ext_63662 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
aliasverve.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2004-01-31 01:02 am
aliasverve.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-01-31 01:02 am
coiled my tongue around a bumblebee mouth
sometimes: a study in the making and unmaking of cliches
lotrips
heavy pg-13/light r
slash and cussing
lies make the world go round. so do pretty boys, but that's beside the point.
for the 'lethargic challenge' between myself and t3h loverly![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
airlia_vega *snogtwirlspin*
feedback is good for the soul. among other things.
Sometimes, it’s easier to stick to clichés. The movements are calculated, the words are scripted. No risks here. It’s planned ahead. It’s safe. It’s familiar. It’s also sickening.
“Hey! Anyone home?”
“…”
“Hello? I bring offerings to the heathen gods! Not like last time, either. S’the good stuff this time, not that American piss you drink.”
“…It’s not ‘piss.’ You’re just bitter that you can’t hold real alcohol.”
“Ah, there you are. You know, I’ve noticed an interesting trend; you start repeating yourself when you don’t have anything to say. Perhaps you should look some new lines up on the Internet, eh? You could certainly use a few pointers. Hell, I’ll pay for lessons, even. Hire somebody to teach you to make decent comebacks.”
“Sit down already, it’s hurting my neck to look up at you.”
“What are you talking about, mate? I’m taller than you anyway.”
“Yes, yes, so I’ve heard…”
“Well someone’s not in a bantering mood, I see. Is it that time of the month again? I don’t know from experience, but I hear PMS is vile-- mood swings and all that... You’re not contemplating suicide, are you? Because I’ve heard the statistics and they’re pretty alarming.”
“You’re making it incredibly hard to concentrate, you realize.”
“Am I, now?”
“…yes…”
“Terribly sorry about that. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your intricate workings there… I know I wouldn’t even want to attempt making such a… ahem, in-depth reflection of the world with only a piece of canvas and some acrylics, but you know… I do respect you and your… level of insanity.”
“…Art isn’t a reflection of the world. It’s a reflection of the artist.”
“Ah…right. Just kidding, then. So… you mean, that, say… that brushstroke right there- that could be some secret you’ve kept for ten years, and maybe that one is… one you’ve only kept since last night? And hell, that gorgeous, absolutely marvelous sunset you’ve got right there could be some childhood trauma or something. But you can’t really tell the difference, can you? I mean, unless you’re a fellow art geek who spends their free time analyzing such things... Maybe you could… maybe, like, the whole painting or something… you know?”
“I… think you’re missing the point.”
“Well, then. By all means, enlighten me.”
“…Well… since you asked… it’s not really that cut and dry.”
“…Pardon?”
“It’s not that complex. Well, it is…”
“It is or it’s not? Make up your mind, mate. Indecision is a right bitch.”
“What I mean is, that it’s not always that precise and detailed. Ah… you can tell what someone was thinking, by looking at a painting, sometimes… you can tell a bit about their background, how they were raised, where they were from- sometimes more than that. What kind of relationship they were in… if they were satisfied with their art, or their life… it’s like the psychology of the paintbrush.”
“Help me God, that’s what you’re going to title your next poetry collection, then?
“You asked. I’m just giving you an answer.”
“I never said you wer-”
“I’m just saying, don’t ask a question that you don’t want a long-winded, redundant answer to.”
“…I’ll keep that in mind. Beer?”
“Sure.”
“So go get one. They’re right over there.”
“Cunt.”
“You know you love me.”
“I doubt even your mother loves you at this point.”
“What are you talking about? I’m the most lovable bloke you’ll ever meet.”
“Humble, too.”
“I heard that. Hey, where you going?”
“To get my own beer, out of my own refrigerator.”
“Why the hell are you doing that?”
“Because I don’t like that piss you Brits drink.”
“…You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Yeah, yeah… You know what?”
“…”
“S’what I thought…”
Sometimes, doubts take root in the deep, secluded nooks of the mind. Ideas start to form, nurtured by secrets and desires and questions. Longing to feel the light of day, and still too timid and bow-legged to walk head-on into the wind and sun. But one day, maybe...
“I thought I’d let you know that I’m having a very tired day. What’s that word, means ‘tired’ but it’s longer and sounds more impressive-like?”
“…exhausted?”
“No. Not impressive enough. It’s… I think it starts with an m… or maybe an l…”
“You sure it’s not ‘fatigued?’ ”
“Nah… Oh! Lethargic. That’s what it is. Lethargic. I’m having a very lethargic day.”
“That’s… nice.”
“You know, just in case you were interested at all.”
“Oh, I am. Very interested.”
“Sod off.”
“You’re the one that started it, don’t forget.”
“I haven’t. I’m smarter than you give me credit for, old man.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Oh, look, being all condescending now. That’s nice of you.”
“Yes… it is… you know what? This shit really does taste like piss.”
“Told you. S’not my fault you don’t listen to me.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Sometimes, it’s tempting to want something more than a recitation. It’s just a run-through, just a prerequisite. Not the final draft, no. Just an imitation. It’s not real. It’s not forced, but walking the fine line between comfort and longing for something less superficial. Is it so wrong, then?
“So here’s a thought for you. What does your painting say? That one right there.”
“Could you be any more vague?
“Well… I mean, you’re a pretty private guy, you could say. So if art really reveals so much about you…? What is it trying to tell me, eh?”
“…What are you trying to say?”
“Well, I mean. You know, don’t you ever think that maybe someone could find out more about you than you want them to know?”
“…I’ve considered it… but you know, I think it’s safe to say that most people don’t read quite so much into it… For example, you certainly haven’t…”
“Oh, and just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Why don’t you ask it?”
“The bloody painting?”
“Sure, why not? I like to chat with inanimate objects in my spare time… they can tell you a lot…”
“I suppose you’ve written a poem about it?”
“No. I haven’t. Poetry doesn’t solve all problems, you know. It’s not like duct tape. Some things don’t need words.”
“I dunno… sounds pretty poetic to me… But all right. So, Monsieur Painting, my pal, mi amigo, my best mate… is the old man here really as much of a crackpot as I think he is?”
“Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“No, no, man. I’m on a role. Okay, so… man, you’ve gotta tell me… what was with that whole ‘obsession-with-bearded-women thing’? Sounds kinda kinky if you ask me.”
“Nobody asked you.”
“Ah… I see. Well, that clears a bit up. And what’s with the ‘not-wanting-to-look-in-the-mirror-so-I’m-just-going-to-cover-it-with-Polaroids’? I mean, yeah, I can understand being afraid of spiders or heights… but of your own reflection? That’s a bit strange, man.”
“…How much did you drink before you came over here?”
“This is only my second beer, mate! Here, I’ve got a grand idea. Why don’t I ask you, since our friend here is being so responsive.”
“I sense a bit of sarcasm.”
“Only a bit?”
Sometimes, it’s too easy to forget. To come too close to the truth, but then the sparks meet skin/soul and it burns and it’s much easier to reel back, mind reeling and body wheeling, than it is to push forward. Try to cover up. It’s all a joke, after all.
“All right. Ask away.”
“Uhhh… favorite color?”
“…that’s a hard question. I can say for sure that my least favorite color would be that particularly violent shade of red that recently attacked me.”
“Oh, yes. Sblom had a fit over that one. Okay, let’s see. Who is the sexiest person in the entire cast and crew? And, er, that doesn’t include PJ because that’s just weird.”
“You.”
“Aw, flattered, really. So, why am I so gosh darn irresistible?”
“…you’re going to spill your beer if you keep waving it around like that.”
“I won’t if you take it away from me.”
“What do I look like, a goddamn babysitter?”
“Nah… you don’t giggle enough, and you don’t your maths homework when you’re supposed to be making sure I’m not burning the house down.”
“I see… I’ll have to work on that.”
“So, back to me being sexy.”
“What about it?”
“Why am I sexy, all-knowing one?”
“…would you like me to write you a poem? Ode to-”
“You’re such an ass.”
Sometimes, it’s not enough to pretend. There comes a moment, when the actors have all left, and the scripts lie discarded on the stage, when everything worth living for happens. It doesn’t happen in front of an audience.
“Well, for one… you’re probably prettier than all the women combined. Including Elijah.”
“I’m sure he appreciates that.”
“I’m sure he does. Hmm… secondly, even though you are neither smart, nor a good actor, you at least have the wits to pretend to be both… but not the modesty to admit you aren’t.”
“Oh. That’s touching. I felt that one deep down inside. Don’t really see how that’s sexy, but go on.”
“Thirdly… I don’t think that’s a word… Thirdly, you’re one of the few people I know that can put on feminine hair and tights and still look good.”
“It’s a gift, what can I say? …And it’s not feminine!”
“Sure, sure… Whatever you say… Fourthly… and I know that’s not a word… you have a very manly physique. It’s, er… very… scrawny… and manly…”
“Hey, hey. No need to get mean. I thought this was supposed to be a list of all my good traits. And, by the way, I’m rather fond of my body, as it were. It’s very useful.”
“I imagine so.”
“…that sounded nasty.”
“Did it?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Good?”
“Fifthly… you’re very adventurous. And sort of reckless and brash and are somewhat of a small child stuck in an oversized body, but that’s beside the point. I hear women like adventurous types.”
“Okay, that’s enough. You’re just being downright malicious.”
“Well, I can’t inflate your ego too much. Wouldn’t want to burst that pretty head of yours.”
“Well… at least I’m pretty.”
“It would appear so.”
“I think I liked it better when we were talking about your painting.”
“Really? Because I’m finding this very amusing.”
“I’m sure you are. I still think we should go back to talking to your canvas.”
“…if your heart is set on it, who am I to say no?”
“Funny. Real funny. But actually, I think I’m going to ask you instead. What do you think your art says about you? I mean, what does it reveal and all that?”
“…I like to think that I’m hidden to most, and naked to a select few.”
“Naked, eh? Do you do the selecting?
“…not always.”
“Why not?”
“Sometimes I find them. Some of them find me. And then, there is the rare one that throws itself upon me and shouts indecent things in public… That actually seems to be my downfall.”
“I’m not sure I follow… Are we still talking about art?”
“Sure we are. Perhaps I should make things a little more easier to understand?”
“Yeah, perhaps you should.”
“Perhaps I will.”
…
…
“Um… not to be rude, but what are you doing?”
“Simplifying.”
“What do you mean simplif-”
…
…
“Oh… when you said ‘simplifying’ I didn’t think you meant… oh…”
“Mmmhmm.”
“I, uh… oh…”
“You follow?”
“Yeah… I follow… it’s just… I mean, I… you know, I’m-”
“Not drunk enough?”
“Yes- no! I mean…”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… I mean… er…”
…
“I mean… I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“I don’t think… I don’t think I follow. I think you need to simplify things again. More, I mean.”
“Really...”
“Yeah. Really. More simplifying would be good right about now.”
“Well… knowledge is power…”
…
…
…
“Um…”
“Yeah?”
“Do... do I really shout indecent things in public?”
“All the time.”
lotrips
heavy pg-13/light r
slash and cussing
lies make the world go round. so do pretty boys, but that's beside the point.
for the 'lethargic challenge' between myself and t3h loverly
airlia_vega *snogtwirlspin*feedback is good for the soul. among other things.
Sometimes, it’s easier to stick to clichés. The movements are calculated, the words are scripted. No risks here. It’s planned ahead. It’s safe. It’s familiar. It’s also sickening.
“Hey! Anyone home?”
“…”
“Hello? I bring offerings to the heathen gods! Not like last time, either. S’the good stuff this time, not that American piss you drink.”
“…It’s not ‘piss.’ You’re just bitter that you can’t hold real alcohol.”
“Ah, there you are. You know, I’ve noticed an interesting trend; you start repeating yourself when you don’t have anything to say. Perhaps you should look some new lines up on the Internet, eh? You could certainly use a few pointers. Hell, I’ll pay for lessons, even. Hire somebody to teach you to make decent comebacks.”
“Sit down already, it’s hurting my neck to look up at you.”
“What are you talking about, mate? I’m taller than you anyway.”
“Yes, yes, so I’ve heard…”
“Well someone’s not in a bantering mood, I see. Is it that time of the month again? I don’t know from experience, but I hear PMS is vile-- mood swings and all that... You’re not contemplating suicide, are you? Because I’ve heard the statistics and they’re pretty alarming.”
“You’re making it incredibly hard to concentrate, you realize.”
“Am I, now?”
“…yes…”
“Terribly sorry about that. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your intricate workings there… I know I wouldn’t even want to attempt making such a… ahem, in-depth reflection of the world with only a piece of canvas and some acrylics, but you know… I do respect you and your… level of insanity.”
“…Art isn’t a reflection of the world. It’s a reflection of the artist.”
“Ah…right. Just kidding, then. So… you mean, that, say… that brushstroke right there- that could be some secret you’ve kept for ten years, and maybe that one is… one you’ve only kept since last night? And hell, that gorgeous, absolutely marvelous sunset you’ve got right there could be some childhood trauma or something. But you can’t really tell the difference, can you? I mean, unless you’re a fellow art geek who spends their free time analyzing such things... Maybe you could… maybe, like, the whole painting or something… you know?”
“I… think you’re missing the point.”
“Well, then. By all means, enlighten me.”
“…Well… since you asked… it’s not really that cut and dry.”
“…Pardon?”
“It’s not that complex. Well, it is…”
“It is or it’s not? Make up your mind, mate. Indecision is a right bitch.”
“What I mean is, that it’s not always that precise and detailed. Ah… you can tell what someone was thinking, by looking at a painting, sometimes… you can tell a bit about their background, how they were raised, where they were from- sometimes more than that. What kind of relationship they were in… if they were satisfied with their art, or their life… it’s like the psychology of the paintbrush.”
“Help me God, that’s what you’re going to title your next poetry collection, then?
“You asked. I’m just giving you an answer.”
“I never said you wer-”
“I’m just saying, don’t ask a question that you don’t want a long-winded, redundant answer to.”
“…I’ll keep that in mind. Beer?”
“Sure.”
“So go get one. They’re right over there.”
“Cunt.”
“You know you love me.”
“I doubt even your mother loves you at this point.”
“What are you talking about? I’m the most lovable bloke you’ll ever meet.”
“Humble, too.”
“I heard that. Hey, where you going?”
“To get my own beer, out of my own refrigerator.”
“Why the hell are you doing that?”
“Because I don’t like that piss you Brits drink.”
“…You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Yeah, yeah… You know what?”
“…”
“S’what I thought…”
Sometimes, doubts take root in the deep, secluded nooks of the mind. Ideas start to form, nurtured by secrets and desires and questions. Longing to feel the light of day, and still too timid and bow-legged to walk head-on into the wind and sun. But one day, maybe...
“I thought I’d let you know that I’m having a very tired day. What’s that word, means ‘tired’ but it’s longer and sounds more impressive-like?”
“…exhausted?”
“No. Not impressive enough. It’s… I think it starts with an m… or maybe an l…”
“You sure it’s not ‘fatigued?’ ”
“Nah… Oh! Lethargic. That’s what it is. Lethargic. I’m having a very lethargic day.”
“That’s… nice.”
“You know, just in case you were interested at all.”
“Oh, I am. Very interested.”
“Sod off.”
“You’re the one that started it, don’t forget.”
“I haven’t. I’m smarter than you give me credit for, old man.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Oh, look, being all condescending now. That’s nice of you.”
“Yes… it is… you know what? This shit really does taste like piss.”
“Told you. S’not my fault you don’t listen to me.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Sometimes, it’s tempting to want something more than a recitation. It’s just a run-through, just a prerequisite. Not the final draft, no. Just an imitation. It’s not real. It’s not forced, but walking the fine line between comfort and longing for something less superficial. Is it so wrong, then?
“So here’s a thought for you. What does your painting say? That one right there.”
“Could you be any more vague?
“Well… I mean, you’re a pretty private guy, you could say. So if art really reveals so much about you…? What is it trying to tell me, eh?”
“…What are you trying to say?”
“Well, I mean. You know, don’t you ever think that maybe someone could find out more about you than you want them to know?”
“…I’ve considered it… but you know, I think it’s safe to say that most people don’t read quite so much into it… For example, you certainly haven’t…”
“Oh, and just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Why don’t you ask it?”
“The bloody painting?”
“Sure, why not? I like to chat with inanimate objects in my spare time… they can tell you a lot…”
“I suppose you’ve written a poem about it?”
“No. I haven’t. Poetry doesn’t solve all problems, you know. It’s not like duct tape. Some things don’t need words.”
“I dunno… sounds pretty poetic to me… But all right. So, Monsieur Painting, my pal, mi amigo, my best mate… is the old man here really as much of a crackpot as I think he is?”
“Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“No, no, man. I’m on a role. Okay, so… man, you’ve gotta tell me… what was with that whole ‘obsession-with-bearded-women thing’? Sounds kinda kinky if you ask me.”
“Nobody asked you.”
“Ah… I see. Well, that clears a bit up. And what’s with the ‘not-wanting-to-look-in-the-mirror-so-I’m-just-going-to-cover-it-with-Polaroids’? I mean, yeah, I can understand being afraid of spiders or heights… but of your own reflection? That’s a bit strange, man.”
“…How much did you drink before you came over here?”
“This is only my second beer, mate! Here, I’ve got a grand idea. Why don’t I ask you, since our friend here is being so responsive.”
“I sense a bit of sarcasm.”
“Only a bit?”
Sometimes, it’s too easy to forget. To come too close to the truth, but then the sparks meet skin/soul and it burns and it’s much easier to reel back, mind reeling and body wheeling, than it is to push forward. Try to cover up. It’s all a joke, after all.
“All right. Ask away.”
“Uhhh… favorite color?”
“…that’s a hard question. I can say for sure that my least favorite color would be that particularly violent shade of red that recently attacked me.”
“Oh, yes. Sblom had a fit over that one. Okay, let’s see. Who is the sexiest person in the entire cast and crew? And, er, that doesn’t include PJ because that’s just weird.”
“You.”
“Aw, flattered, really. So, why am I so gosh darn irresistible?”
“…you’re going to spill your beer if you keep waving it around like that.”
“I won’t if you take it away from me.”
“What do I look like, a goddamn babysitter?”
“Nah… you don’t giggle enough, and you don’t your maths homework when you’re supposed to be making sure I’m not burning the house down.”
“I see… I’ll have to work on that.”
“So, back to me being sexy.”
“What about it?”
“Why am I sexy, all-knowing one?”
“…would you like me to write you a poem? Ode to-”
“You’re such an ass.”
Sometimes, it’s not enough to pretend. There comes a moment, when the actors have all left, and the scripts lie discarded on the stage, when everything worth living for happens. It doesn’t happen in front of an audience.
“Well, for one… you’re probably prettier than all the women combined. Including Elijah.”
“I’m sure he appreciates that.”
“I’m sure he does. Hmm… secondly, even though you are neither smart, nor a good actor, you at least have the wits to pretend to be both… but not the modesty to admit you aren’t.”
“Oh. That’s touching. I felt that one deep down inside. Don’t really see how that’s sexy, but go on.”
“Thirdly… I don’t think that’s a word… Thirdly, you’re one of the few people I know that can put on feminine hair and tights and still look good.”
“It’s a gift, what can I say? …And it’s not feminine!”
“Sure, sure… Whatever you say… Fourthly… and I know that’s not a word… you have a very manly physique. It’s, er… very… scrawny… and manly…”
“Hey, hey. No need to get mean. I thought this was supposed to be a list of all my good traits. And, by the way, I’m rather fond of my body, as it were. It’s very useful.”
“I imagine so.”
“…that sounded nasty.”
“Did it?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Good?”
“Fifthly… you’re very adventurous. And sort of reckless and brash and are somewhat of a small child stuck in an oversized body, but that’s beside the point. I hear women like adventurous types.”
“Okay, that’s enough. You’re just being downright malicious.”
“Well, I can’t inflate your ego too much. Wouldn’t want to burst that pretty head of yours.”
“Well… at least I’m pretty.”
“It would appear so.”
“I think I liked it better when we were talking about your painting.”
“Really? Because I’m finding this very amusing.”
“I’m sure you are. I still think we should go back to talking to your canvas.”
“…if your heart is set on it, who am I to say no?”
“Funny. Real funny. But actually, I think I’m going to ask you instead. What do you think your art says about you? I mean, what does it reveal and all that?”
“…I like to think that I’m hidden to most, and naked to a select few.”
“Naked, eh? Do you do the selecting?
“…not always.”
“Why not?”
“Sometimes I find them. Some of them find me. And then, there is the rare one that throws itself upon me and shouts indecent things in public… That actually seems to be my downfall.”
“I’m not sure I follow… Are we still talking about art?”
“Sure we are. Perhaps I should make things a little more easier to understand?”
“Yeah, perhaps you should.”
“Perhaps I will.”
…
…
“Um… not to be rude, but what are you doing?”
“Simplifying.”
“What do you mean simplif-”
…
…
“Oh… when you said ‘simplifying’ I didn’t think you meant… oh…”
“Mmmhmm.”
“I, uh… oh…”
“You follow?”
“Yeah… I follow… it’s just… I mean, I… you know, I’m-”
“Not drunk enough?”
“Yes- no! I mean…”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… I mean… er…”
…
“I mean… I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“I don’t think… I don’t think I follow. I think you need to simplify things again. More, I mean.”
“Really...”
“Yeah. Really. More simplifying would be good right about now.”
“Well… knowledge is power…”
…
…
…
“Um…”
“Yeah?”
“Do... do I really shout indecent things in public?”
“All the time.”
no subject
*pets*
I particularly adored this line:
Poetry doesn’t solve all problems, you know. It’s not like duct tape. Some things don’t need words.
I'm wondering if I can borrow it (with credit)? Pretty please?
no subject
Sure, go right ahead. I'm flattered that you liked it enough to want to use it. It would be uber cool if you showed me how/where it ended up (if it's a fic, that is.) :D
no subject
*beams*
*holds line in hands, tilting it this way and that in the light*
Just the right thing!
*bounces away to write*
Re:
Re:
I'll be posting that later today, methinks.
Re:
Re:
You can find your line here.#
http://www.livejournal.com/users/sparktastic/45669.html
:D
Re:
no subject
“Sometimes I find them. Some of them find me. And then, there is the rare one that throws itself upon me and shouts indecent things in public… That actually seems to be my downfall.”
Love that line especially.
no subject
thank you! *grin* i know what you mean; it seems to be one of those 'all-or-nothing' pairings; it can be really really good, but it can also be really really bad as well. i'm glad you didn't think the latter. :) thanks for reading.
no subject
I am not much of a Viggorli kind of person...but that was extremely entertaining. The banter between the two was really amusing, and I loved how it was pure dialogue, with the small breaks of narration in between. It kinda made me want to read more Viggorli, for some reason. :-)
no subject
no subject
I especially liked the little snippets inbetween each conversation. So much detail and it doesn't pull the reader out of the mood. Great additions!
secondly, even though you are neither smart, nor a good actor, you at least have the wits to pretend to be both… but not the modesty to admit you aren’t.
*snerk*
And what’s with the ‘not-wanting-to-look-in-the-mirror-so-I’m-just-going-to-cover-it-with-Polaroids’?
The weird thing about it all is that half those photos were of Orlando... *stops mind from delving further in that thought*
In closing - interesting, entertaining and good fic :)
no subject
The weird thing about it all is that half those photos were of Orlando...
hmm. i did not know that. very interesting... thank you for the feedback, and very glad i made you snerk. *g*