#In doing that we decided violence was somehow more acceptable than pleasure. Fucking weird ass take.

[manicpixiedreamedwins]

fandom imitates life in that it there’s a recent propensity towards violence but a deep discomfort towards sex

[irenadel]

i wanna talk books so I made a meme

@doorsclosingslowly here’s the answers to your questions :)

6. If you read in more than one language, is there a difference between the experience of reading in your native language(s) and reading in other languages?

Virginia Woolf has a great quote in A Room of One’s Own where she says that women writers need to develop their own “sentence” and that this can only be developed through creating a tradition of female writing. She says that while reading male writers is pleasurable, it isn’t useful for the female writer, that she can’t learn from the way men write. Their “sentence” isn’t suitable for female writing. I’m.... unsure of how much I agree with her on this but I find the theory useful for describing how I approach literature in Spanish vs English.

Especially in terms of language, not so much in regards to narrative or worldbuilding or even themes, I find Spanish to be pleasurable but not useful. I very rarely find myself reading something in Spanish and thinking “ooooh, I wish I could do that! I want to steal that! How did they come up with this?” The “sentence” for writing in Spanish isn’t one I recognize or want to imitate... except maybe for VERY few exceptions like Carlos Fuentes and Borges. Whereas I can spend a lot of time reading English un-selfconsciously and then suddenly be struck by a turn of phrase that I must somehow or other make my own. That almost never happens to me when reading Spanish.

9. Fiction or non-fiction or both? In what ratio? Where do you draw the line between the two?

Oh god, this is embarassing. Erm... fiction to a fault. On 2020 and 2019 I did try to make a concerted effort to read more nonfiction, ESPECIALLY more popular science books. I still kind of childishly consider myself to not be “smart like that” and that science isn’t for me, because I don’t understand it. I used to think science fiction wasn’t for me, for similar reasons. When I do read nonfiction it tends to be history and literary criticism.

I’m finishing my degree on English literature and though I had a period of hating hard on literary criticism, I think it was mostly me rebelling against the French brand of it. I HAVE to admit I love reading new historicism, especially now that I’m working on my dissertation and I had to read a lot on Elizabethan and Jacobean theatre.

Hopefully 2021 will be the year I read a bit more science.

11. The worst book hangover you’ve ever had

Augh... I remember two in recent years. Let me see... in 2017 I finished the last book in the Realm of the Elderlings. I had read the first book in the series around maybe the mid 2000s. I devoured it in a single weekend, still hungry for more of the story. I did not have access to the rest of the trilogy for a couple of years after, but as soon as I got them I read them as fast as I could. I remember reading those books during class, pretending to pay attention to a lecture on Linguistics but actually fully engrossed in Robin Hobb’s world.

It’s a world that was with me for more than 10 years. Characters that I knew intimately from multiple re-readings for more than 10 years. My dissertationg is about the first trilogy for crying out loud! I hadn’t wanted to read the last trilogy and the last book on the trilogy because I didn’t want that connection to end. But finally I gave in...

It was a book hangover because I was reading late at night when I realized, halfway through the book, a character I loved deeply was probably going to die and I just HAD to know, I HAD to be sure. So I read through the night going from disbelief to anger, to grief, to grim acceptance. I wasn’t able to put down the book until 11 am the next day, by which point I was openly sobbing and would have thrown the book across the room except I think I was reading in my computer.

The second book hangover I remember was less because of sprinting through the book and more because of the circumstances. Last December I had decided to finish as many books I could in hopes of reaching my Good Reads goal (which I didn’’t) and I was going through His Dark Materials pretty quickly when on the 25th I got the news that my grandmother died. I wasn’t able to go see her at the hospital or at a funeral, or even go see my dad and uncles because she had died of covid-19 and the situation was still pretty dire in the city.

Then Philip Pullman decided to be an absolute asshole to me and the characters in his book arrived to the Land of the Dead. Being an atheist fantasy series and me having just recently come to terms with the fact that I’m not even agnostic... it was very tough to go through Pullman’s exploration of mortality and the importance of life on Earth. I agreed completely that materiality and the here-and-now far outweigh any contemplations of an afterlife... but my grandmother had died very suddenly.... she had still been a pretty strong old lady before she contracted covid... I had spoken to her a couple of days before and she was still strong enough to bitch about litter getting inside her room...

I finished The Amber Spyglass in a rush as well and somehow it got mixed with my mourning process and my anger at myself for having taken my grandmother’s life for granted... for not having cherished the materiality of her existence when I had the chance... I hadn’t finished writing my dissertation’s first draft yet and there were some heavy issues going on in my household.... I was exhausted from having to survive the year and I think I still am... and it all mixed up with the bittersweet ending of Pullman’s His Dark Materials and the inevitability of loss... all I remember from between the 25th and the 31st of December 2020 was exhaustedly reheating Christmas food, trying to write, and slogging through The Amber Spyglass... it feels like it was a week-long literary hangover...

14. The book that, in hindsight, really should have clued you in to the fact that you’re _________ (queer/in love/doomed to be an academic/etc)

So this is slightly NSFW but I should have known, and stopped being such a snob about it, that I had WAY MORE in common with the furries than I cared to admit given that my first impression of Smaug the Golden when reading The Hobbit at the tender age of 8 was “wow! he’s dreamy!” *facepalm *(also betraying a worrying tendency to crushing on irredeemable assholes and other miscellaneous villains...) I have accepted my status as a weird monsterfucker AND a weird alienfucker. Inhuman anatomy makes me hot, and I should have known it from DAY ONE!

23. The book you expected to hate, didn’t, and then got angry about not hating

The Hunger Games, which I’m STILL salty about and will probably remain salty about for the rest of my life.

I hateread it because a friend told me about how he hated it, given his bitter ex loved it and though I agree with all his criticisms and have a bunch of my own... I still cannot stop finding stupid Katniss profoundly likeable! CURSES! A pox upon your house Suzanne Collins! I still think your dystopia is a cowardly, white-lady-who-has-never-feared-state-violence dystopia, I still think your love triangle was absolutely unnecessary and I still think you tried to cop out of admitting you (and your character) like pretty dresses by making the pretty dresses compulsory. Be brave! Don’t give me this “I’m not like other girls” bullshit! Be brave! Make your violent spectacle reality show as a criticism of the USA’s consumerism and callousness a voluntary thing! Don’t wash your heroine’s hands clean of the sin of wanting fame and fortune and survival at all costs!

But... fuck... I... still like Katniss... I’m glad little girls in 2008 got a heroine who kicked ass, looked good and wasn’t a perfectly strong and powerful person all the time. I’m glad they got competence and vulnerability... Fuck my life...

31. Bonus question: rec me something!

This is hard... since I get the feeling we have very different tastes in reading material but... If you haven’t heard of the Vampire: The Masquerade roleplaying game (or even if you have) take a crack at the Baali Clanbook. Even if you don’t understand the game mechanics I think you’ll enjoy the history portion because it’s about a clan of devil-worshipping vampires who do their devil worshipping through implanting evil insects on people... and I suspect it might be up your alley...

[sonnets-and-snowdrops]

Saiyuki Inktober 2017, Day 2 - “Past and Present”

Fandom: Saiyuki Pairing: A teeny, tiny sprinkle of 58 cuteness Rating: Parental guidance suggested. Unless you’re Gojyo, in which case, parental figures are, like, the least ideal people imaginable for coping with the content of this fic. (But in all seriousness, this fic does include mentions of physical and verbal abuse, as well as some mildly descriptive violence, and mentions of bodily fluids.) Word Count: Approx. 2k seriously why the heck can I not write short pieces gahhhhh one of these days mark my many, many words Author’s Note: Once again, I’m sorry for the ludicrous delay here BUT I’VE GOT WIFI IN MY PLACE NOW HECK YEEEEAAAAAHH DO A HAPPY DANCE WITH ME PEOPLE but yeah I also apologize again if this is kinda meh, still been busy with moving-in shenanigans

The guy who came up with the idea of putting one foot in front of the other must have been a stupid-ass motherfucker, Gojyo decides. He spits - or, he tries to, anyway - and a glob of foul-looking, brownish-reddish goop shoots sideways out of his mouth and dribbles down his chin before it drops to the ground, mixing with the gloomy, gloopy, late-night, rain-soaked mud. “Shoulda known,” he slurs aloud, to no one in particular. “Shitty trajectory, am I right?”

He is right, as it happens. Gojyo’s swelling face is pressed firmly against the loose-packed dirt of the path that leads away from the bad part of town, where he’d spent the past several hours gambling with the local gents and admiring the local ladies - and, his squirming stomach reminds him, knocking back the local spirits at a borderline breakneck rate. He’d lost the last round of seven-card stud, and neither he nor his woefully empty pockets had particularly felt like paying up. And so, he’d slapped the most charming smile he could manage onto his villainous visage, and he’d tried to sweet-talk his way out of his unfortunate circumstances.

It had been a pretty effective tactic, all things considered.

One of the guys at the bar had shrugged, and had asked Gojyo if he’d be willing to offer something else as payment. That had made Gojyo a little nervous, as was to be expected; but thanks to years of ingrained street-smarts, he’d managed to check himself before reflexively drawing his arms behind his back to cover his ass with his grubby hands. The guy had laughed, big and loud - he must have seen how shit-scared Gojyo was of the mere idea of someone making him pay up in that particular fashion - and he’d shaken his shaggy head, saying “Ain’t nothin’ much, Gojyo-san. I’ve just been wantin’ to punch that pretty face of yours for a long damn time.”

He must have blacked out at some point. Maybe it was the drinks, or maybe it was the pain, or maybe it was a finicky combination of the two. Heck, maybe it even had something to do with the wild, distant laughter bouncing around inside his thick, half-youkai skull - “I can’t stand to look at you,” came an all-too-familiar voice, hysterical and high-pitched, between blows, between the bouts of laughter - “I can’t - I CAN’T!” - an all-too-familiar series of punches to the gut and slaps upside the head had followed - if he’s honest, he wasn’t even sure who was hitting him anymore. It could have been the guys at the bar, beating the crap out of him for always being down on his luck financially but inexplicably up on his luck romantically - “How the fuck does a guy like you bag all those chicks, huh?” he distinctly remembers one leery voice sneering. “A dirtbag like you? I can’t believe it, man!” - or it could have been a woman who had been cold and dead for years and years, who never thought twice about raising her clawed hands to a little kid - “I can’t stand to look at you,” said the woman - “I can’t fuckin’ believe it, man!” said the guy - someone slugged him in the kidney, and he went down, hard, knees first - “I can’t stand it!” - he felt like he was on some kind of fucked-up merry-go-round, his world was spinning so gods-damned fast - “I can’t believe it!”- “I can’t STAND it!” - “I can’t” - “I can’t” - “I CAN’T” - “I CAN’T - !”

And then, somehow, he’d made it outside.

He’d found himself staggering, stumbling, stupid, towards home, in the bleak, black rain.

Of course, he remembers thinking. On a night like tonight, of course it was raining.

So, Gojyo had done the only thing he could do: he’d focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and steering his sorry ass towards home. Trouble was, when you were drunk off your face and reeling from just having been treated like a half-human punching bag, putting one foot in front of the other was a pretty harebrained thing to try and do.

As Gojyo quickly discovered.

His ankles got all twisted up beneath him somehow, and he’d ended up facedown in the slop of the road, frustrated, fatigued, and feeling more than a little bit like the entire contents of his stomach was about to come spewing out through his big mouth. “S’not even how people walk,” Gojyo had moaned weakly as he felt his body thud to the ground, for what wasn’t even the first time that night. “Feet go more side-by-side than that, gods damn it… stupid fuckin’ guidelines, not helpful at all…”

The worst part is, he isn’t even that far away from home. All he has to do is haul his wretched, wrecked self up from the ground and traipse the half a mile to his battered door.  There’s a cold shower waiting for him behind that door, and a soft bed. There’s a fresh pack of cigarettes somewhere, one that hasn’t been soaked through by the rain. In the morning, there’ll be cheap whiskey and hot coffee (in that order) to take the edge off. Gojyo knows all of these things. And, if he’s honest, Gojyo wants all of these things, too.

But, just a little bit more, he wants to close his eyes.

And so, he does.

The next thing he knows, someone’s nudging him, and they won’t stop. He feels hands shaking his shoulders and grasping at his upper arms. He starts awake, and by reflex, he seizes up, clenching his fists and tightening his abs, readying his body for another beating - “Cut it out,” he tries to scream, but the words gets stuck in his scratchy throat -

“Gojyo,” says a voice.

Gojyo hesitates.

He knows that voice.

He’s sure he does.

But - but how - and why -

“Please,” the voice continues, “stay still, if you can manage it. You’ll hurt yourself even more if you thrash around like that.”

“…Hakkai?”

“Yes.”

“How - h-how the fuck did you - ”

“It’s four in the morning, and you hadn’t returned. I was curious.”

“Been out that late before, y’know.”

“Yes.” Even through his stupor, Gojyo can hear Hakkai hesitate. “The rain,” he says, finally. His voice has gone high and tight. “I couldn’t sleep. I took a walk. I found you here.”

“Mm,” is how Gojyo replies to that. In part, it’s because he doesn’t want to press the matter any further, and in part, it’s because that’s all he has the energy to say.

“We need to get you home,” comes Hakkai’s voice again. “I won’t ask what happened now, but you’re in terrible shape.” He pauses. “How do you feel?” he asks.

Gojyo laughs, a weary, broken sound. “How d’ya think I feel?!” he answers gleefully. “I feel like shit!”

“Do you think you can walk?”

“Do you think I can walk?”

“I don’t know, Gojyo. That’s why I asked.”

Gojyo laughs again. He shoves himself up onto one shoulder, leaning clumsily sideways so that he can look his roommate in the face - but a wave of nausea sweeps over him, and he hangs his head again. “I dunno, man,” he answers honestly. “I could try, but it’ll be one hell of a long shot. I kinda get the feeling that I’d take two steps, and the next thing we’d know, my guts would end up all over the road.”

At that, Hakkai goes strangely silent.

“What?” Gojyo says, lifting his head again, deciding that the roiling in his stomach might be briefly worth enduring. “What’d I say?”

Abruptly, Hakkai shakes his head. “Nothing,” he replies. “Nothing at all.”

“I said something, didn’t I?”

“No.”

“Look, you - you don’t have to haul my ass back, man - it ain’t your job or nothin’ - ”

“If your guts do end up all over the road,” Hakkai says, his voice clipped and quick, “let’s call it returning the favor, shall we?’

At that, Gojyo stops.

“Oh,” he says.

He really can be an idiot sometimes.

“Shit,” Gojyo mumbles. “I’m sorry, Hakkai. That - that wasn’t a guilt-trip thing, I swear - ”

“If it was, you’d be perfectly entitled, you know.”

“I - yeah, maybe, but - “

“Gojyo - I was only - “

“That’s not my style, man - I didn’t mean to - ”

“Hush, Gojyo. I believe you.” Hakkai’s face softens, just a little - not enough that Gojyo feels completely comfortable, but a little - and he nods his acceptance. Oh, Gojyo realizes, belatedly. That ‘entitled’ thing was his version of a joke. “It’s all right,” Hakkai says gently. “I understand that that isn’t what you meant.”

“Shit,” Gojyo says again, gritting his teeth and forcing the words out. “Shit, Hakkai - I’m sorry - ”

“I just told you, Gojyo - it’s all right - ”

But Gojyo shakes his head. “Not for that,” he says, and he hears the resignation that tinges his voice as he speaks.

“Oh?”

Gojyo cringes.

“For this.”

And with that, Gojyo promptly empties his stomach onto the road, right in front of the man whose life he never really meant to save - the man who became the roommate he never really planned to have. Still, Gojyo can’t help but feel a little thankful. What are the odds, after all, that he’d end up sharing his digs with just the kind of guy who takes weird, late-night walks at desperate times like these?

When it’s over, and when Gojyo can think straight again, he recognizes the feeling of firm, strong hands on his back. For the first time in a long, long while, he doesn’t get all tense when he senses the touch. He cracks his eyes open and glances up, and he sees Hakkai, silhouetted and pale, gazing almost sympathetically down at his fallen companion. “Thank you,” Gojyo says, softly.

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Heh. Doubt it.”

“Well,” Hakkai replies, “perhaps I’m using the word ‘pleasure’ a bit generously in this instance. Still,” he says, laying one slender hand upon his own stomach, “I won’t pretend I don’t have a debt to pay.”

“Forget it, man.”

“Gojyo - ”

“I mean it,” Gojyo says, giving Hakkai what he hopes is a fierce and determined stare - though, he recognizes that his odds are slim, given what he looks like at the moment. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“But - ”

“Just shut up and accept the fact that I’m grateful to you for this, would ya?” Gojyo snickers. “Talk about going above and beyond the call of duty. For real, man.”

“Gojyo, I really can’t - ”

“Look,” Gojyo says, figuring he’ll give this just one last try before he throws in the towel altogether. “I get that you feel indebted to me. Fine. That ain’t gonna go away any time soon, and I get that. But listen - we live in the here and now, don’t we, Hakkai?” Weirdly, it’s important to him that Hakkai actually answers this question. He waits, and when Hakkai says nothing, he repeats himself. “Don’t we?”

Hakkai nods, somber and steady.

“Yeah,” Gojyo says, finally, finally satisfied. “We do. So let it go, okay?” And he gives Hakkai one last, lopsided smile before he lets his face fall back into the mud. “What’s past is past,” he concludes proudly, “and you just watched me puke.”