delga: ([Random] qué?)

In a couple of hours I have to drive (!!!!) to town, park my car (£8 for 24 hours, which is pretty good going), and take a train to London. I have planned this poorly, because I will be back around midnight, and am at work tomorrow and Friday, before having all of next week off. And yet? Fucking fantastic.

I am so excited about today! I am totally that lame person who goes to shows by herself but it has rather got to the point where I just don't care.


One of those useless facts that I have in my head and now can't get rid of: today is Gil Grissom's birthday.


Work continues on apace. Am gradually getting more things to do, and some informal proof-reading, which I always enjoy. My boss is still completely mad, but I find I'm getting better at ignoring the random expletives that eject from the other side of the cubicle. And I do like her a lot. Other!newbie is back from her holidays and insists on IM-ing me, instead of just talking to me, so she IMs, and I answer out loud. She is an odd, odd thing. Feeling vaguely triumphant, though, because it's been a week since I last got off the elevator on the wrong floor. Hurrah! Progress.


People are very weird about invitations. Have spent some time sorting out a meal for Tuesday, and people sometimes fail to understand that I need definite yes and no answers in order to book the table. It's okay! I invited a boat of people because I knew 95% wouldn't be able to come, but it was rude not to offer! I don't mind if you can't make it, though I would be super happy if you could. But - and here is the vital thing - I do actually need to know one way or the other.

Relatedly, there are seven of us going now, and does anyone there know anyone else? Ahahahaha, NOPE. I'm quite excited to see how this fest of awkward is going to go. At least [ profile] fizzawrites and [ profile] hestia8 will have The Internet in common? Um. Yes.

Have planned poorly, though, as [ profile] hestia8 and I will miss The Hour's finale for this. Lady, I have done you - us! - a great wrong.


At some point I hope to finish watching Glorious 39, but it's difficult to take caps on iPlayer, which is why a two-hour film is taking me years to watch.

delga: ([spiral] joséphine finds you moronic.)
meme. )


In other news, this is a meme! And probably I should have posted this on my eljayversary.

delga: ([bones] look at cam's face right now.)

On Thursday I passed my driving test. First time, but I have had about a hundred or so lessons. This does not actually mean much other than I no longer have to wake first thing on a Sunday for lessons and I save about £100 per month. Well, £50, what with the changes to my commute, but still. Done now.


I have found an apartment in Hunts that I covet so, so much, but that is about £400pcm out of my price range. Two bedrooms; lots of light; lots of space. Completely in love with it. Never going to be mine. I wish I could find someone to live with! Lease starts in May, so it could be do-able. But I doubt it.


Everyone is starting new jobs or going back to school! What. is. this.


I made icons for the first time in about a year. I am trying to write this fic, too, but as it is going nowhere, I doubt I will be posting it any time soon/ever.

Quasi-relatedly: give me some French lesbians, y'all. I WANT, I WANT.


I am so confused by the seasons right now. It feels like mid-May, but it's only mid-April. All that sky! Still so beautiful.

delga: ([merlin] distant days.)

Goodbye to the Poetry of Calcium
by James Wright

Dark cypresses--
The world is uneasily happy;
It will all be forgotten.
-- Theodore Storm

Mother of roots, you have not seeded
The tall ashes of loneliness
For me. Therefore,
Now I go.
If I knew the name,
Your name, all trellises of vineyards and old fire
Would quicken to shake terribly my
Earth, mother of spiraling searches, terrible
Fable of calcium, girl. I crept this afternoon
In weeds once more,
Casual, daydreaming you might not strike
Me down. Mother of window sills and journeys,
Hallower of searching hands,
The sight of my blind man makes me want to weep.
Tiller of waves or whatever, woman or man,
Mother of roots or father of diamonds,
Look: I am nothing.
I do not even have ashes to rub into my eyes.

delga: ([being] souls at sea.)

My Other tumblr is set up so that it posts once a day, at 8.30a. It...has not been doing that! Why not?! PLEASE POST THINGS FROM THE QUEUE, OTHER TUMBLR. THAT IS WHY I USE THE QUEUE FEATURE!



I went to the effort of acquiring the US version of Being Human and failed to watch past the first ten minutes. Not because it doesn't seem enjoyable! It does! Just because I need to actually be constrained by an actual television set in order to watch even the British version. Which is back this weekend! Sundays: now scheduled. Huzz.

I'll probably try to watch the US version again this weekend, but as I also plan on catching up on Bones/Cam's wardrobe, it's probably not going to happen. I hope whoever plays Annie is fucking amazing. Don't tell me if she's not.


Work is work is I hate my commute so much it causes me more-than-fleeting anxiety. Good times. Also, I feel like I'm making a lot of stupid mistakes of late, but that's not really what's happening. It's just that mistakes I made in my first two months - that were never corrected by others - have suddenly come to light now. It's making me doubt myself, which is making the job app process difficult.

I have another position that I want to apply for (which now has more details, hurrah!) but I am...stalling. UGH. SELF. DO THIS THING, OKAY?


Oh, so: I watched episodes 2 and 3 of Zen! Goodness, that was most excellent. Sometimes adaptations of crime novels lose something - that meandering sense of progression - but Zen retained that, and Rufus Sewell was a delight through and through. I hope that there is eventually some more. It was nice to have a male lead who wasn't bigoted or all about his personal man pain. And I really adored Aurelio's mother. She was so graceful. A lovely, traditional triptych. Wonderful.


My tickets for the Shakespeare still haven't turned up. Am going to call the box office tomorrow and see what's what. (My tickets for Our Private Life appeared today; Children's Hour in a week! Aie aie aie.)

This is the point at which I need to find all my tickets and room reservations and train tickets. And my Oyster card, which, fuck if I know where I've put that thing.



delga: ([Random] the praetorian guard.)

It is the night before the (extended) deadline for [ profile] femgenficathon and I, naturally, am flailing around trying to work out why my brain doesn't work. So, in the meantime, a meme!

Ask me a five things related...thing. Personal, fannish, whatever! Annnnnnnnd go.


In other news: wow, I slept like the dead last night. After a week of scratching walls, hormone-related temperatures, climate-related temperatures, a sudden mad recurrence of eczema for three hours on Wednesday night (what. the. fuck.) and the absence of a full-night's sleep since last Saturday, I went to bed at around 10.30 and then didn't wake until 9.30 this morning. And even then that was only because The Mother opened my door thinking I was already awake (I usually am) at which point I rolled over to look at the clock and thereafter guilted myself into getting out of bed.

Jesus, did I ever need it, though. Fuck.




Write or Die is extremely useful but I need a kernel of an idea first and I am pants at this right now. Giant sigh! And now I am going to watch the first two episodes of The Deep and wait for y'all to ask me shit.


edit: Okay, so whilst I am STILL having issues with the tag auto-fill/drop-down fuckery, the select tags option is actually pretty nifty? Why isn't it all ticky-box-y on the actual 'edit tags' page? That would be so much better!

delga: ([tristan] what great interminable need.)

The Good-Morrow
by John Donne

I wonder by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we lov'd? Were we not wean'd till then,
But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the seven sleeper's den?
'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desir'd, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room, an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

delga: ([luther] i know you; i see you.)

Gold River
by Catie Rosemurgy

The arch in the bridge. The moment of architecture.
The island where you lost your mother's keys. The photo she sent
of someone who looks like her walking the point
where the land becomes weak. The dissolving of flesh.
The frightening blanks where the stores were.
The sense the owners died. How many people killed by logs,
do you think, over the years? The carrying of one another
when young, light, and poisoned. The doorsteps
we woke up on. The fox scat. The extra points in school. Who knew
how prominently quarries featured. Only once or twice in a lifetime
does one find the suicide or hear the primordial screaming. The towns nearby
that survive on museums of their earlier burning. The dreams set
in neighbor's houses. The mounds with hooves and bones sticking out.
The gentle sloping. We will always be swimmers
digging into the thaw. The former newness.
The various cuts of meat. The places cats won't go.
The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man
working harmlessly in the woods. Like a milkweed or fox
you are something that parted the dirt here. The rotting that sets in
when you leave. The trees stamped onto our minds
like traumas are supposed to be. The moon sitting greedily
on your house. The seasons tugging at your sleeve. The roads
that have to do with your body. The last names
that have a flavor in your mouth, that you will eat
if you're ever starving. The grass you've been staring at.
The fullness you assume will reach your eyes
if you give it another year.

delga: ([a2a] bolly knickers.)

Freezing Fog
by Frank Dullaghan

As I move, the space about me
re-shapes itself:

buildings resolving into solidity,
quiet people moving into and out of focus.

Nothing is certain or fixed.
Only the map in my head keeps me straight.

I feel old. Mid-morning. February.
I’m starting on a three-hour journey to a late shift.

My tall son is already at college.
He will be trying to follow patterns of instruction,

trying to focus as his mind whitens.
Yesterday he stared at the wall –

two hours unplugged from the world.
His doctor says he needs structure,

that the drugs will kick in in a few weeks.
For now, what’s real keeps unpeeling.

He sleeps a lot. Outside my carriage window
the landscape lengthens, the sky lifts.

Two Indian boys sit next to me.
I listen to the music of their talk.

It seems a long time before I realise
they are speaking in English.

delga: ([who] 12 years & 4 psychiatrists.)

The track I am listening to is called "Whiskeyface". And this is why you can't really hate folk music.


This morning I am 25p short of £2.80 so I'm going to have to pay the bus driver £10.80 and there will be curmudgeonliness* to deal with. Fuck you. Not everyone has change floating around. It's the tenner or a fistful of coppers which you will also hate because no-one on a clock likes counting shrapnel.


I have taken to watching that 2004 version of King Arthur whilst at work. Things I am now enamoured of: Bors shouting; Lancelot's gay love; everything that is Tristan. I never pretended to have shame.


I am away this weekend for a family wedding. I have just realised that this means I miss the second episode of Hipster Who! Well, fuck. Things I will be avoiding: tumblr.


I am now one of those people who hopes the direct will be late so that I can catch it. Oh, how times have changed.

delga: ([Random] how long must you pay for it?)

Pluto's Loss
by Paul Guest

on hearing of efforts to declassify Pluto as a planet

Little star, how lost to us you are already
and more to become, so small

that we here, distant and large and not ice
only, would demote you

to bobbin status, unplanet, chink of light
in a sky of major and minor

fire. For all your long orbit, who here cares:
some nights I try my heart at it

but little happens. The trees hoard a music
in them that must be locusts

aching to mate, to make more,
even to die. Clouds scuff the scarred moon

until it’s easy to forget you —
to think of water clotted

with green, where once I read Neruda
and Ovid distracted not by light

skipping off the scalloped lake
but by the memory of lace and sheer and bra —

by whom I loved. In that moment,
and in this one, I could not be

more human, to the dead sky
making apologies heard by no one, by nothing.

delga: ([Random] money is a sick muse.)

Alternate Endings
by Richard Jackson

There are times when they gather at the edge of your life,
Shadows slipping over the far hills, daffodils
blooming too early, the dark matter of the universe
that threads its way through the few thousand blackbirds
that have invaded the trees out back. Every ending
sloughs off our dreams like snakeskin. This is the kind of
black ice the mind skids across. The candlelight burning down
into the sand. The night leaving its ashes in our eyes.

There are times when your voice turns over in my sleep.
It is no longer blind. The sky is no longer deaf.
There are times when it seems the stars practice
all night just to become fireflies, when it seems there is
no end to what our hearts scribble on corridor walls.
Only when we look at each other do we cease to be ourselves.
Only at a certain height does the smoke blend into air.
There are times when your words seem welded to that sky.

There are times when love is so complicated it circles
like chimney swifts unable to decide where to land.
There are endings so sad their shadows scuff the dirt.
Their sky is as inconsolable as the two year old, Zahra,
torn from her mother and beaten to death in the Sudan.
There are endings so sad I want the morning light
to scourge the fields. Endings that are only what the river
dreams when it dries up. Endings that are constant echoes.

There are times when I think we are satellites collecting
dust from one of the earlier births of the universe Don’t give up.
Each ending is an hourglass filled with doors. There are times
when I feel you might be searching for me, when I can read
what is written on the far sides of stars. I’m nearly out of time.
My heart is a dragonfly. I’ll have to settle for this, standing under
a waterfall of words you never said. There are times like this
when no ending appears, times when I am so inconsolably happy.

delga: ([spooks] shadow of the shadow.)

Oh, hey, something else I liked about Doctor Who: spoilers, natch. )


tomorrow & family. )


Watched Moon last night/this morning. It was not what I thought it was going to be but Sam Rockwell was wonderful in it. The set was absolutely beautiful, and like most films of this ilk, the silence was lovely.

delga: ([c. minds] count every barb.)

Found a truckload of post on the doormat this morning, half of which was for me. Arms of triumph! [ profile] tigertrapped, [ profile] powerof3 and [ profile] solanpolarn, thank you for the cards! I have them on display in my room.

[ profile] zeitheist and [ profile] mollycares, I got your letters and will reply today. If I get them out on Monday then they should be whizzing their way to you before the Christmas shut down.

As I have clearly missed the posting deadlines, overseas flisters can expect to receive Christmas cards in the new year. I might make things interesting and send them in June. WHO KNOWS.


Psssst, [ profile] twincy! Your parcel is totally not making it to you in 2009. On the plus side, it now has tiny Christmas giftage in it, too. Huzzah! I'm tempted to keep it until May and send you next year's birthday stuff at the same time, but I won't. Hopefully.


Christmas plans are up in the air because of family Things. I don't know. I don't see 2010 getting any better, and I think we should be together for that, but I'm not exactly high in the chain of command.


So: the snow. Despite the fact that the severe weather warning in the East of England didn't extend to include my portion of the Fen, we happened to get the worst of the snow fall. I set off for work at 6.40am and got in at 10am. Yeah. That was great. I left work at 2.40pm and got home by 5.30pm, so at least the timing was consistent. Walking through Cambridge was both depressing and disgusting.

The lovely thing about living in a rural community is that there aren't enough people to disturb the snow. The double plus benefit of living in the Fen is that on a morning like today you can have miles of untouched white and miles of unblemished sky. Fuck hills, man; I'll take the atmosphere any day.


I will definitely be typing today. Definitely. No, really. TYPING TYPING TYPING.

delga: ([fringe] walter walter water walter.)

by Paul Guest

Maybe I’m done with tragedy; I can’t say how
long I’ve loved without cease fire peeling
away from the Hindenburg like skin. That
nobody knows that infamous voiceover
was really recorded days later, the film silent
before being spliced into newsreels,
I love to tell others, though I’m unsure why.
And I loved the smaller fires
a boy could imagine, feverishly plot, finally make
with thieved matches and rolls
of toilet paper, paper ripped from magazines,
rotten fruit. Once, in my hand,
a thing blew up and through all
my fingers I felt the shock shove through.
Nothing was severed, made
stumps, though my ears filled up
with what seemed was wet
silence, cotton soaked through, packed deep.
At night, now, with my ears
pressed into pillows, the night
pressing back, below or beyond
the little breaths of my love
there is a high sharpness, a ringing
that marks narrow escape.
To think of it, to see again that sea teal sky,
is to feel summer. Now,
it’s winter and all day comes
hateful rain, spattering this part
of the world with the maddening stubbornness
of weather. In bed I’m alone
no longer and even in love
some small part of my brain seeks
to nurse a disbelief. But,
maybe I am done with tragedy,
no matter how seductive its narratives all are.
Even this is a story, these words,
all this shaped air, this habit
of speaking to whatever is broken,
or once was, or might be. True
to say that none of it, none of it,
matters. Why does it seem right
to now speak of flowers?
The pallid lily, the hydrangea like foam from a wave.
I don’t know. All I care
is that we map out
with our bodies the night’s blindness. That we begin.

delga: ([merlin] what flowers these.)

Ashberries: Letters
by Philip Meters


Outside, in a country with no word
for outside, they cluster on trees,

red bunches. I looked up
ryabina, found mountain ash. No

mountains here, just these berries
cradled in yellow leaves.

When I rise, you fall asleep. We
barely know each other
, you said

on the phone last night. Today, sun brushes
the wall like an empty canvas, voices

from outside drift into this room. I can't
translate—my words, frostbitten

fingers. I tell no one, how your hands
ghost over my back, letters I hold.


Reading children's stories by Tolstoy,
Alyosha traces his index

over the alphabet his mouth so easily
unlocks. Every happy word resembles

every other, every unhappy word's
unhappy in its own way. Like apartments

at dusk. Having taken a different street
from the station, I was lost in minutes.

How to say, where's the street like this,
not this? Keys I'd cut for years coaxed open

no pursed lips. How to say, blind terror?
Sprint, lungburn, useless tongue? How say

thank you, muscular Soviet worker, fading
on billboard, for pointing me the way?


Alyosha and I climbed trees to pick berries, leaves
almost as red. On ladders, we scattered

half on the ground, playing who could get them
down the other's shirt without their knowing.

Morning, the family gone, I ground the berries
to skin, sugared sour juices twice.

Even in tea they burned. In the yard,
leafpiles of fire. Cigarettes between teeth,

the old dvorniks rake, scratch the earth,
try to rid it of some persistent itch.

I turn the dial, it drags my finger back.
When the phone at last connects to you, I hear

only my own voice, crackle of the line.
The rakes scratch, flames hiss and tower.


This morning, the trees bare. Ashberries
on long black branches. Winter. My teacher

says they sweeten with frost, each snow
a sugar. Each day's dark grows darker,

and streets go still, widen, like ice over lakes,
and words come slow to every chapped mouth,

not just my own, having downed a little vodka
and then some tea. Tomorrow I'll bend down

branches, brittle with cold, pluck what I can't
yet name, then jar the pulp and save the stones.

What to say? Love, I live for the letters
I must wait to open. They bear across

this land, where I find myself at a loss—
each word a wintering seed.

delga: ([bones] make it better.)

CAM SPAM! In honour of my FINALLY having caught up with Bones and also Cam's hotass wardrobe. Fuck yes. It's difficult to get decent full-length pictures of her clothes, guys!

+ )

So, like, for serious I do have a lot more to say about ~things~ but guys, in the past 18-24 hours I watched 8 episodes straight and my brain is not even a little bit ready to deal with all that. I will hurrah! a couple of things, though, namely: Wendall omg; the Egyptian department; Mr Nigel Vincent-Murray, you guys; CHEF GORDON GORDON; Papa Gibbs Grandpa Booth; BABYLONIAN NUMBER SYSTEMS. OH YEAH.

And that's all for now. (!!!!)

delga: ([fringe] rip open your consciousness.)

by Wendy Cope

At first I sent you a postcard
From every city I went to.
Grüsse aus Bath, aus Birmingham,
Aus Rotterdam, aus Tel Aviv.
Mit Liebe. Cards from you arrived
In English, with many commas.
Hope, you're fine and still alive,
Says one from Hong Kong. By that time
We weren't writing quite as often.

Now we're nearly nine years away
From the lake and the blue mountains,
And the room with the balcony,
But the heat and light of those days
Can reach this far from time to time.
Your latest was from Senegal,
Mine from Helsinki. I don't know
If we'll meet again. Be happy.
If you hear this, send a postcard.


delga: (Default)

October 2016

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