What an excellent day!  [livejournal.com profile] thrihyrne  writes my favorite Seel, well, Thevina writes all my favorite Wraeththu - so when I requested a drabble I said, "it must be Seel" and I just didn't get a drabble, I received a whole, wonderful, brand new Wraeththu fic  filled with a lot more than just Seel.  Thank you so much Thevina!

Here's the synopsis:

This story takes place in Wraiths. At the end of chapter 12 after Seel saw Pellaz in his re-generation tank, Thiede is very specific with Seel and after telling him he's going to move to Immanion within a month, says, "You will be pleased to know I've allocated a sedu to you. Your training in controlling it begins in two days' time. I'll send a teacher to Saltrock with the animal." Seel isn't particularly grateful.

And here is the fic. (Adult, with warnings for threesomes, and Wraeththu bits)

  • [livejournal.com profile] ahpookishere  (Patron Saint of Gelato) sent me ahpostcard from Firenze, Italy!  Thank you, gorgeous.  The best trips are when cards precede the traveler's return.  I hope the rest of your trip is perfect.  Until then, thank you for the Cimabue.  My people are busily cataloging and appraising it for inclusion in the permanent collection.  Payment will be sent discreetly by the usual courier: (namely Schwarz-fic that will be released once Madame Beta finds it fit for human consumption).  Until then, please accept my well-wishes on this holy day, the Russian Orthodox celebration of St. John the Divine, Patron Saint of Writers. (And you must post icon photos the moment you arrive home from the airport.  You shall not sleep.)
  •  5k written onto 20k of an original story this week.  Yay!  It doesn't look like the well will dry up, thank god.  But, it's been so long that I wrote het that I've kind of forgotten where all the parts go.  Could someone please send me a diagram?

  • In fear that I disappear into that world too deeply, [livejournal.com profile] victoriawiley  sent me this: "Homo Sex in Colonial America", Larry Kramer's post in which there is too much tasty goodness to repeat, but I will leave you with this sample: "A penis has never been something that you pick up and put down and put away idly without consideration."

  • [livejournal.com profile] levadegratchets  expedited the completion of Forgotten Tree Chap. 5 when she reminded me that betas/muses were not only incredible friends but they also make great physicians.  I re-post her prescription without permission (thank you, Levade!) because it is perfect and the rest of the world needs to see it - so that it might really happen.  Please visit Levade's month of Rilke here.

Dear World, Please sod off and leave KCD alone as she needs time to contemplate trees, stars, the wufflings of dogs and horses, the whisperings of jasmine and learn to love life again.  / Phones are prohibited for business, and to be used only for lunch and dinner dates, snarky gossip and witty banter. No exceptions. / Red wine is to be consumed every night and rich words are to be bandied about. / Lounging in bed is acceptable, as is being lazy. / Follow these for at least a week and set up a follow-up consultation. / Dr. Loon E. Bin, MD

In response to another unauthorized charge (yey! this time Singapore!) on yet another card, I downloaded every malware destroyer I could find and then decided to spend the rest of my money on books. If it's to be spent, it will not be spent on pirated software, hookers, crack or whatever it is my lurking friends are buying (I'm the only one that can run up the limits on hookers and crack).


1. The first four books of The Pendergast Series by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child (wouldn't you hate to be the second name listed for a co-authored work?)  I seem to be the last to hear about anything, so I know there's many of you out there that have read this series. What do you think? Good? Bad? Indifferent? I'm really into series now because they give me an excellent excuse to not write or finish anything I've been working on.
Relic (Pendergast, Book 1)
Reliquary (Pendergast, Book 2)
The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast, Book 3
Still Life with Crows (Pendergast, Book 4)

2. A client mentioned telepathy and slash fiction almost in the same breathless breath yesterday. My palms started to sweat and I made an excuse to go check the horses in the back of the barn. She was referring to the work of Rupert Sheldrake, applying his theory of morphic resonance to the way horses move en masse away from perceived dangers (the slash comment was in reference to two geldings with a very close attachment to each other). One cannot ignore congruence. I ordered Sheldrake's The Sense of Being Stared At: And Other Unexplained Powers of the Human Mind . Creepy.

3. And because no week is complete without an extraordinarily baffling text on quantum mechanics: Wholeness and the Implicate Order (Routledge Classics)

What are you reading right now?
twopoint: (Default)
( May. 14th, 2009 09:13 pm)

Several things.

1. Many thanks to[info]thrihyrne for drinking the dregs of this journal and finding/posting a snippet I wrote about the writing process.

2. Thank you Edda for whining when I placed you in that derelict farm house.  You said this: It’s like there’s a deficit in spiritual currency – they’ve put us on a budget haven’t they?” he asked, gripping the rusted key and imagining the things he would have to do without or make for himself: iron-gall ink, foolscap paper, fragrant oils, dai ginjo sake. - and the two of us won Most Intriguing Sentence of the Week at[info]getyourwordsout . Now, shut the hell up, Edda, and get on with the plot (no more kissing in the front lawn, though the honeysuckle nectar was a nice touch, go back inside, clean the place up, and be productive). 

3. And for all you Schwarz fans, this art by[info]stonecarnival is better than brilliant.

4.  And sorry, Schuldig, telepathy isn't as rare a talent as you might think, according to this article in Wired.  Though I am doubly freaked out by the "monkeys responding to telepathic limb control."

5. The jasmine is in crazy full bloom on the writing porch.  Hold on.  I'll go take a photo.  (I think I startled Habibe.)  It smells like Olin's skin which means it's been a great week to write about poisons.    


I present: drabble (-ish) with kissing. Kissing is the theme for May, though this was written in March and April was useless because all the characters wanted to do nothing but kiss . . . and . . . .yeah, well, kissing. 

Title: Insurance
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Characters: Crawford / Schuldig
Rating: R
Notes:  Pre-Schwarz. Crawford secures an article of trade. Prelude to Vorovskoy Zakon and a longer story (with plot!) that will soon follow.  Features, again, a literate telepath.


Onward to story. )

I swear to god I'm writing!

One short Weiss pseudo-drabble off to the beta and one longer story (with plot! well, sort of  . . .) to be completed if not tonight then tomorrow.  The better part of Forgotten Tree, chapter 5 is written and I'll return to put the finishing touches on it once a kinder soundtrack invades my head. 

In other news:

I feel old.  Nick Cave's son is old enough to wear make up.  Here.

A friend sent me a link to Japanese photographer Miwa Yanagi . I've been flicking through the images in Fairy Tale all day, and I alternate between being deeply disturbed in a soul-deep sort of way and absolutely inspired in the best of all ways.  The My Grandmothers series and the premise behind it is amazing.

I have two dreamwidth invite codes here if anyone's interested.

Tonight is a rainy, sulky tawny port night.  I love port bottle corks.  A long, long time ago I found myself in Fatima, Portugal for three weeks.  I saw no apparitions, but I did see a bottle of port, shared with an old lost friend every night on the flat roof-top terrace of the Dominican boarding house we were staying in.  I could hear the choirs singing in the basilica, watch pilgrims crawling on their knees down a well-worn path.  We took a bus to Obidos  a Medieval walled city closed anything but foot-traffic.  Over another bottle of port my friend and I stood outside the crumbling walls, looked out over hills and vineyards.  Possessed by some demon, my friend and I decided to get married. He gave me a tarnished, silver ring.  We had a perfect wedding in an perfect old cathedral in the US (as old as it gets around here).  My dress was made of hand-woven, Irish lace.  The communion wine was tawny port.  The demon moved on to another target soon after.  I go on record  to state that I had the shortest marriage ever -  inspired by iconographic bewitchment and port wine.

So I open the bottle tonight, the perfect port cork, and I drink to you, old friend - wherever you are (when we last spoke, you told me that you had  twins with a new wife, so you need all the blessings you can get - communion is out of the question unless you or I fork over the money for the annulment).  Here's to Croatia, alt-country, chess, the damned piano that someone needs to move out of my office, and the horse that I bought instead of a boat.  I named the gelding Home-wrecker and he went on to a great life in the low-hunters.

On a decidedly less maudlin note: I am working through two Schwarz snippet revisions and promise to earnestly commit myself to The Forgotten Tree this week.  I forgot how to write for a month.
At least once a week [livejournal.com profile] victoriawiley  and I vote to decide if The Writer's Almanac poem of the day truly is a poem.  Mary Oliver's "In Blackwater Woods" wins unanimously.
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment . . .
read the rest here

In other news, I finished off my [livejournal.com profile] getyourwordsout  April word count at 114k for 2009.  Most of this month's writing was utter crap but I did make some progress on the scattered original piece, posted chapter 4 of The Forgotten Tree and started at least fifteen other stories that may or may not shame me into doing something.  All in all it was a very brutal month for writing.  I feel edgy and foggy, absolutely uninspired.  I blame it on all the pollen and tree sex.  Luckily the trees are now fully green, spring has done its worse and my characters might now decide to do something better than lying around kissing all the time.  Not that I blame them.

I have designated tomorrow, a horse-free Sunday (canceled all riding lessons), as a post a snippet day.  Paragraphs, beginnings, abandoned text, wine-induced rants, characters studies, all the stuff that involves alphabets and words, will be organized -  and anything that forms a fully coherent thought will be posted as extended pseudo-drabbles.  I was a late convert to Catholicism and have found guilt to be a heady deadline.

Mostly, I blame my procrastination on Storm Constantine.  I've spent the past month submerged in her Wraeththu world: two trilogies, all the fanfic I can get my greedy, sweaty, rein-gnarled hands on (why the hell have I never heard of these books before)?  Unfortunately there are aren't many people at the barn that I can discuss a post-apocalyptic, hermaphroditic race with (not from lack of trying) - but her world building is exceptional.  I just wish someone had told me that the first three books were completely revised and re-published before I read the old editions.  However, all writer-ly fears of vanity presses aside, I admire anyone who creates a press to publish their back-list and exceptional fanfic written within the author's world: Immanion Press.
twopoint: (Pandora)
( May. 2nd, 2009 12:23 am)
This reminds me of when I clean the living room, all the stacks of books and magazines moved into another room to be dealt with later. It's so clean it echoes. Satisfying but scary. I think I like clutter.
twopoint: (Default)
( May. 1st, 2009 06:38 pm)
So, twopoint has a blank journal sitting and waiting for new life at Dreamwidth - but I don't know what I really expect/want/need from it.  I'm staring at the Import button wondering if I'm going to cross post, import this journal, keep it empty as a second home, use if for all the bad, racy fic I continually write but need to publish under a different pseudo-pseudonym (guess I should have thought of a better username).  What are the rest of you doing? 

Also, I requested more invite codes, not sure if they'll arrive, but if they do - does anyone want one?
twopoint: (Default)
( Apr. 25th, 2009 01:43 am)
I desperately want a batch of cinnabar ink. 

But iron gall ink seems like something I can make in the kitchen, once I learn how to identify an oak gall.  Anyone ever made ink before?  What's your favorite type of ink?  I love metallic inks.  I had the misfortune of working in a frame shop for several years and learned the basics of gold-leafing, but I want to learn more.  I also want an old hand-cranked press to play with multiple copies of inked things.

I'm probably ten years behind here (as usual) but I just discovered Gogol Bordello and I now have a new favorite song.  It reminds me of my favorite Istanbul bars.

The coat was a matter of debate for several days.  I carried the photo around in my purse, showed it to various people: clients, friends, strangers.  "Should I buy this coat?"  First, let me say that I spend most of my time dusty, working outside - my clothes have function, namely to keep me from the elements.  I have some lovely things I couldn't live without: my wool camel coat, a tunic from Mavi, some pieces from a designer friend.  I LOVE clothes, I just seldom buy them and when I do I don't form a committee to make the decision for me.  The only time I can wear fun things is the few weeks I'm clean and horseless in Istanbul each year.  And why the hell do I want a coat that looks like a caricature of the gothic atrocity I was at thirteen.  I have this sudden craving to listen to Peter Murphy.

So - I made this huge deal about buying the coat.  And finally at three am, the middle of the night last night, I decide to purchase it.  Content with the decision I went to sleep.

This morning I check my phone and the first email is from the credit card company.  They want to know if I authorize the "atypical" catalog purchase made in the middle of the night.  I laugh and say, "Yes!  That's my coat."  I'm dreaming of my coat as they list off five more suspicious charges - craigslist, apple, etc.  "No - I did not make those charges."  We cancel the card and I start biting my fingernails.

I log on to my lappy to find that I cannot access the internet because I've been inundated with viruses.  Viruses of all shapes and sizes.  Viruses and babies of viruses.  I stare blankly at the screen and feel like I've had an appendage removed.  How do people live without a lappy?  How  will I write?  If I write, how will I post it?  Is it okay to write if I cannot post it?

Eight hours later everything is restored, well, everything except iTunes.  I don't know how I can lose a program, but it's lost.  I did a lot of writing in my notebook for six of those eight hours that I spent on hold with technical support - it was good to realize I could still do that, writing, in notebooks.  In the end it's discovered that the anti-virus stopped working during an update a long time ago and it took the virus inundation before I realized the program was corrupted. 

The moral of this story is that the coat saved my credit score and my identity.  When that coat arrives I'm going to build it its own closet.  I will also give the coat its own mix tape filled with Bauhaus, Christian Death and Cocteau Twins.  I might also buy it a pair of boots with buckles.  And then I will visit[info]ahpookishere and make her design a tattoo of the coat to place on my left calf.


twopoint: (Default)
( Apr. 21st, 2009 10:16 pm)

I told the master of perfect details,[info]ahpookishere to come back from Europe with a hundred new scenes for me to read.  This is kind of what I had in mind (many thanks to [info]victoriawiley  for thinking of me when she found the link). 

I really, really want to buy this coat.  Bentley, a huge, black, handsome (often goofy) Canadian sport horse might agree to let me ride him around while I'm wearing it.  I thought I could wait by the entrance to the barn drive and demand visitors pass over their gold.  It's been a week of rich highwayman fantasies.

Violent Grace: Anne Carson's An Oresteia
Thank you NSM for offering the perfect opening quote to the original story I've been working on.  From Anne Carson's translation of the Oresteia.

"Where I come from people say bad shit happening / when they mean death."

From the The Nation review: "Her version of Agamemnon is characteristically alert to Aeschylus' tendency to coin compound neologisms: "griefrememberingpain" is a powerful literal translation of mnesimon ponos . . . Her Oresteia includes only Aeschylus' Agamemnon, juxtaposed with plays by two younger Athenian contemporaries based on the same myth: Sophocles' Electra and Euripedes' Orestes."

twopoint: (Default)
( Apr. 15th, 2009 11:39 pm)

Thank you [livejournal.com profile] victoriawiley .
I've always had my Nanna's words following me around when I accidentally swallowed a fruit seed: "It will grow in your stomach!" But I never worried about inhaling one.  Until now.  Then again, I totally love trees.

Spruce found growing in Russian man's lung.
So I've been going on and on about how I've had it with the real-world, Raymond Carver scripted stories being churned out by workshops and published in The New Yorker.  To quote John Cheever (from the late '40's via N.S.M.) "I want to write short stories like I want to fuck a chicken."  My feeling is that I want to read mainstream short stories like I want to get intimately involved with farm fowl. 

Thank you Publisher's Weekly for realizing the zeitgeist.  Read all the way to the bottom to see [livejournal.com profile] verb_noire  's mention in the cover story.

Happy Birthday [livejournal.com profile] levadegratchets !!!

Erestor tells his secrets to the river - a birthday ficlet for Levade, inspired by thoughts of April being the cruelest month (thank you Eliot).  Seeing as how this is a fic for the best beta in the entire world, I apologize in advance for superfluous commas, unintelligible imagery and canon misspellings. Read on for divine cameos and a new addition to the Forgotten Tree stables (with visual aids).


A Golden Thread )


Title:  The Forgotten Tree
Part: 4/?
Author:  [profile] two_point 
Rated: PG for now, later R
Genre: Silmarillion to LoTR: g
enerally encompassing the entirety of Tolkien’s canon, from Gondolin to Imladris.
Warnings: Oh, there will be angst. And slash. And wars. And other things.
Pairing: Glorfindel/Erestor
Beta: The incredible [livejournal.com profile] levadegratchets 
Summary:  Erestor's story as hitherto edited by Pengologh of Gondolin
Disclaimer:  Own nothing, made nothing.
Notes: Brewing for five years in notebooks, this story will turn to vinegar if it sits any longer

Chapter 4: Morning )

Byzantine mosaics for [livejournal.com profile] ahpookishere (oh, there will be no stopping me now that I have someone to get all geeky about iconography with - with whom I can get all geeky . . . .?)  The cross is from the ceiling of an apse on the lower floor.  The light in Hagia Sophia is other-wordly - it comes from every direction and the mosaics glow from within.  For all my mosaic love the viking graffiti is really my favorite part of the building but I can't find my photo of the carvings.  I like to imagine the viking invaders scrawling: For a good time call, or Gorm was here, or something.   

More Mosaics Here )
twopoint: (Default)
( Apr. 2nd, 2009 01:35 am)

As if beta and muse [livejournal.com profile] levadegratchets '  jewel-like gifts of scenes, Erestor's life caught in moments of astonishing beauty were not enough, she went one step farther and gave me the best present I have ever received in my life.  Ramie is the artist, and her vision of Glorfindel is better than my wildest imaginings.  Forgotten Tree, chapter three - Glorfindel stretched out in the water of his pool. I am too thrilled to sleep, so I will print a copy, clutch it tightly and curl up with the best gift ever, though I don't want to rumple it. 

Gorgeous art here: to the still earth say: I flow

I do not have words to express my gratitude for this present.  All those who have to listen to me speak, incessantly, day and night are most likely pleased that I am shocked speechless and will start to send [livejournal.com profile] levadegratchets  their own prizes of money and good fortune.

Oh, this was a good day.  The best.  I am pouring another glass of wine and toasting you, Levade.

The Prophet Murders by Mehmet Murat Somer

The plot is simple but the writing is clever, especially after the second chapter where the language shifts, becomes sharper, and reads like another translator is brought on to finish the book. I ran across this series while researching the Beyo─člu project and I don’t regret the extra postage I paid to have it shipped from the UK (but I’m still cursing my failure to look up the US translation before hitting buy).

Found it on Amazon. The Prophet Murders: A Hop-Ciki-Yaya Thriller (Hop-Ciki-Yaya)

This Publisher's Weekly blurb sums up the plot:
Set in modern Istanbul and narrated by a nameless transvestite, this first in Somer's Hop-Çiki-Yaya series is a strange blend of blithe and bloody, more about atmosphere than the mystery itself. A serial killer is murdering transvestites, and the narrator, who kick-boxes for fun and owns part of a nightclub, decides to investigate when police commissioner Selçuk Tanyer and his staff are unable to solve the killings. Cute dialogue and breezy descriptions undercut the seriousness of the crimes, even as the author strives to make a statement about Turkey's treatment of the transvestite community. While the resolution may be pat and the more graphic elements unsettling, the interesting narrator and exotic elements of Turkish culture will appeal to many readers.

"Graphic elements unsettling . . ."  why do I have the feeling the reviewer isn't talking about murder scenes?  Which leads me to my latest rant about why it's okay to tell a general audience, "my latest story is filled with blood and death and manipulation" but it's not okay to say, "my narrator is gay."  I'll save that for another day.  Back to the book -

Turkish writers have a way of portraying hüzün, the word’s literal translation doesn’t come close to describing the full meaning. Hüzün means melancholy, but it’s so much more than that – it’s an atmosphere of melancholy that is both sad and beautiful and mesmerizing and ruinous. Somer’s atmosphere is quirky and dark and full of contradictions, like Istanbul. Quick mysteries aren’t first on my reading list but I couldn’t resist this one after reading the description. I was prepared for a fast read that would at best contribute to my inner map of Istanbul and introduce me to a writer I could interview for the project, but I squealed a little when I finished and immediately ordered the second in the series all the while muttering about waiting until Sept. for the third book. My mother in law cracked up when she heard that I would spend more hours studying Turkish so I wouldn’t have to wait for the translations. Whatever it takes.

My favorite lines are simple yet numerous including: "Afet totters precariously on that thin line dividing the ridiculously strange from the strangely beautiful.  Her feet are large, even for a transvestite.  Even so, she had chose to emphasise them, spilling out of tiny high-heels.  As usual, knees slightly bent, she appeared poised to leap forward."