wispy long narrow ones that grace the upper atmosphere.

I was upside down, looking up into the night sky at stars and cirrus clouds. Then, one of the stars moved slightly, and I realized I was looking at lights on the ground from some farms outside of the town. We were so close to the ground that the lights on the bottom of the airplane were illuminating THE GROUND. The cirrus clouds were banks of wind-blown snow that had accumulated and frozen in leeward hollows and in the narrow crevasses between choppy ridges of the hilly formation outside Billings known as the Rimrocks. A minute later we crested the Rimrocks, and the ground rose up to meet us.

This time, I’m on the opposite side of the plane, so I’m still looking vaguely south. We are flying over something that might look flat from this height were I not able to see the patterns of snow.

The windward side of a hill is always almost barren. There is a yellow-brown cast to the vegetation, flecked here and there with the silver of frost. The leeward side is always white, and so are deeper ravines, distinguishable as uneven scars on the landscape, filled with white and grey at the bottom, where the stream within them runs.

In the higher elevations, like we are flying above now, there are peaks and huge swaths of green trees poking out above the snow. We are over the Rockies, and there is an area ahead of us, which I can just glimpse, where the mountains are above the clouds.

I was going to listen to some music, but I have the player on shuffle, and—(she puts on her best Dave Barry Voice) I SWEAR I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP—the first song that came on was “Black Box part 1” by Recoil. Since it’s a song about seeing a plane crash, I decided to listen to the plane’s engines instead.

There is a big lake below us, too, with sheets of ice floating on it. There is hardly any snow on the land surrounding it, and at one end it turns into a river. I can’t see a dam, but it might be a reservoir. We must getting close to Western Montana by now. We’ve been in the air half an hour. South of me, there are two huge bowl-shaped valleys surrounded by peaks. I cannot imagine what the pioneers went through to pass these mountains on foot. In some places, there are rock walls so steep, even the mountain goats and big horn sheep must have a hard time navigating them. In other places, the timber is so thick that the ground appears black. Out the North window of the plane, there are peaks which look like Bob Ross made them. “Some happy little peaks. We’ll just put some white, and some blue, and just a touch of viridian on this palate knife, and we just” his hand pauses over the canvas “make a line” his hand swoops down and to the left in an arch, “and another” his hand begins at the same starting point, and swoops down and to the right in another arch, “and then we just fill it in.” He finishes the mountain, filling in its ridges with charcoal grey and Mars black.

One of the valleys below us is filling up with a town.

We’re going to Seattle first, then I’ll have another plane to Portland, so we must be over Eastern Washington. The Rockies have given way to much flatter ground, and I think I’ve spied the Columbia, running North-South. We must be somewhere near SpoCompton, but it’s on the wrong side of the plane, and would be obscured by clouds anyway. At least now my clocks are right again. I set my phone to PST before I left, so now it matches my ‘top.

I’m glad to be flying. Even though it terrifies me, and I’m always sure that *THIS TIME* the plane is really going down, It is fantastic to see the ground this way. I’ve always been fascinated with maps. If I’m flying over an area I am familiar with through the use of maps, I can tell exactly where I am. When I flew back to Portland from Oakland 4 years ago, I spent most of the plane ride telling the little girl in the seat behind me what mountains, lakes, and towns were which. She kept asking her mother, and her mother didn’t know. I thought maybe she wasn’t from around there, but then she told me she’d grown up in Oakland, then moved to Portland, and had flown this route many times to see her parents. I couldn’t understand at first why she didn’t know the names of all the features of the landscape, then I realized that to most people, these kinds of things are inconsequential. For the rest of us, they are everything.


Bugger me this Batman -- winter ain't over yet!

I’m seriously losing my shit. 

No really.  All over the place.

I’ve skipped class a few times (like now).  Me!  Skipping class.  It just doesn’t happen.  I’m taking Philosophy 202—Ethics—and all the damned questions are subjective.  I don’t do well with subjective.  I’m good with the “how” but the “how do you feel?”—-not so much.  Yes.  Go ahead with the Spock jokes.  It’s not like it’s anything new.

Warren had a birthday today, which means he’s now officially only 19 years younger than Joss Whedon.  There’s a little mock-feud going on between those two that I think is kind of cute, in a sort of don’t-you-rich-bastards-have-better-things-to-do kind of way.  While trying to determine its nature, I accidentally spoliered myself on wikipedia, reading too far down and missing the “Warning:  Spoiler Ahead” warnings, so now I know that ****, *******, and ******** are going to die on episodes of Angel I haven’t seen yet, and I know that **** dies in Serenity The Movie.  Holy Fuckaroo.  Damn you, Whedon.  Smarmy codpiece-stuffing bastard.  Kill the hotties.  Kill the hotties.  Didn’t you learn anything in college?  The hero doesn’t die.  At least not while I’m watching. 

The good news is that Mozilla just released a calendar for firefox and thunderbird that is spec-tac-u-lar. 

That’s the news from Lake Wobehere, where all the men smell strong, the women are tired, and the children are fuzzy and snotty.

Cats, people.  The children are cats.

How’s that for subjective?