The Rantings of Yours Truly

Tue, 02 Mar 2004 23:00:55 GMT

Delayed update this month, if at all.

Life has decided to be diffucult. Do not fret, my little ones; I do have a lot of stuff to put up.

Sun, 02 Nov 2003 23:17:20 GMT

I'm sorry I've been forgetting this journal! Update for this month is delayed, as I'm busy with the Nanowrimo challenge.

Journal for said challenge can be found here. :)

Fri, 01 Aug 2003 07:04:55 GMT

My apologies for not being able to update last month. Various things, such as a vacation to Poland and some bad internet cannectioning, got in the way.

Anyway, new update. :)

Oy...

Sun, 01 Jun 2003 08:55:14 GMT

I had an update planned for today, and I find that I can't log in. Not to FTP, not to the host site. I'm guessing something must've been screwed up with the recent problems they were having.

Well, I sent them an e-mail requesting help; let's hope I get it.

It lives!

Thu, 01 May 2003 05:50:01 GMT

http://www.neffinesse.dk/

Tue, 29 Apr 2003 09:34:17 GMT

I have set a date for the launching of Neffinesse.dk - 1. of May.

Go me.

On being different.

Tue, 22 Apr 2003 11:52:47 GMT

You were not allowed to be different in my old school.

I could give many examples, most of course pertaining to me, but let me instead tell you of a classmate I had.

His name was Stefan; he lived alone with his mother and his sister, his Spanish father off somewhere, no one was sure were. So, yes, Stefan was a problem child, and things - from what I hear - have not been getting better for him.

In school he not only hung out with the bad crowd, he was the bad crowd. But he was also different, and nothing amused him more than to make this clear to the teachers.

One day, in sewing class, we were made to create small fluffy replicas of the school's hideous mascot. We could make it whatever colour we wanted with whatever colour hair and whatever expression as long as it was happy.

So Stefan wanted to make it green (as it were) with red hair (just as it were) and a cheerful smile. But he wanted to make the eyes black with a white pupil, rather than the other way around.

This, the teacher screeched, was not allowed. This was Different.

He insisted stubbornly; given that some people were cheerfully making mascots out of coal black material, surely it would hurt no one if he did it this way.

It would, the teacher insisted. White on black looked Bad. Different.

Stefan was sent to the prinicipal and we went back to work, trying not to seem like we were on his side. When he came back we were silent, pretending he wasn't there; pretending he'd never been away.

He made it with black pupils over white eyes.

Wed, 02 Apr 2003 18:52:45 GMT

A story! Slight incest warning...

His chest, and thus her head, moved with every breath. It was silent in the royal bedchambers, aside from the hoots of the owls, drifting in through the open balcony doors. A soft breeze touched her skin and she shivered, holding closer to her brother.

She didn't know how it had gotten so far, when she had stopped loving him like a brother and a protector and merely thought of him as something... else. Something weak and manipulative, someone with whom the greatest sin among family could be comitted as he soon would pass away.

She closed her eyes suddenly and clung to him; and still sleeping, he brought an arm around her, whispering comforting words in his sleep. He had learned that when they were still children, after their parents' death.

How innocent it had been back then, when they had curled up together at night, crying. Him, just old enough to know that he would be throned and forced to wear a burden far to large for a single man, let alone a child. And she, hardly old enough to understand death, heartbroken because mother and father would never be home.

She had loved him then, and she had genuinely grieved when he started falling ill due to pressure, but... the Court had twisted her and she had learned to despise him, learned to take advantage of the one mental weakness he had - his love for her, so pure and yet so easily twisted by her hands into something perverted and sinful.

She opened her eyes and lifted her head, brushing bleached white hair out of her face. White hair was constantly fashionable, yet only the spirits-chosen heir to the empire had pure white hair. Aghanim had pure white hair; Aghamay had settled for her pale red until her real self had dissolved in the intrigue of the Palace.

The Emperor, dying at twenty-four - hardly even in his prime - slept on, his arm slipping away as his sister sat. She rose, careful not to rouse him, and slipped into the silken robe she had arrived in. She moved silently through his quarters to the main entrance and slipped outside, only to bite back a cry of shock as she nearly bumped into someone's chest.

Black hair, dark skin, slanted brown eyes; she took a deep breath. "Semlit, kindly stand away. Your intentions could be percieved as threatening in such a posture."

The Lord General bowed lightly and stepped away. "Forgive me, your Higness, I merely thought I'd catch you here. Is your brother well?" The unspoken condemnation of her incest hung in the air, expressed so clearly between the lines of accented speech.

Everyone knew. Everyone knew, and no one ever spoke a word.

"The Emperor sleeps," she informed him curtly, tugging her robe tighter around her. "Was there something you wanted?"

As she started moving to her own quarters, he followed, respectfully one step behind. "Yes. Your Highness, whispers of a coup against the Emperor have started to make themselves known. I wonder if your spies have all ready informed you." Again that silent accusation. How could the vulgar mountain-nomad accent hide such intents?

"No," she snapped, speeding up. "I thank you for informing me. I'm sure the General Council will do all in their power to deter such an unfortunate idea."

"Of course, your Highness," he all but purred, smiling as she turned to look at him. "We will stop these traitors. With any means neccesary..." He bowed and departed, leaving the threat to simmer.

Aghamay held her hand to her chest, trying to quell the fear. She was wiser in the Court's proceedings than any of the three Lord Generals, but they were the military power of the Empire and fiercely loyal to her brother. They would be a formidable enemy if she ever let her intentions be known. Sighing, she opened her door, smiling at the redhead sprawled across her living room futon.

The cadet, who in fact served directly under Semlit in the Opal Battalion, grinned at her. "Highness, what a pleasant surprise."

"Elin," she greeted, "to what do I owe the honours?"

He stood, ushering her to sit in his place, before taking two glasses and pouring from a decanter of sweet greenish wine. "Nothing, really. I came here merely to see the object of my devotion. You were speaking with the chief?"

She took a second to mentally translate the last phrase before nodding. "Semlit, yes... He seems suspicious of me."

Elin handed her a glass and winked, grinning. "Can't imagine why." He sat and took a sip of the wine. He couldn't appreciate it on the level she did, he was after all merely a peasant's son, but he could appreciate that it was alcohol.

Aghamay chuckled weakly, running a finger around the gilded rim of the glass.

The cadet blinked at the weak response and looked her over carefully. "What's wrong?"

She took a sip to moisten her throat. "Nothing's wrong."

"Something's bothering you," he said, sitting up straight. "Tell me."

There was silence for a while, and Elin sat merely watching her, waiting. Finally she opened her mouth to speak.

"My brother is dying," she said quietly, rubbing her fingers over the smooth glass, studying her reflection in the wine.

He watched her impassively. "And?" he asked when no explanation seemed forthcoming.

Aghamay mentally shrank back. This was her mentality, this was the thought she had pressed upon her accomplices. Spirits, what am I doing... "And nothing," she said lamely, shakily drinking.

Elin frowned and took the glass from her. "You're lying."

"Are you questioning me?" she demanded, trying to keep her voice from faltering. "Do you doubt the word of your princess?"

The cadet turned away, hazel eyes narrowing in either fury or hurt. She couldn't tell. When did she stop being able to read him? "Of course not, your Highness. I'll leave you to your own devices." He stood, setting the glasses on the table.

She watched him move. "Elin, no... I just would rather not think about it."

He froze, tense, but seemed to accept it. They hardly ever spoke of anything aside from how to put Aghamay on the throne as quickly as possible. He sat back down, taking his glass. She left hers on the table. "Can I help you?"

She looked at him, surprised. For a moment he had almost sounded caring. "No," she told him, looking back down at her lap. It was an illusion or a temporary weakness on his part; he was as power hungry as she was, and followed her ardently in the hope of a Lord General's stripes.

He nodded and emptied his glass, leaning back. "Did the boss say anything else?"

Again that obscure peasant slang. "He threatened me, and everyone else will ill intent against his beloved Emperor; not that I expected less."

Elin snorted in amusement and closed his eyes. "Of course not. If you ask me, Semlit's more eager to get in his Excellency's bed than to defend him."

She snapped her head around to stare at him. That had to be a jab; he had to know. How could he not hear the rumours and whispers within the walls of the Golden Paradise? He looked calmly at her, cruelty in his eyes. Oh, he knew; and he dared her to talk.

Aghamay looked away, taking her glass and throwing the wine back in disregard for royal etiquette.

"Oh-ho!" laughed Elin. "Getting drunk tonight, are we?" He wrapped an arm around her and when she didn't resist, he pulled her closer and kissed her neck softly.

"No, merely trying to be free of the world, and who better to help me?" She leant her head back. "With you I can be vulgar."

He grinned and kissed her, a hand sneaking inside the robe. "Precious, I haven't even begun to show you vulgar."

~*~

His chest, and thus her head, moved with every breath. It was silent in the royal bedchambers, aside from the hoots of the owls, drifting in through the open balcony doors. A soft breeze touched her skin and she shivered, holding closer to her brother.

He held her closer, burying his wet face in her pale red hair. He was crying; somehow it made her feel worse.

"Mother and Father... They're never coming home again, are they?"

There was silence for a long while. Then, "No."

She clung closer to him, shivering. "We're all alone now..."

He held her tighter, whispering comforting words, stroking her back. "I'll protect you, little sister. I love you and I'll never let anyone hurt you."

She bunched the cloth of his clothes into her fists, sobbing into his chest. She was so frightened, but her brother said it would be all right. He'd make everything better, because he was Big Brother. He'd make everything all right.

end

The reviews I've gotten for it have told me in no uncertain terms that I should write more. So I'm pondering something with Aghanim at the center.

Heheh.

Mon, 31 Mar 2003 17:39:14 GMT

Which Ringwraith are You?
By Lisa

A story in the works.

Tue, 25 Mar 2003 16:32:57 GMT

"When they saw Helena coming towards the tower, they said softly to
one another, 'Small wonder that Trojans and Achaeans should endure
so much and so long, for the sake of a woman so marvellously and
divinely lovely. Still, fair though she be, let them take her and
go, or she will breed sorrow for us and for our children after us.'"

Latimer sighed, scribbling a scant few final notes before putting Homer's Illiad away. He rubbed his eyes, leaning back, and tried to ignore the ferocious howling of the wind and the turbulent movement of the carriage. Perchance we should've stopped for the night at that inn, he thought, looking drearily out at the moor.

The fog swirled lazily around the coach, like a dead sea, with no hint of movement beneath. They started ascending, the wind howling stronger, but the murk only seemed to thicken, and they were hardly a hundred yard away when the MacRilley family castle faded in suddenly, a huge shadow looming above the coach.

Latimer sighed in relief, gathering his things and arranging his fashionable ponytail to hinder any locks from falling out. The coach bumped, hitting the cobblestones surrounding the castle.

"The gates are locked, sir!" cried the coachman through the storm. "You'll have to ask for entry on your own!" Jumping down, he opened the door and knocked the steps down with a kick.

Latimer sighed and nodded, holding his possessions close. "What of my luggage?" he asked as he stepped out.

"The servantry will see to that," informed the man, before closing the door and leading the horses away.

The student frowned and fought his way to the gate, against the wind, tripping over the cobblestones. Reaching the massive door, he grabbed hold of the bell-rope, pulling desperately, all ready frozen to the bone.

A clunk sounded, dimmed by the fog, even at this close range, and with a severe screech, a small portion of the gate opened. "Latimer?"

Latimer's mouth spread in a wide grin. "Avery! It's been far too long, my friend." And it had. His fellow student looked haunted and gaunt, his blond hair certainly clean but tangled, and with shades under his eyes it all testified to the youngest MacRilley not having spent the days since he left the university to aid his widowed brother well.

A weak, almost hysterical laugh made it way past Avery's lips and he motioned the dark-haired man inside. "Come, come, my friend. You look like old professor Doughlin, shivering like that."

Latimer chuckled an complied, stepping through the door and into an inner court yard, where he was blessfully spared from the wind. "Why did you lock the gates?"

Avery sighed, heading across the yard towards the main entrance of the castle. "We did not expect you till tomorrow, Latimer; and here we always lock the doors after dark unless we've very good reason not to."

The traveler frowned, puzzled. "But why? Everything's so peaceful here; no murderers or madmen like in London."

Avery stopped at the door and looked tiredly at his friend; then he snorted and shook his head, whipping out a bundle of keys and unlocking the door. "If only you knew." Letting Latimer enter as well, he then closed the door and locked it once more.

Latimer swallowed slightly at the inky darkness that surrounded them. For some reason, no windows faced the court yard. The schnick! of a match made him jump, and his heart pounded even as Avery lighted a three-pronged candlestick.

"Come," he said as he lifted it, "I'll take you to your room. We'll speak in the morning, at daylight."

Any protest Latimer might have put forth was cut in his attempt to keep up with the strides of his fellow student. "Avery, please slow down," he pleaded.

The blonde sighed and complied, letting Latimer catch up. "I'm sorry; I'm just tense..."

"I can tell," Latimer said, frowning. "What's going on here? Why was it so urgent I come?"

Avery hesitated, grasping for words. Latimer noticed uncomfortably that the flickering candlelight made the gaunt shadows on Avery's face stand out sharply.

"Avery...?"

He looked up, swallowing. "I can't tell you; not yet. Wait till morning."

"Avery, please. This mysticism is not like you at all." Latimer sighed, following along the dark halls.

His friend stopped, his posture stiff, and raised the candle stick. "See that portrait?" The light fell on the image of a beautiful lady, her face round and pale and her dark hair kept back with only a few stray curls accenturating her features. "That is... was my brother's wife."

Latimer sent him a confused look. "She's lovely..."

"Oh, yes, she was very beautiful," agreed Avery, moving slowly closer to the canvas. "And when she died, she took more than just her fairness with her."

The dark-haired student frowned deeply, but silenced the question on his lips when he saw Avery's knuckles turn white from his tight grip on the candle stick.

"O, Helena," whispered Avery, the calmness in his voice sharply contrasting the furious shiver of his limbs, "how fatally mighty Troy has fallen for you..."

They stood silently before the portrait, only the wind rattling through the towers and spires audible. Latimer swallowed, edging closer to Avery and the light, throwing the dark around them nervous glances.

Finally Avery seemed to snap out of it, his grip relaxing as he sighed quietly. "We must hurry. Come." He sped off, Latimer once again struggling to follow. "You do not wish to wander the halls alone at night, my friend; the floor is unsteady and the armour and weapons of the old MacRilleys line the wall. A blind crash at night could prove fatal."

Latimer nodded. "Understood." Up stairs, through halls draped with dusty tapestries, he followed Avery till they stopped at a door which was unlocked silently.

Walking inside briskly, Avery started lighting candles around the room and knelt by the fire place to get a fire going. "Close the door after yourself."

Complying, Latimer looked around, wrapping his coat tighter. "It's... unique."

"Frightening, you mean," Avery responded with a touch of his old humour, face lit by reluctant flames flickering at last. He stood. "Trust me, there are much worse rooms."

Latimer sighed, sitting in one of the chairs facing the fire to catch his warmth. "Your brother - how is he?"

Avery frowned, sitting meekly in the other chair. "He's... I don't know, he looked horrid at the funeral and it's grown worse, it seems, by the day." He slumped dejectedly. "He looks so distressed..."

Eyeing his friend warily, Latimer sighed. "You don't look to be of good health either, you know. What's going on here?"

Avery blinked, his eyes clearing, and he straightened in the chair before getting up. "Tomorrow. I'll try to explain when it all seems a little more distant. I wish you good night." He strided away and out the door, taking the candle stick as if by an afterthought.

Latimer sighed and sat back, staring drearily at the fire. What a mess...

To be continued.

An old, recycled post...

Tue, 25 Mar 2003 16:27:56 GMT

... From another journal of mine:

Y'know...

I didn't really think about it till today, but a few days ago, I was visiting the New Carlsberg Glyptotek (a museum) and... I was left alone. No security guards or retired couples giving me dirty looks or anything!

Just a year ago or so, when my hair was longer than to reach just my shoulders and my curves were... less prominent (I was a late bloomer; shut up), whenever I visited the Glyptotek, which is my favourite museum, I would be stalked by guards and get nasty condescending looks by the "distinguished" folks walking about in there. And it hurt me, because I love that place, but that atmosphere of, "You're not welcome here, you juvenile delinquent," kept me far away.

Now my hair is chopped up to be more business-like, I've grown slightly and I suppose I tend to look more cynical than I did back then - and no one glared at me.

As relieved as I am over this developement, I'm also struck by the injustice. I've loved and adored history from when I first saw Elsinore castle tower above me with towers and turrets, only to be more enthralled as we were guided through the history and rooms. Soon after followed my obsession with the antique times, and let me tell you, the Glyptotek has some of largest collections of Roman, Greek and Egyptian art in all of Denmark.

I loved these things. And there has never - never - been a single incident of vandalism in that place, by teenagers or otherwise. Yet, because I looked young and weren't accompanied by adults, I was viewed as a trouble-maker from the moment I set foot inside. It's a disgusting trend, and it persists.

... and I've no idea what to do about it.

Pettiness

Mon, 17 Mar 2003 13:11:14 GMT

It permeates every walk of life, every single day, and I must wonder why. Why bother?

But then, that is the very essence of the concept, isn't it? Things so small, so incignificant, that caring about them for any long period of time - or, indeed, act upon them - is really... stupid. Things that are either cruel for the sake of being cruel or whispering of things, hidden in the darkness, that you've no power to change.

Jealousy, that worst of creatures. I used to be insanely jealous a few people; despised all their work because of it, though I'd reluctantly admit that yes, it was good, but my innate pettiness kept me there in the shadows, whispering and slandering.

Then I realised how thoroughly stupid it was. These people were just doing something they were enjoying; which they found to be interesting, as I was. What a disgusting little hypocrite I were, going about like that, instead of saying anything to their faces.

But what could I say to their faces? "I hate you because others like you better than me"? Can you see where I'm going? It's ridiculous; it's a waste of time. So I grew out of it.

Unfortunately, others seem to not be able to. Some, even into their late lives - no names mentioned - can be so childish, so petty and jealous that it's a wonder anyone can stand them. So I ask; why bother? It's all so piddly anyway; we all have better things to spend life on than being petty over those little things.

Wed, 12 Mar 2003 12:03:59 GMT

A thing worth having is a thing worth cheating for.

Horse sense is the thing a horse has which keeps it from betting on people.

I always keep a supply of stimulant handy in case I see a snake--which I also keep handy.

I am free of all prejudice. I hate everyone equally.

I never vote for anyone; I always vote against.

I've never struck a woman in my life, not even my own mother.

Last week, I went to Philidelphia, but it was closed.

Reminds me of my safari in Africa. Somebody forgot the corkscrew and for several days we had to live on nothing but food and water.

Some weasel took the cork out of my lunch.

Start every day off with a smile and get it over with.

My illness is due to my doctor's insistence that I drink milk, a whitish fluid they force down helpless babies.

Few things in life are more embarrassing than the necessity of having to inform an old friend that you have just got engaged to his fiancee.

'Twas a woman who drove me to drink, and I never had the courtesy to thank her for it.

All the men in my family were bearded, and most of the women.

Back in my rummy days, I would tremble and shake for hours upon arising. It was the only exercise I got.

How well I remember my first encounter with The Devil's Brew. I happened to stumble across a case of bourbon--and went right on stumbling for several days thereafter.

I exercise extreme self control. I never drink anything stronger than gin before breakfast.

I don't believe in dining on an empty stomach.

I once spent a year in Philadelphia, I think it was on a Sunday.

If at first you don't succeed, try again. Then quit. There's no use being a damn fool about it.

I believe in tying the marriage knot, as long as it's around the woman's neck.

I certainly do not drink all the time. I have to sleep you know.

...more people are driven insane through religious hysteria than by drinking alcohol.

My father...one of the great immorals, er, immortals, of our time.

Now don't say you can't swear off drinking; it's easy. I've done it a thousand times.

Never mind what I told you--you do as I tell you.

The cost of living has gone up another dollar a quart.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house unless they have a well-stocked bar.

Women are like elephants to me: nice to look at, but I wouldn't want to own one.

(When asked : "How do you like children?") Fried!

What rascal has been putting pineapple juice in my pineapple juice?

Why? Why not?

Oh, no!

Mon, 10 Mar 2003 21:32:26 GMT

My first quiz post in yonder new journal!

You=evil. You are the epitome of dark, the
quintessential freak. Go you! You're well
learned in the art of darkness and know evil
from psycho. You have the cunning and means to
do anything you want and are happy with your
choice of lifestyle.

How Evil Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Your 100% EVIL!!!!!!!!You hate everything and like
to kill.

How Evil Are You???
brought to you by Quizilla

You are Vlad the Impaler. The man behind the legend
of Dracula. You hanged your victims, stretched
them on the rack, burned them at the stake,
boiled them alive, but mostly impaled them.
Most of your killings were politically targeted
but sometimes you killed just because you were
bored. Your "reign of terror" lasted
from 1456 to 1462. Estimated numbers of victims
vary between 30,000 and more than 100,000.
Evil Evil man. Fie on you!

Which Imfamous criminal are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

You are a Black Werewolf. Dark, Dangerous and
Mysterious. Everyone fears your taste for
blood.

What Color Werewolf Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

You are Skeletor from He-Man and the Masters of the
Universe! You are the overlord of evil! Your
real name is Keldor, but you were turned into
Skeletor by your cursed master, Hordak, who
rules a local planet called Etheria. You have a
funny voice

What 80's Villain Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

(Well, it could be worse; I could've gotten G1 Megatron. "Robot with a mullet"... *Snicker*)

Megatron

Transformers Beast Wars Quiz
brought to you by Quizilla

Agenda, part 3

Which Transformers Episode Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

... Looking over these results - should I be worried?

Sat, 08 Mar 2003 19:53:48 GMT

YES!

Frames and image slicing is my bitch! The next generation of Neffinesse.dk layouts are being thought out as we speak...

On the subject of shock poetry:

Fri, 07 Mar 2003 15:41:27 GMT

Now, I write. I don't know why; all I know is that I've done so since I was a child. And one thing I've much admiration for is poetry.

Of course, what is poetry? The latest few decades have thrown concepts of rhythm, rhyme and stanzas to the wind, so what really defines poetry anymore? My bid - emotion induced in the reader. I can read some tumbling nonsense poem, and still find myself touched, if only because the raw emotion shines through, affecting me.

Poetry is something rendered with love; bitter or ecstatic, it's love all the same. Thus we come to the subject of "shock poetry"...

There's a Danish so-called 'poet' who were part of a large cultural exhibition a while ago. He sat naked in a plexi-glass box, and for the first few days sold his semen to anyone who'd buy it (then he stopped; appearantly the stress of jacking off and selling his jizz became too great for him). But then he started reciting his 'poems'... Roughly paraphrased (and translated), they went like so:

"Fuck the government,
Fuck soceity,
Fuck the taxes,
Fuck the military,
Fuck the world,
Fuck you, you fucking cunt,
Fuck you, fucker..." Etc.

... What exactly is this supposed to induce? Some sort of emotion about his plight? Anything but disgust for his so-called poetic ability? Is it supposed to induce disgust for his so-called poetic ability?

No. In the interview he claimed it was to raise awareness about the corruption of the state. News flash, sir. We are all keenly aware of that corruption; we don't need your juvenile attempts at instant fame and attention to tell us that. Grow up and write something creative.

Shock poetry is exactly that. Words - mostly swear words - written purely to grab the attention to the poem, not the idea. It is the cheapest form of writing, and subject of my eternal disgust. If that makes me a snob, so be it. Some things should be looked down upon.