When it comes to packing, I’ve gotten my routine down to such a perfect science that can I can pack for a two-week international trip in 15 minutes or less and not forget anything I need. That is except my toothbrush. That I accidentally leave behind pretty much every single time I travel — until this week when I…
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Length: 30 mins
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Characters: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard
Additional Tags: Podfic, Podfic Length: 30-45 Minutes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ancient plot device
Summary: "Well, that's one way to get you to shut up."
Text at AO3
Jim's been out in the forge all night, working on a Thing. He left in the morning, took a walk in the grounds and then went upstairs for a swim. Now he's down by the bar. He's tired. He's distracted. He's...still not getting anywhere with Bar letting him out of here.
'I already promised you I won't kill her.'
A napkin appears, which he reads and crumples in his fist (though he can't exactly argue with what it said).
'You know I could just tell Mycroft, and he'd do it for me? And I haven't. Let me out.'
Another napkin. More quiet rage. Jim sucks a breath in through his nose, and stretches his neck 'til it pops. But he (almost) sounds polite when he appears to give in, and sits down.
'Let me see some kyber crystals then.'
This, Bar will apparently oblige with, though they're as small as Galen said they'd be. And they come with an obligatory sandwich and glass of water, because even when denying him what he wants, Bar will apparently make sure people get fed.
[OOC: catch him anywhere (other than swimming, unless you have access to his room somehow). I may be occasionally sporadic due to work, but here for hours and this is open for a good few days. :)]
Title: could not make a wookiee intimidating
Fandom: Star Wars
Music: Uh-oh! by Midnight Syndicate
Summary: "Aw, come on,” says Anakin, glaring at the dice as if they’ve personally offended him. “You roll twenties for Ahsoka and not for me? I own you, you fuckers, the least you could do is do me a favor every once in a while.”
or: Anakin Skywalker's terrible luck strikes again at the worst time.
Thanks to Paraka for hosting!
cross posted at amplificathon, my journal, and AO3
Amazon is having a massive one-day sale on luggage from the likes of TravelPro, Delsey, and Briggs & Riley, including the checked bag versions of your favorite carry-on. So, if you’ve been using that duffel bag since college and you have a flight to catch soon, you should get on this one. Like any Gold Box, these…
I travel a ton, which means I tend to skip scheduling things like future haircuts while I’m at the salon because I’m not sure I’ll actually be in town when it comes time for the appointment. It makes sense, but it also leads to me looking in the mirror the first day of a two-week trip and realizing I’m desperately in…
My grandfather's father was born in Lodz. He was the eldest of six siblings, three sisters, three brothers; the family owned a textile mill in the city and the father was a Talmudic scholar of some repute. My great-grandfather was expected to continue in his father's religious footsteps; instead, after a stint in the Imperial Russian Army (from which he must have deserted, because he sure didn't serve twenty-five years), he became what my grandfather once memorably described as a "Zolaesque freethinker" and emigrated to America in 1912. One of his brothers followed him; though we're no longer in contact with them (a little thing about declaring my mother ritually dead when she married my father), his descendants live in Florida. Another brother is buried in Israel, though I'm not sure how or when he got there—his older children were born in Lodz, his later ones in Tel Aviv. None of the sisters made it out of Poland alive. The middle one I have almost no information about, except that Lodz is listed as her place of death. (Her children survived: they too turn up later in Israel.) The eldest and the youngest died—as far as I know, with their families—in Chełmno and Auschwitz. These are the cousins who feel like closer ghosts than they should, dying in 1942 and 1945, because their descendants would have been no farther from me in blood than gaudior. They are loose ends, like other family stories. I don't know what there is to be known of them anymore.
Because the exhibit is closing in a week, my mother and I went to the MFA this afternoon to see Memory Unearthed: The Lodz Ghetto Photographs of Henryk Ross. If you live in the Boston area, I don't say it's a light day out, but it's worth your time. Ross was one of the few survivors of the Lodz Ghetto, a staff photographer employed by the Judenrat. He was supposed to take the nice pictures of the ghetto, to document how productively and well the Jews were getting along under Nazi supervision; he used his license to take the ones that were not so nice, dead-carts instead of bread-carts, chain-link and barbed wire, the sick and the starving, the broken walls of a synagogue. He documented the resistance of living, which sometimes looked like defiance and sometimes like collaboration: the slight, quietly smiling man who rescued the Torah scroll from the smashed-brick ruins of the synagogue, the young wife and plump child of a Jewish policeman like the ones seen—perhaps he's among them—assisting a crowd of Jewish deportees aboard the boxcars that will take them to Auschwitz. Pale Jude stars are so omnipresent in this black-and-white world that even a scarecrow wears one, as if to remind it to confine its trade to non-Aryan fields. Ross took about six thousand photographs total; in the fall of 1944, as the ghetto was being liquidated, he buried the negatives as a kind of time capsule, not expecting to survive himself to recover them. He was still alive and still taking pictures of the depopulated ghost town the ghetto had become when the Red Army liberated it in January 1945. His face cannot be seen in the photograph of him reclaiming his archive because he's the figure at the center of the grinning group, the one bending to lift a crusted box from the dug-up earth. Groundwater had rendered about half the negatives unsalvageable, but rest could be developed, warped, nicked, bubbled, and sometimes perfectly clear, their damaged emulsion showing scars and survival. He published some in his lifetime. He never arranged the complete series to his satisfaction. My mother would have seen him on television in 1961 when he testified against Eichmann. The MFA has a clip of an interview with him and his wife Stefania née Schoenberg—his collaborator and another of the ghetto's 877 Jewish survivors—eighteen years later in Israel, describing how he took his covert photographs hiding his camera inside his long coat, how just once he snuck into the railway station at Radogoszcz to record the last stages of a deportation, the freight train to the "frying pan" of Auschwitz itself. He died in 1991. It is said that he never took a picture again.
(I know there are philosophical questions about photographs of atrocity: how they should be looked at, what emotions they may have been intended to evoke, to what degree it is or is not appropriate to judge them as art. I'm not very abstract here. They were taken to remember. You look at them to make sure you do. What you feel is your own business; what you do with the knowledge of the history had damn well better concern other people.)
My great-grandfather's sisters would have been deported from the Lodz Ghetto. Their death dates even match the major waves of deportation to their respective camps. I have no idea what either of them looked like. I have seen maybe two photos each of my grandfather's parents: aunts and uncles, nothing. I'm not saying the photos don't exist. My grandfather had a sister; she may have inherited a better pictorial record. But I haven't seen it. And looking for people who look like my grandfather is no help; Henry Kissinger went through a period of looking like my grandfather and that was awkward for everybody. Any older woman might have been either one of them, any older man one of their husbands, any young people their children, any children their grandchildren. None of them might have been my family. Maybe theirs were among the images destroyed by the winter of 1944, as unrecoverable as their bodies. Maybe they were never captured on film at all. I wouldn't know. I don't know. I pored over faces and thought how beautiful so many of these people were (not beautiful because of their suffering: bone and expression, the kinds of faces that are beautiful to me), how many of them looked like both sides of my mother's family. Almost no one was identified by name. Maybe no one knows these people by name anymore. I hope that's not true.
You can look through the contents of Henryk Ross' archive yourself. They are, like most photographs, historical and modern prints both, better in person. We left the museum and had dinner at Bronwyn both because we lucked out parking two blocks from the restaurant in the middle of a street fair and because it was Eastern European food and it felt symbolic that we were here to eat it, even if I am pretty sure that a Hungarian-inflected chorizo dog is food of my people only in the sense that I personally would order it again because it tasted great. I did some badly overdue grocery shopping and caught the closing performance of the PMRP's Murders and Scandals: Poe and Doyle and spent nearly the entire cast party upstairs reading the scripts for the second through the fourth seasons of Babylon 5 (1993–98) and as much of the fifth season as doesn't suck. Autolycus fell asleep on my lap almost as soon as I sat down at my computer and I haven't been able to move from this chair for hours. I can't imagine what the world looks like in which I have so many more cousins of the degree of Gaudior, although I know that I am tired of fictional versions in which neither of us would even be here (the same goes for other atrocities, imagined worse for purposes of entertainment). Maybe in that other world, we have more family photographs. Maybe we're not in contact with them, either. Maybe I still don't have faces to go with the names. It doesn't matter if they were all strangers, though, the people from this afternoon and more than seventy years ago: they were alive. They are worth remembering. Especially now, they are worth remembering why.
"For it's not enough to walk the moon, send robots off to Mars
Nor send a lucky handful out to catch a glimpse of stars
We're gonna live and work and space. We're gonna go to stay
And the ones who'll make it happen,
the ones who make it happen,
yes the ones who'll make it happen
are the ones who make it pay"
-- Jordin Kare (b. 1956-10-24, d. 2017-07-19), "Bloody Bastards"
By some miracle, though, the phone charged overnight.
I was up until very late last night though, so the morning was a bust. I slept much of the afternoon, but when I woke up, I got started at a very good clip, and I think this section is almost finished. I'm working out some more argumentation re: minor literatures, but after this I think I'm ready for the next section. I'm also inserting images into my first chapter, which will hopefully add some pagecount.
Also there is a Pokemon Go event right now and I am STOKED and dropped ten bucks for incubators MASS HATCH YAAAAYYYY
Things without deadlines (fun):
* Stroll in the Botanic Gardens (I didn't do this but did go read in the park near our house)
Things without deadlines (productive):
* Celebrate the 1st anniversary of Story Hospital (!)
* Call insurance company about that bill
* Call doctor's office about that prior auth
* Remake OT appointment for next week
* Do a family Readercon debrief/postmortem
by Dialecticdreamer/Sarah Williams
part 1 of
word count (story only): 1175
:: Part of the Polychrome Heroics universe, and the Mercedes subset, while taking the “Road Trip” in an entirely new direction. ::
Pay Special Attention: People who have been profiting from human trafficking have parts of their reality (and sometimes their bodies) folded into several sharp points which may not match any previously known 'safe' configuration. ::
In the early morning, while most of the non-medical crew were setting up for breakfast, the decks felt as private as a car during a long, solo commute. To break that sense of isolation, the very first things put out were the three large wicker laundry baskets full of card and board games, along with a day pack full of pads of plain paper and a variety of pens, pencils and other drawing utensils.
Which is how, at just past six in the morning, Joshua found himself too antsy to even work out and up to his elbows in a 'simple' game of 'Draw and Release' along side a young woman in her late twenties whose boldy maroon hair had been shaved nearly to her scalp at the sides, but flopped in a long vee of bangs that rubbed against her cheekbone on her left. She swore a blue streak, tearing away the page she'd been working on, as the man in his fifties stroked his mostly-brown beard and mulled over his next turn. “Just make a move, young man, because Millie has won every game I've played against her in the last four visits here.”
( Read more... )
It works well as a standalone strip even if you're not familiar with the comic, too, so I'm going to make you click through to see it rather than spoiling it.
I'm not going to embarrass them in public because they do try so hard and are quick to fix broken things when I bring them to their attention.
It's just that, by now, I'd hope they'd just email me, "Hey, Siderea, we'll be fucking up your email at this future date and time. We'll be around on Twitter until this subsequent date and time. Please be available during this window to exercise your account and let us know what we've broken this time."
Instead, I email them in response to the planned outage announcement and say, "Hey, what can we do in advance to make this work?" and they're like "nothing, it's all going to go perfectly!" and I'm like, "ooookay, when exactly will you be flipping the switch, (so I know when to check on you, but I don't say this part)?" and they're like, "oh, sometime on that weekend." *throws hands in the air*
(I miss nyip.net so hard.)
Please go suggest themes! What topic do you really wish someone would tackle that never comes up? What genre, mood, symbol-set, or aesthetic pleases you?
1) Readercon was awesome and a thing I want to go back to. I wasn't on program this year, which is something I want to change next year but on the other hand it was really nice to have one of the summer's Things be basically relaxing. I hung out with gaudior and rushthatspeaks and mrissa and Greer, and had a useful lunch with my agent and editor, and picked up a large stack of books, and generally had a great time. And then read at Pandemonium after the con with Fran Wilde and Chris Sharp, and that was also great, and the large stack of books that I had to deconstruct in order to see the audience reduced quite satisfactorily by the end of the event.
2) I have my mostly-final schedules for Necronomicon and the Baltimore Book Festival, which I will post once they're final. I also know what I'm doing at the Outwrite queer literature festival, except that I can't find the time for my panel now, so that will be here later too. But it's in DC on August 5th and promises to be a fun time.
3) It's that time of year when we've finally set a date to pick up our new cow--longhorn this year, shared with the same two people I've been splitting cows with for a while now. They each take a quarter of the cow, my large family of mostly carnivores takes a half, and we all enjoy the discount that comes from buying a whole cow. But this means the freezer damn well has to be empty by mid-August, which means in turn that all the weird bits of the last cow, and other odds and ends that have filled the empty space as 500 pounds of meat gets down to the last couple of packages, need to get used up. Thus there's currently heart marinating in the fridge, rump roast in the slow cooker, and a large bag of miscellaneous poultry organs out to thaw. (We also have a lot of vegetables in the house, but they rarely get to the point of freezing. The Mysterious Manor House goes through a weekly CSA box pretty handily. Except for the rutabaga.)
4) Things I have loved lately:
- Theodora Goss's The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter, which is about the daughters of Doctor Jekyl and Mister Hyde teaming up with Justine Frankenstein and Catherine Moreau and Beatrice Rappacini - together they fight crime and build a found family. And the whole thing is written up as a novel by Catherine, but everyone else is playing peanut gallery over her shoulder so she transcribes their objections and questions in little asides, and impatiently explains to them the literary conceits that she's using.
- Arrival, which I watched on a long plane flight and promptly moved to the top of my Hugo list for Dramatic Presentation Long Form, and I can't believe they actually managed to film that but they did.
- Jupiter Ascending, which I watched on the same long plane flight and adored in completely different ways: it's as delightful and cracktastic as everyone told you on Tumblr.
5) And now I need to put down Dreamwidth and go fix a small continuity error and an anachronism for the Winter Tide paperback.
Ah, well. It's not like I have very high hopes for the Cards at this point, but you never know what will happen.
When I headed off to college (longer ago than I care to admit), my dad and I made a deal where he would cover 90% of the cost of tuition and room and board, provided I maintained a 3.0 GPA, didn’t move in with any boys, and we sat down before every semester and talked about my career goals and financial plans after…
Trip me tryout x yt? Yt? T xxfcxffxfxffxfxfxfxfftxxxfcxfffffyyyyxxx
The Well Stone
In This Place Of Steel And Stars (1st time)
Gargoyles (1st time)