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| Tuesday, June 6th, 2006 |
| 9:23 am |
| Fannish Anthropophagy |
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.
___
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.
current mood:  bored
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(Speak in tongues! | 70 talkative temple wenches)
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| Wednesday, May 31st, 2006 |
| 9:42 am |
| Kinky Idol Mirrors |
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.
___
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.
___
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
current mood:  cheerful
current music: Never Mind the Bollocks
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(Speak in tongues! | 39 talkative temple wenches)
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| Friday, May 12th, 2006 |
| 2:18 pm |
| Help! |
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.
current mood: concerned about social-backwardness
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(Speak in tongues! | 62 talkative temple wenches)
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| 9:59 am |
| A Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar |
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.
![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) 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.
( Okay, now I *will* get to Vessel, so it's cut-tag time. If you click on this tag, please be forewarned that there will be some grr-ish remarks within about both Lex and Lana. )
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.")
current mood:  good
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(Speak in tongues! | 43 talkative temple wenches)
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| Thursday, April 27th, 2006 |
| 11:20 am |
| Ramblings of a Murine Soul |
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, ( cut to avoid spoilage ) 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.
current mood: fabulous!
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(Speak in tongues! | 63 talkative temple wenches)
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| Monday, March 27th, 2006 |
| 7:45 am |
| Happy Birthday to Me! |
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.
current mood:  giddy
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(Speak in tongues! | 184 talkative temple wenches)
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| Sunday, March 12th, 2006 |
| 10:14 am |
| The Bells of Epiphany: Or, Scissors, Fandom, and my Fat Ass |
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| Tuesday, February 14th, 2006 |
| 12:56 pm |
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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.
___
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!
___
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…
current mood: Anti-Valentinian
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| Tuesday, January 31st, 2006 |
| 11:42 am |
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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.
current mood: with the grrr and the WTF
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(Speak in tongues! | 86 talkative temple wenches)
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| Wednesday, January 25th, 2006 |
| 10:55 am |
| Ficlets: SGA, HP |
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| Thursday, January 19th, 2006 |
| 10:58 am |
| My Kingdom for Some Comment Porn! |
So, today I’m a’needing some naked men. Granted, who isn’t feeling this need, but I actually mean in fiction. Okay, granted again, you’re probably not unfamiliar with this feeling, either. Heh.
Er, this is supposed to be a request for porn. Originally, I was going for graceful and charming to seduce you into writing me some, but that’s clearly not happening, so would begging like a knee-humping puppy do it? Porn? Please? Any fandom? I’ll send you feedback, love, and perform wild acts of pimpery.
Fandoms: Oh, pretty much anything, though SV, HP, SPN, SGA, or dS would be extra lovely with sugar on top.
Porn. Need. Help.
current mood: Pornless and weepy with it!
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(Speak in tongues! | 69 talkative temple wenches)
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| Thursday, January 12th, 2006 |
| 10:34 pm |
| SV's Fanatic 5.10: The Mythological Context |
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| Sunday, January 8th, 2006 |
| 5:33 pm |
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Today I'm a total idiot-savant, only minus the savant part. If you find yourself suddenly deleted from my f-list, could you let me know, 'cos it was an accident on my part? Also, if you've asked to be on my filter, I've added you...Unless I accidentally deleted you--hence this post.
God, I'm not even making sense to myself...
___
Rec
To keep this post from being not entirely about my defeat at technology's cruel paws, here's a rec:
Kowalski by kormantic. It's dS, mostly Stella thinking with the added bonus of some wonderfully subtle talk with Frannie, just lovely writing that hooked me even though it's gen. Yes, I read gen! And loved it! Who knew?
___
Smutastic SV Question
And, on the totally pornographic front, what's Clark's favourite sexual act with Lex, and Lex's favourite sexual act with Clark? Inquiring nether regions minds want to know!
current mood: crazy
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(Speak in tongues! | 64 talkative temple wenches)
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| Thursday, January 5th, 2006 |
| 12:18 pm |
| You Depraved Perverts! Yes, I'm Talking to You! |
You know what truly disgusts me in fandom, the thing I find sick and depraved beyond the telling of it, the most grotesque, antisocial, perverse, repulsive, gut-clenching horror? It's gen-rated fic. I mean, OMGWTF is up with that? All of these people in the story, ready, willing, and able, and they're not having sex? What kind of morally whacked writer would do that? I could just puke thinking of it, all of that wasted flesh, all of those shrivelled dicks and poor, sad unused vaginas and bums.
Then I start worrying--no, panicking!--that the sicko writers are going to do in RL what they're doing in their fic. Yes, you know what I'm talking about: no sex in the stories means no sex in RL! Man, that terrifies me to the very core of my being, imagining future generations of lily-white...Except wait! There'll be no future generations! Oh, I weep for the future! I shake my curled hairy palm at you corrupters of innocence, with your evil purity and your zipped pants! The world is already screwed up enough, but throw chastity in the mix and those four dudes on the white (sadly, non-phallic) horses will be racing earthward.
That's right: you gen writers are bringing in the doom, and I implore you from the bottom of my twat to exorcise this revolting goodness from your stories and your lives! Please, abandon your sex-free ways and write about fellatio, cunnilingus, incest, and sodomy--the fate of the world depends on it!
current mood: terrified for the future of this planet, dammit!
current music: Spooky apocalyptic music
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(Speak in tongues! | 153 talkative temple wenches)
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| Wednesday, January 4th, 2006 |
| 8:40 pm |
| A Quintet of Multi-Fannish Loves |
Some lovelies recently advised me to go all writerly-indulgent on squeetastic things, so here I am, polishing up the shiny best in my fannish universe.
A Quintet of Multi-Fannish Loves
1. Clark/Lex always, but while every scene with them, canonical or fictional, is apples and oranges, there's a lush Botticelli glow to some of that fruity goodness, like when Clark tip-toes around Lex, sniffing out Lex's hurt and lust but unsure how to deal, while Lex is all standoffish, scared if he makes a move it'll lead to Vesuviusian chaos. Then Clark just touches him, one big puppy-paw, and there's this long vibrating-crystal moment just before Lex shatters. What follows isn't a readerly anti-climactic climax, more the thrill of watching them synchronize fantasy and reality, those tiny refractions of hope and fear, so that every kiss, every thrust, is written with their history.
2. Severus Snape. I'd planned to pair him with someone else, but Snape is diamonds in a black-dressed world, perfectly suited to everyone. He's been formed somewhere dark, and the shadowy layers have cohered into this hard shining unreadable stone. I love the circuitous psycho-etymological route of diamond, too, how it's tied to adamant, which is rooted in to tame, so you end up with Snape in this gorgeous paradoxical place: hardest substance in nature that simultaneously craves taming. He's need wrapped in denial. If you haven't yet read nimori's Prince of Dogs and Fools, a tasty slice of NC-17 smut with Snape, Sirius, and Draco in various combinations, take a look for unnecessary but delicious proof that Snape fits well with anyone.
3. You know the old Platonic myth about the origin of gender, so wonderfully illustrated in Hedwig and the Angry Inch? There's the idea of the combined perfect being, the androgyne, before Zeus went pissy and split this man-woman in two. The men of SGA, especially (to me) the primary quartet of Sheppard, McKay, Ronon, and Beckett, reminds me of this myth, that together they once formed the perfect man, and while divided now are magnetically lured back each to the other. Sheppard's the rake without intention, the surface sincerity and charm running deep, not a cover for a violent underside, the extraordinary ordinary guy, the perpetual boy next door. McKay's all uber-neurotic brain, the blind scientific ego eternally crashing into social norms, others' feelings half-remembered after the fact, the empiricist in the china shop, exteriority subsuming interiority. (This is the guy, after all, who best talks to himself by literally externalizing his psyche--and as a woman, no less, so he won't take himself too personally.) Ronon's the interior guy, the one who buries it all in the dark, the god of war if Ares had a soul, the watcher in the corner with the knife and the most beautiful eyes in the world. Beckett's the caretaker, always giving in Scottish-speak, the softer side of science, generosity with really great arms, the kind meant for protecting you againt all types of plague.
The problem for me is that I can't choose a pairing in this fandom; what I need is a story where they're coupling in twos...
4. Supernatural's boogieman-hunting brothers, Sam and Dean. I could talk about how Sam radiates hurt, but I must admit JP's face equally fascinates me, how it changes radically depending on the light and the camera angle. Just when I decide he's a cutish nothing-special guy, he shifts, and I'm suddenly on all fours, panting and ready for action. Dean's personality's like that, just regular Joe guy, flashy bravado, white-lying to hook with a chick, and suddenly there's a shift, maybe Sam in need, maybe some ir/rational fear bubbling up, and Dean transforms, shows his fragile side. Woof! To top it off, these two babes are queer-vibing it all over the place, the other's one-and-only in a world full of monsters: Mom'll leave you (mostly), Dad'll take off for parts unknown, girlfriends'll bite it after baking cookies, but brothers...Baby, they're together forever.
5. NC-17 Slash. You know how some people skip the sex for the "story"? I'm not one of those people. Hell, I'll skip the story for the sex if the sex is sufficiently narrative. Okay, yes, and even when it's not, because two hot guys banging each other? Tastier than chocolate.
___
Next time, "Byzantine Eunuchs and the Women Who Love Them." For serious! I was reading this article, and, yeah. *g*
current mood:  horny
current music: The Ramones
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(Speak in tongues! | 70 talkative temple wenches)
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| Sunday, January 1st, 2006 |
| 7:37 pm |
| FIC: Aceldama (Judas/Satan, Judas/Jesus, NC-17) |
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| Wednesday, December 21st, 2005 |
| 4:07 pm |
| Confessions of a Yuletide Poster |
My ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) yuletide story is posted, and now I'm suffering great gobs of anxiety mostly expressed in thoughts beginning with "Eek!" There was serious canine workage on this story, emission of bodily fluids, emotional flight and emotional swoopage, and why, oh why, doesn't a cookie fall from the sky to mark a job well done? Not this limbo business, my story hanging in a cyberspace closet...
...Which leads to other thoughts, like my investment in feedback, how a story just isn't a story until someone responds. Readers cut the umbilical cord, you know? Right now the story's still attached to me, so I'm feeling everything it's feeling, poor little lamb, trapped in its archival purgatory, alone and unloved.
I had awareness at one point that this little guy was the best I'd ever spawned, shiny as a Christmas ornament but ten times more durable. Vlad and I were chatting away, so intimate I made fun of his name; now, when I open my collection of his short stories, Mr. Nabokov complains of writing that's "distressing because of the grotesque attempt at combining an authentic lyrical spasm with a metaphysical explanation of the universe," and I know he's speaking of me. Asshole! We were lovers once. I made Dracula jokes; he found my madness charming...
I need surgery to remove my deflated ego.
And what my secret santa chokes like last year? Because that burned, baby! It still does, and twice in a row will make me supremely Grinchy, right down to the green skin and shrunken heart. I might have to uncover the vixen's name so I can chuck coal lumps in her general direction. Or perhaps grab that annoying Cindy-Lou Hoo and offer her to the feedback gods...
current mood: crazy
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| Thursday, December 8th, 2005 |
| 6:38 pm |
| Lexmas |
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| Monday, November 14th, 2005 |
| 12:21 pm |
| For Yuletide |
Dear Secret Santa,
Honestly, I’ll be wildly happy with any story in any of the fandoms I listed, and will bury in meta-roses whatever you write. That said, I do drool like a mad puppy for the following:
*m/m
*Porn with a purpose.
*Psychological complexity.
*Architectural/historical detail.
*Drama.
*Jealousy.
*First-times where the characters’ connection isn’t easy.
Thanks in advance,
Thamiris
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(Speak in tongues! | 7 talkative temple wenches)
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| Wednesday, November 9th, 2005 |
| 11:50 am |
| Meta-Blangst |
So, I'll be delivering a casual, brief guest-lecture on blogs to a colleague's third-year rhetoric class, and it occurs to me that, man, I know nothing about this place, except that sometimes it feels like a church, a brothel, a kennel, a classroom, Hell, a graffiti-covered john. Not only is my experience not necessarily your experience, but I'm not even sure what my experience is, and I can see that this post is already degenerating into blangst, the blogger's form of existential navel-peering mixed with cyberspace-gazing through the ol' word-telescope.
Can I even spin the solidarity, the solid daring, the soldering of identity that comes from excising a slice of your inner life and autopsying it onscreen? You know, that onscreen is actually kind of intriguing, this idea that maybe we're here affirming Shakespearean credo about the world as stage, and Hollywoodian (Western?) credo that nothing matters unless it's onscreen, that the only reality is a performed one. The distancing technique involved in performing personal tragedy, great and small, does seem psychologically sound. If woe is metaphorical cancer then it makes sense to cut it out, to separate yourself from it, at the very least to attach it to your online persona, the role you play in cyberspace, even if that role's the same as the one you play down here in the pit. Is identity ever not a performance? Is performance ever not identity, since you're drawing a line between you and the character you play?
Okay, what if I throw away all of my meta-blangsting and concentrate on simple, nutricious facts about my own blogging experiences. Um. I dunno. I like the access, how conversations feel global, if we define "global" as: people with enough money to own a computer, with enough education to articulate coherent-ish positions (often in a second language), with enough time to spend poking keys instead of working in sweatshops for twenty-five cents a day. Still, compared with an ordinary day on terrestrial ground, LJ offers me shitloads more diversity, even if that diversity is limited.
Actually, maybe I need to play up that diversity so I can blather on about audience and reception, and this is where you come in: if you could answer the following question, I'd be ever so grateful; I'd like to mix your responses with my own, so there's less danger that my experiences will sound homogenous, although parts of them surely are. For instance, I have a macrocosmic relationship with other bloggers: a little shy and skittish about people both inside and outside cyber-space, I'm more comfortable forming friendly acquaintanceships than deep friendships, reading and chatting with a large group. I like the polyphony of many voices at once, the glut of information, both personal and otherwise, and I like adding my voice to the mix, saying what I want, however I want to say it, with someone always there to offer advice, to debate issues, to listen openly, to share experiences, how these all contribute to ever-developing notions of self and community. (Isn't it ironic that the Bible, and by extension a good segment of Western culture, constructs vocal plurality as demonic or wicked, with the "legion" of voices, the Tower of Babel, etc., when it's so much damn fun?) Also, while I find it a bit tough to reach out, I'm not worried about others' judgement, if others will find me narcissistic or arrogant or boring or stupid; inevitably, some people will, and that's fine, because sometimes I am all of those things, same as everyone else, and because sometimes other people are just judgmental dickheads and life's too short to waste time on them.
Anyway, hopefully it goes without saying that I will NOT at any point provide a link to this entry, to my own journal, or to yours; there's some information I'd prefer the students not have, including that I'm a porn-hound. Instead, I'll cut and paste nameless sections of your writing into my notes to preserve everyone's anonymity. If you're still concerned, you can always answer anonymously.
The multi-part question: What do you gain by blogging, both as a reader and as a writer? Are there any disadvantages for you, fears or concerns that keep you quiet when your impulse is to speak?
current mood:  chipper
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(Speak in tongues! | 89 talkative temple wenches)
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