katallison: (Default)
The problem with trying to write a post of any length or complexity in the tired wambly just-before-bed interval is that one may sit down at the computer with a nice orderly mental list of things one wants to say, but in the stormy seas of composition, one's mental list develops some leaks, and starts pitching and yawing and taking on water, and important items slide off the deck and into the sea, lost to view, and then one wakes up with a jolt at 2 in the morning and says to oneself, "Self, you frelling moron, in describing things people kindly gave you this weekend you completely forgot to mention what you meant to start out with when you sat down, namely the lovely little box of miniature liqueur-filled chocolate bottles given to you by Ms. [livejournal.com profile] popfantastic, getting to spend time with whom was absolutely one of the highlights of the weekend, and whose gift you have already been sampling with great pleasure while thinking about what an amazingly nice person she was to bring it for you, and did we mention you are a frelling moron," and then one hauls ass out of bed to write up a 2 a.m. entry of guilt and remorse and run-on sentences.

(And the bottles are indeed wee and lovely and chocolately and filled with all different kinds of liquors and liqueurs, and there is a label on the box they came in that says "Legal Only Where Liquor Filled Confectionary Permitted Under State Law," which I love both for its tautology and also because, having no *idea* if Liquor Filled Confectionary is Permitted under the laws of my state, I feel all racy and reckless and scofflaw-like consuming them. And thank you again, [livejournal.com profile] popfantastic, you are a gem and a delight.)
katallison: (Default)
The more I travel (and I have travelled more for the sake of fandom than I ever did in my pre-fannish life), the better I get at figuring out the whole packing-light thing.

E.g., for a weekend jaunt, such as I am about to set out on, what comes with me is ... Read more... )
katallison: (Default)
Apparently my subconscious decided last night to have its say on the whole Characters of Color brouhaha.

So, I dreamed I was back at Escapade, in the con suite, which was rather larger and on one side opened into a big auditorium with a stage. Lunch was being served and almost all the members were in the con suite, wandering around talking and getting food, when suddenly a door opened and out came a procession of maybe a dozen beautiful, buff, shirtless Black men, wearing only tight jeans. They marched single-file across the con suite and over to the stage, passing so close by me I had to flatten against the wall. All the con members flocked into the auditorium, and I remember thinking that this was another surprise the con com had cooked up for us, that they were going perform some racy sort of Chippendales/Full Monty thing for us. Instead, when I got into the auditorium, I saw that the men were standing on stage on the sort of risers used by choral groups. And then they started singing a perfectly straight, high-school-chorale-worthy version of "Getting To Know You." Some of the con members were silent, watching with apparent confusion, but most crowded closer to the stage, and -- some enthusiastically, some way off key, some timidly and under their breath -- started singing along with the men:

Getting to know you, getting to know all about yoooouuuu . . .
Getting to like you, getting to hope you like meeeeeee. . .


I woke up, contemplated this, and then cracked up laughing. My subconscious, she is *such* a sap.
katallison: (Default)
This morning, for some reason, I found myself thinking about the dS episode Odds, and in particular how interesting this would have been as a Vecchio ep. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love RayK in it, but *damn.* Just how freaked would Vecchio be by the sudden appearance of, and Fraser's apparent interest in, a beautiful dark-haired smooth-voiced bad bad woman? It almost makes me wonder if Odds were written (as some episodes were, e.g. Asylum), or at least sketched out, before the casting switch, as a way of giving some emotional follow-through to Victoria. (RayK's reaction also makes me wonder anew just how much he knew of that particular disaster...)

I will at some point write something about Escapade, but upon my return I was immediately pitched into massive brouhaha at work; in fact, a colleague phoned me the night I got back to brief me before I came into the office. Fortunately (or un-, depending on one's angle) this particular imbroglio I can do nothing whatsoever about, and so I am practicing the folding of the hands and the leaning back and deep breathing.

Eight above zero this morning, but it's supposed to warm markedly, and I think this might be the last day for the big down coat. The change in the height and intensity of the sun, and the length of the days, is really noticeable, and I begin to cherish a wan hope that spring might actually come, one of these months.
katallison: (Default)
Home from Escapade, exhausted but happy. *Fantastic* con. And despite all my premonitory wibbles, my travel went with almost preternatural smoothness and celerity; not one thing went wrong (well, except for the usual annoyances of air travel, and oh my GOD do I have a rant a-brewing on the topic of Why People's Behavior When Boarding and Exiting Aircraft Makes the Baby Jesus Weep).

But that, along with much else more con-related, must come later, as I find I'm up to roughly skip=600 on LJ, and also I have no food in the house.
katallison: (Default)
So, tomorrow morning, get up way early, get to airport, board plane, fly to Escapade, have fun. Easy peasy, I tell myself, safe as houses.

Except. I'm having a rather worse than usual case of my pre-travel freakout, in which I visualize with great clarity the plane crash (smoldering heaps of twisted metal, my pathetic little bits of luggage scattered amongst the rubble), or the car crash (the swerve, the skid, through the guardrail, down the mountainside, bam bam KABOOM). I try to sublimate this in low-grade wibbling over mundane stuff like losing my wallet, or missing my flight, or whatever, but really, forget that crap, the travel-angst is all about death. Which is, of course, the ultimate destination we're all travelling toward, as soon as we emerge from the safety of house/womb.

And, of course, it might just possibly be that the worse-than-usualness of the freakout is related to the fact that two members of my family have died in the past month, and payment of the emotional bill on all that is just starting to come due. Dunno. Or it could be -- well, some other mortality-related crap that's going on, with the recounting of which I shall not weary my patient readers, but anyone who gets me drunk at Escapade will likely get an earful. (This does not involve my own personal mortality, I should perhaps add.)

I'll just say that *god* only knows why I thought this was a good time to reread Dira's That Good Night, which is an excellent and deeply disturbing piece of dS fiction, and, for all its excellence, not the best thing to read on a night when one can feel the raven's wings flapping around one's head.

OK. Ahem. The agenda is: peaceful flight, pleasant drive up the coast, Escapade, have fun. Have fun. Fun shall be had, dammit.

And now I should probably go throw a few things into a suitcase, since I must roll out the door at 6:45 a.m.

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