heystasa: (duuude)

So apparently a while ago I wrote a drabble (well, drabble and a half)? This never happens, but I found it on my hard drive today, so, well, here:




Clipped
Episode tag: 504, The End
Gen, Cas centric



It’s nothing really like flying at all, being high.

But then, the way an angel flies doesn’t involve any sort of literal height anyway; they move through the fabric of the universe, not merely through space. Up, down, right, left, don’t mean anything. Earth, to angels, is all one simple field to be manipulated; they pass through it as they wish, wrapped warm in their grace.

It’s all just linguistic, the connection between an angel’s movement and flight, between flying and being high. Castiel knows this, but still sometimes he’s bitterly, achingly disappointed by it; by how little anything in this new human life can ever be like his old one. Language lies.

He quite likes being stoned though. Cool and blissed out is not quite the same as calm, driven and certain, but it’s certainly a lot better than alone, lost and afraid.

  
heystasa: (Belle)

Since about 2003, I've been cleaning my room.

So what? I hear you say, I've been cleaning my room every Saturday morning since I was five.

To which I reply with, No. What I mean is, I have been cleaning my room since 2003. As in, I'm perpetually tidying the same mess. It has been an ongoing thing. For years. I tend to store things in piles, and tidy up a section at a time. The problem with this system is that I have nowhere to put new things or things I want to keep but in one of the other piles, so by the time one pile is gone there're about three new ones that need doing.

Not that I really mind too much, as it means I'm constantly rediscovering things and I always have something to do.

The latest pile was my collection of university and careers stuff that I had accumulated throughout the latter years of highschool. I finally found my UAC documentation and my UNE and Sydney Uni acceptance letters, which was nice, as well as stumbling across a whole bunch of year 11/12 english work. The exact reason I had put that there escapes me.
 
However, one particular year 11 writing task caught my eye. I don't recall the exact criteria, but, basically, we had to rewrite Shakespeare's Sonnet 18, ("Shall I compare thee to a sommer's day?" etc), keeping the form and structure (14 lines, three quatrains, ends on rhyming couplet, each line containing one simple thought and each quatrain presenting a new idea), and, possibly, the theme.

So, here it is: 


   Stella's Sonnet 1  (Inspired by W. Shakespeare's Sonnet 18)

   Shall I compare thee to a bowl of Special K?
   Thou art more tasty and more ornate:
   Hot toast is a better start to the day,
   And cereal gets soggy and tends to deflate:
   Sweetening sugar must be added at times,
   And oft' weevils get in under rim;
   Every used-by-date sometime declines,
   And mould, staleness and other yuckies set in;
   But thy eternal hygiene shall not fade
   Nor lose possession of that crunchiness thou o'ust;
   Nor should best-befores make thee grayed,
   Provided this book never in milk be doused:
         So long as tongues can taste and eyes can see,
         Long will live thine bugless efficiency.
    



heystasa: (Beauty and the Beast)
For all that flights of fancy and imagination are wonderful, I find there is just as much wonder in reality. The mind is the source of all that fancy, and that is just such a beautiful thing. 

I learnt last night about cave paintings, that they were the pinning down of visions had in trances. That every human, no matter where from, since the begining of the species, experiences the same basic internal images when in a trace state, or when suffering sensory deprivation. The human brain just throws them up, always the same. So in caves and on rocks, worlds apart from oneanother, the same patterning appears. And if we close our eyes for long enough, and expose them to the right outside stimuli, we can see the exact same images that people saw tens of thousands of years ago. 

To see those paintings, and to know that they were painted so long ago, before buildings and farming and the idea of 'art', and to see how beautiful they were, how spiritual and otherworldly - it inspired such awe. 

The world - nature, animals, plants, flowers, water, rocks, weather, the sun, the moon, the light they bring - it's all so incredible, so simply beautiful and so there. And the brain, and all it has created, is just the same. Is part of that basic, fundamental reality of the world. There really is so much harmony in life. I will never cease to be amazed. 

And all the beauty we can make, all the places, the art, the literature, the poetry, the sentiment, the emotion, all of that, just takes may breath away sometimes. The brain gives us all that. The ability to create it and the ability to appreciate it. To feel it and to be it. 

It's fascinating. 

I love art, and I love psychology, and really, they are much the same thing. I tend to call this type of writing that I do sometimes whimsy, to say that I drift off into flights of fancy. But that's not entirely appropriate - what could be more grounded in reality than what my own brain generates? Whether I'm happy or depressed, excited or anxious, mad or sane, it's all happening. It's all maluable, it can change, but it is there. We can't see it, but we can feel it, which is undeniable proof that something is happening.

My mind is my own, only ever for me. But the brain is universal. But for a few quirks, this incredibly complex organ is the same in every living person in the world. And even some of the quirks are almost identical to those of others. 

Sometimes, sometimes it all just hits me, you know? For all my rationality and talk of science, and for all I may experience incredible pain from what my brain and the world comes up with sometimes, I just can't quite help but be awestuck by it from time to time. 

Life is astounding.

heystasa: (Default)
Oh, I long to be a 1940s film star. To speak in that old accent that is so refined, so warm, and so still touched with that genteel, almost English inflection. And, when it were required, to sing in a smoky voice, the piano and strings weaving together with it to make such a feeling of romance and magic. And if I had to dance, to dance in the most beautiful dress.

All class and dignity and mystery. Skin smooth, hair all soft and shapen, eyes glistening in the moonlight or lamplight or, well, in no light at all. A glass of somethin' balanced between two fingers of one hand, a cigarette between two in the other. Wrapped in fur, or diamonds, something that sparkles or shimmers, shines in the blacks, whites and greys. When I'd speak it'd be in that voice, low and wonderful and almost tangible - never simpering or small, but sultry, carrying in it a real sense of strength and style. I'd ask for a light. Always almost over my shoulder, eyes inclined slightly upwards, because all the men are slightly taller, and all so dashing. 

But so few of them are decent. They give a girl a romance and promises of forever, but none of them ever stay. They never last in the end.

They make their romantic gestures, all of them, but one can't rely on them for a happily ever after. Mister Bogart skulks in the shadows, sweet little Jimmy Dean pouts and dares and looks oh so divine, oh so desperate and oh, so devastating. But he, he was never too concerned with winning the heart of a young lady. Far to much turbulance for room to romance. And Marlon Brando, well, Mister Brando is handsome, and strong, and very, unmissibly masculine - but he's a brute. Unpredictable and raging, he's all fiery tempers and cold, cold shoulders, all unfathomable and all screaming my name from the ground below as if it's the only thing keeping him alive. The only thing that's keeping his mind from falling to pieces and his body from tearing the world apart.

My mother has promised Gregory Peck next. She says he isn't beautiful, but is a prescence. Is tall and imposing, and is decent. That'd be nice. A decent man to hang some faith on. A girl needs something to put her faith in. Men don't often stand the test. Seems to me that, in the end, she ends up with only herself to rely on, only herself to get her by. Leaving her to depend more on strangers than those she knows. The men never really get them anywhere, but there is some sweet, sweet music playing along the way. And in the end, when the alley is empty and the players have walked off alone into the fog, there's music and magic and bleakness to break your heart and punch your guts. And, if not that, the full, sweet voices at least linger on; their permanance giving some small sense of solace.

But we know it's how it's meant to be. There's always a sad, strange justice in there somewhere, as frustrating as it is to not be able to change the things that would be so much easier to change now. To be the woman, strong and sturdy but with so little control of the world, in love with the man, who has only that tiny bit more. To have so much more than that on her plate that the camera can't quite penetrate, and that she never really says. The story will always be linear, set in stone. With the obligations and duty, the status and propriety, and the circumstances that are so very out of our control, all we can do is throw our whole hearts in, little by little, and hope that things will turn out for the best.

Why? Well, because. Because, altogether, oh, altogether it's all just so wonderful.
 

BAGPIPES!!!

Jan. 7th, 2008 07:06 pm
heystasa: (Default)
Yesterday, as I was driving in to the pool, I had a revelation.

I had been thinking about a rather lovely dream I had had the night before (the kind where, even though some rather bad things happen - in this case the world ending/ being attacked by some monster thing, etc - the overall feel is lovely because something simply lovely happened at some point that cancels out the b-grade disaster movie quality of the rest and leaves one feeling generally lovely), replaying it in my head until I had to pause to yell at the annoying little voice of logic that kept piping in saying that people don't actually act like that and neither do the laws of physics ("Oh shutup, it can work when I'm asleep, let me enjoy it now! I know it's stupid, let me have my fun! You and you logic and your...stuff!" etc, etc), when suddenly John Farnham came on the radio.

Oh it was wonderful, I already had the giggles, so singing along was particularly joyous ("Make a noise and make it CLEAAAARRROOOHOOHOOOHOHOHOHOH WA-OOHOOOOOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOH." etc). When I reached the pool, I couldn't bring myself to interrupt, so sat in the car for well over two minutes just giggling along and singing weakly whenever the laughter would let me. That is a fantastic song. With so many long notes. I cannot stress enough my appreciation of the long notes.

It was when the bagpipes started that I was officially in heaven. I had forgotten about the bagpipes (ludicrously inept of me, I know, but hey, I'm a victim of my age. Farnsey was on the farewell tours by the time I could really appreciate him), so you can imagine my delight, I'm sure. My head was resting against the steering wheel and my body silently convulsing as I only managed enough air to get out the wa-ooohohohohohohohohoh over the bagpipe solo.

There was a spring in my step as I walked to the shed to get a noodle, and I was grinning rather madly as I swam my laps. When Father Bryan swam past and created a small wave that almost choked me, my mood only improved. It was bliss. 

It was upon my second trip to the deep end that I began seriously contemplating the true meaning of the song, the most pressing being of course, 'A song with bagpipes isn't really a song, is it'. 

A song with bagpipes is in a different league, in its own little world far removed from that occupied by other mere music. That is the secret to "You're the Voice" (putting aside the social factors of the time, Farnsey's performance, and his stance in Australian pop-history, and the themes of individual and generational empowerment and of all people being equal and unified, etc, etc). A song with bagpipes automatically enters the realm of "most brilliant thing ever".

Now, I think a lot of things qualify as the "most brilliant thing ever" - certain typres of hats, for example, or old people, or the film clips to such eighties wonders as Wham's "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go", or Limahl's "Neverending Story". Just because I say it alot does not mean I don't mean it. Nor does the mere fact that I might laugh hysterically whilst experiencing the object in question mean I am being condescending towards it. Laughter inducement does not negate awesomeness.

So, songs with bagpipes - fecking AWESOME. 

The revelation though, concerned bagpipes themselves. I mean, those things are... okay, lets put it this way: One day, someone stuck tubes in a goats stomach. And they blew on one. At some point it was decided that this was a good way to make a musical instrument. So it was decorated with tartan. That is a level of brilliance that I'm not sure I can comprehend properly, but what I do see is pretty spectacular. 

Bagpipes are weird. And they make a weird sound.

Bagpipes are genius, if only for the sheer weirdness of what they are made from. 

Many inventions in the world began in strange ways, or involved weird body parts, but the bagpipe has lasted. And it makes one of the most unique sounds of any instrument out there, and evokes strong emotions with its strange sound. And it was used in one of the most iconic songs in Australian history - but that's neither here nor there.

So, my revelation was this:

Bagpipes are the Most Spectactularist Thing Ever. 

I have no desire to listen to them in my free time, but I respect the mighty bagpipe, as it is the single greatest thing ever, besides air-conditioning and the word 'cardigan'. Go bagpipes.

August 2012

S M T W T F S
   1234
567891011
1213141516 1718
19202122232425
262728293031 

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 23rd, 2017 04:25 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios