The Inkwell

the Norrington Fangirl Armada would not be pleased...

2009-07-20T05:51:18Z

I am involved in the most ludicrous debate, on Youtube of all places! There is a young woman who is of the firm opinion that James Norrington is evil, sadistic, and the worst villain of the PotC canon. She believes, for some unknowable reason, that James wants both Will and Lizzie dead. I've been trying to get her to prove it, back it up in some way with dialogue, facial expressions, and the opinions of other characters. I keep getting nonsensical replies. I suspect very strongly that her opinion is colored with Orlie-tinted glasses so thick she can't see the plot.

LINKY!

No need to mention which one I am. And she claims to be 18? Good lord! Maybe I'm just used to intelligent 18 year olds. (but considering her profile says she married Orlando Bloom online, I have serious doubts about her intellect.)

Ironic graphics

2009-05-13T03:01:23Z

So I got Photoshop for FREE from my computers professor...it's C32, but hey...it was FREE! And I'll be getting the new upgraded version next year...also FREE!

Since I got this fun program, I decided to make some graphics for my stories. The ironic part is, I've always pictured Grace being played by Romola Garai ever since I saw her in Atonement. I didn't know about Mary Bryant....

Statement of the Obvious?

2009-04-13T22:40:19Z

I would like to take this opportunity to say that I find it highly ironic that even the avowed atheists go home for Easter.

Thank you, and goodnight.

Progress in the Midwest!

2009-04-03T16:16:35Z

Look! Look! The Midwest is slowly learning!

http://www.cnn.com/2009/POLITICS/04/03/iowa.same.sex/index.html?eref=rss_topstories

Musings on poetry...and I blame Beckett

2009-04-02T01:37:17Z

My playwriting professor assigned us to write two spoken word poems inspired by two pieces of music as an exercise in the rhythm and musicality of language. An Irish folk song prompted this:

Snap
Crack
Throw to the back and
pull for the chickie in the canvas dress
'cause her daddy's gone to sellin' and
her momma's gone to prayin' and
high noon's comin' so
up she gets!

Wrench
Grind
Tie down the line and
pretty little chickie wants her curls done fine
but her lady's gone to lovin' and
her maid is still a -sleepin' and
her lover's comin' runnin' with
a tricksy mind!

Grip
Guide
Throw to the side and
pretty little chickie needs her corset tied
fore takes the lar and aft takes the star and
hold her or the kitty's gonna
stripe your hide!

It's a sea chanty for the world I plan on moving Smuggler/Scoundrel into (brownie points if you know what sort of work goes with it). "Fern" by Zoe Keating produced this:

the Empress in white lace,
she waits waits
waits for the sound in the empty place between where she hoped and where she
broke, a fleeting and flitting and faraway token of
the possibility of something more for her
to keep.
how long will the spinning world outside ignore her agony
her stretching and straining, the cross she bears uncomplaining of its weight
on her shoulders, she’s older
than the roses and everyone knows it
so who wants a lily when the red petal is so pretty?

the step-child waits waits
waits at the window for a sight of the silk that was hers once upon the faraway time
in the spring when the fountain ran dancing and she laughed with wind in her grasp.
But the Ink
the Ink the Ink made her shrink and she choked on the song made sick in the wrong
key.
a fallen sister lamenting the lost story sucked up in the inventing and the
sinking and the setting until it’s worth letting
go
of what she knows.

the wicked Queen cries,
cries, cries at her mirror when the Ink makes it clear that her daughters all fear her
and flick through forests in smiles and love joyous and blaming their source for
any slip or miscourse in the road that whips and winds
through the Ink.
and she waits waits
waits.

Now, I don't usually enjoy writing poetry, but I actually rather like these two. And since it's meant to be spoken, it's all about the rhythms, so the rhythms of the words are what dictate the form. I posted these on my Facebook account. I'm normally very fond of constructive criticism, but my best friend's only response was:

"these are excellent, but you should work on breaking your lines. don't end on words like "of" and "for." End on stronger words that draw the eye down to the next line.
"Morning Lines" has such a fantastic sounds! i'd play around with the "wait wait wait"s. They might function better all on one line. Or maybe diagonally.

Sorry I am nitpicky. I"m a product of poetry workshops. But these poems are so badass I can't help but want to encourage you to make them as strong as possible!"

My issue lies in the bolded portions.

Line Breaks:
I disagree with her philosophy of what draws the eye to the next line. Not that I planned on putting prepositions at the end because they were prepositions, that was just where the rhythm fell. But thinking about it, my opinion is words like "of" and "for" draw the mind to the next line by creating a brief question. "Of" what? "For" what? and that makes someone keep reading. If the poem ended on one of those words, it would be incredibly frustrating and incite curiosity and independent imagining. It creates an expectation, then pulls it away. Or maybe I've just been watching too much Beckett lately.

Stronger Words:
I can see word strength in adjectives, but for the above reasons, can't see how ending on a noun or adjective is any stronger in this case.

Poetry Workshops:
This is my greatest problem, and the bit that irked me personally. Of all the creative writing styles, poetry is perhaps the most truly artistic, since, to quote the Bard, it "gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name". (Yes, I can randomly quote passages of Shakespeare...seven years of childhood and adolescent study will do that). Poetry is art. Art has no rules. Therefore, while poetry workshops can widen a writer's exposure to styles and themes, they can't claim to be The Authority on what makes this poem "stronger" than that poem. To me, the measure of a poem's worth is entirely subjective, dependent upon the reader's opinion. Someone somewhere at sometime thought that this:

so much depends

upon a red wheel

barrow glazed with rain

water beside the white

chickens.

was brilliant poetry, worthy of inclusion in American Literature anthologies lugged about by high school students nationwide. I, personally, don't see what's so great about this sentence broken up on different lines, but someone thought it was genius. And let's not forget the saps who believe Eragon's "epic master work" of the Hippie!Elf Orgy in the Red Brick to be on the same pedestal as Beowulf and The Iliad. Likewise, Emily Dickinson, whose work I adore, is fervently disliked by many people. For that matter, so is Beowulf.
I'm not claiming to be a brilliant poet...it's very rare that I actually like a poem that I write. The annoyance lies in the sense that these workshops have endowed my friend with a higher understanding of what is "stronger" in writing than I, who have taken no such seminars or classes, possess.

This draws me to the opinion that seminars like this are very limiting in their way. They foster this sort of enlightened feeling in the participants that can potentially lead to pretentiousness. (Wow..alliteration, much?) But this is the danger with all artistic classes. However, there is a distinct difference between poetry, which is by its nature formless, and something like playwriting, in which "strength" is measured more in terms of the audience understanding what the playwright wanted them to understand. There can be several meanings, of course, but there are points that a playwright will want to be sure are absolutely clear to as many people as possible. Even Beckett (I'm back to him again...) who when asked what Waiting for Godot meant replied with "If I knew, I would have said so in the play", was intensely specific on certain matters. Poetry isn't like that. Poetry says "Here! Listen to this...what does it mean to you?"
The seminar makes it all about Form and Style, and forgets about the Soul and the Music.

Because it's been a while and I can: As Propriety Demands, 6

2009-03-27T14:44:10Z

“Please excuse my sister, Commodore,” Rebecca said in a rush, schooling her voice out of a nervous tremor. “She has such fanciful notions. Please, do sit down.”

“Thank you, Miss Clarke,” Norrington replied. Even seated in the wing-backed chair, his bearing was ramrod straight, and once again, Rebecca was struck by the difference between the man she had met on the veranda and the stiff, austere officer occupying her father’s favorite chair.

“Will you take tea, Commodore?” she asked, setting her book on the edge of the tea table and leaning forward to properly set the china. As she glanced at him in anticipation of his answer, she saw his sharp green eyes flit quickly over the cover of her book, and a warm, almost secret smile twitched at his stern mouth.

Like the sun through storm clouds.

“Yes, please,” he said, and paused briefly before he continued, almost as if he was weighing his next words. “You prefer the comedies, I see.”

Rebecca smiled as she poured. “I enjoy them, yes. Sugar?”

Again, Norrington paused, and this time Rebecca thought she saw the smallest hint of reticence. “Just one, please. If you do not object to my asking, what is it about the comedies that is so enthralling to you?”

“I don’t object at all, Commodore,” Rebecca answered, handing him his tea. “Every now and then, one needs some light diversion that does not overtax the mind. I assure you, when I am in a scholarly disposition, my favor is given entirely to the Prince of Denmark, or your Scottish Thane.”

“Gloomy reading for a young lady,” Norrington remarked, a bit of that brash familiarity sneaking back into his manner.

“Not at all,” Rebecca replied with a small smile. “If I wish for gloom, I read the daily gazette.”

Norrington laughed. The sound was sudden and rolling, like mirthful thunder, and Rebecca found herself tempted to laugh with him. She settled for a stolen smile behind her teacup. As suddenly as it came, the Commodore’s laughter ended and he was back to his collected self.

“Regrettably, Miss Clarke, I did not call on you to discuss the finer points of literature,” he said, his manner suddenly formal once more. “I am here to make a proposition that I most sincerely hope you will accept.”

Rebecca took a hasty sip of tea, all her banished nerves returning in a dizzying rush, and she prayed that Marianne was not closeted on the other side of the parlor door; hearing this would surely send her into fits of giddiness.

“And what is this proposition, Commodore?” she asked, her voice steady despite the incessant fluttering in her chest.

Norrington stared into his tea for a moment, and his somber bearing shifted, allowing a distinct sadness to show for the space of a breath. “I was recently informed of the untimely passing of my older brother,” he said.

“You have my condolences, Commodore.”

“They are much appreciated,” he replied, taking a somewhat uneasy breath before he continued. “Furthermore, it was brought to my attention that I have been appointed guardian to his young children, a girl of thirteen and a boy of six.” He paused again, and there was something apologetic in his expression. “I regret that I am…largely unaware of the intricacies of raising children, and I am at an especial loss as to what is proper for a young girl of Hannah’s age. As I am sure you can surmise, Miss Clarke, when I received this news, my immediate thought was to secure more suitable care for them, and, if it is not too forward to say, I thought first of you.”

“I am flattered,” Rebecca said with a nod.

“I wish to offer you a position as governess, Miss Clarke,” Norrington said in a sudden rush. “I am able to provide adequate accommodations and a stipend for your services.”

Rebecca set her teacup down slowly and made a slight adjustment to her spectacles, folding her hands in her lap, fighting the excitement bubbling inside her with all the formal reserve she possessed.

“Forgive me, Commodore,” Rebecca said. “But I must inquire as to the amount of the stipend.”

“I can offer £40 a year and any travel expenses you may need, as well as meals with the children and myself, when I am home.” Norrington answered. “You would be required only to see to the children and to their studies, nothing more. If the offer is not satisfactory—”

Rebecca smiled. “I find the offer perfectly satisfactory, Commodore, and I would be delighted to accept.”

For a moment, Norrington looked as though he was going to smile as well. Rebecca saw something unrestrained and bright leap in his eyes, but he quelled it.

“Excellent,” he said, all brisk efficiency. “The children will be arriving within a fortnight. I will see to the transfer of your affects.”

“I keep very little in the way of personal affects, excepting, perhaps, my books,” Rebecca said with a pleased glance at the volume on the table. “I’m a simple woman, Commodore. I assure you, I will be little trouble to keep.”

Norrington gave his tea another ponderous glance. “That is…refreshing,” he said, then stood suddenly, cup and saucer still in hand. “I regret I must take my leave, Miss Clarke. I had but a few moments to spare. Duties at the Fort—”

“I quite understand, Commodore,” Rebecca assured him, gently taking the china from his hands with a slight curtsy and replacing it on the tea tray. “I will see you to the door.”

Rebecca heard the very distinct rustle of cotton petticoats as she opened the parlor doors. Marianne was sitting primly on the edge of a rather conspicuous chair, and doing her best to appear innocuous and absorbed in her needle work. Rebecca could see that hers sister was fairly bursting with excitement and curiosity, and so she marched straight past her without so much as a glance to hint at what had occurred behind the parlor doors. Norrington, however, seemed to be slightly off put by Marianne’s behavior, but, to his credit, he made no comment.

“I shall come to collect you next Wednesday,” he said once they’d reached the door. “I thought you might like a few days to become acclimated to the house.”

“That is most kind, Commodore,” Rebecca responded. “Wednesday will be perfect.”

“Until then, Miss Clarke.”

He donned his hat with a curt bow, and strode out the door. Rebecca watched him for only a moment, then turned to Marianne, beaming.

Irritated by the world

2008-10-08T05:18:49Z

Sarah Palin scares the shit out of me. She's an idiot, and the current Republican party is a kowtowing mass of hypocritical bastards. When I hear anything political described as "old time religion", I get worried. The fact that they claim to base their policy on "morality" and "what's right!" is bullshit. Have they considered that maybe Palin's pregnant teen daughter doesn't want to be held up as the Republican Pro-Life poster girl? That maybe because she's 17, she might just want to be left alone to deal with her situation and move on with her life? Nope. They prop her up and use her as a pillar to show Mommy's morality. If I were her, I would harbor some serious resentment. And the footage of the Republicans watching the VP debate and LAUGHING! when Biden became emotional about his DEAD CHILD! was beyond revolting to me. Republicans like that do not operate on morality or Christian values of any kind. It is a disgusting hypocracy.

Honestly, I leaned towards voting for Obama in the first place, but I listened to both sides of the argument. But when Palin showed up, McCain lost any and all possibility of getting my vote. I do not want there to be even the slightest chance that she could end up running the country. She claims to represent all women and "real women vote Palin" and all this bullshit, but she is a disgrace to the gender. She is uninformed on the issues at hand, unqualified, and was only chosen as VP candidate because, as SNL so astutely pointed out, she has a vagina, and McCain wanted all the ex-Hillary votes. So he chose a backwoods hockey mom from Alaska, who's idea of foreign policy is to point over yonder permafrosted horizon and say "See? Alaska is close to Russia! that means I'm an expert!" Yeah, it's "close" to Russia...the Siberian half of it. As far as I know, that's some pretty remote territory.

And I don't even want to think about her stance on women's rights. How dare she think she has the right to tell me that I can't have access to state supplied birth control? My family insurance doesn't fucking cover it because it's from a Catholic hospital! I have no other choice but to get it from the state, and I really don't want kids, and I like not having highly pervasive and Plauge-like acne all over my body. And, suck it up people, because right-wing morality is not going to stop people from having sex. Why? Because, we're human and it's a hell of a lot of fun. In what universe is it okay to lie to our children about sex? Sex education is mentally and emotionally scarring for girls. We are told that sex will make us feel useless, degraded, and that if we have sex before marriage, no one will want us. A local school actually employed federal sponsored pamphlets containing ideas like "If you have sex before you're married, it''s like you're a rose that's had all it's petals plucked off: no longer beautiful", and classroom exercises in which the girls were given lollipops, told to eat them, and then it was explained to them that sex before marriage makes them like a used lollipop: No one else wants it. How is this okay? How is this considered decent? It's not promoting abstinence, it's promoting Puritanical views that women should be afraid of their sexuality and that they shouldn't enjoy it! Abstinence only education doesn't work. It's based on scare tactics, and all it does is leave the teenage masses uninformed and tragically ignorant. Not once in my entire public school health class career was the female half of the class told about condoms. Sure, they were mentioned as a "method of protection", but that was it, and that was the only form of birth control we covered.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a woman president...just not this woman. She doesn't want to "shatter the glass ceiling"...she'd much rather make it concrete again.

And on top of everything, Sarah Palin makes me want to change my name out of embarrassment that I have one pissy little thing in common with her.

another pointless survey

2008-05-15T00:56:50Z

1) If you got married to your boyfriend/girlfriend or crush what would your last name be?
let's just say it would be way more pronounceable than my last name now
2) What did you do this afternoon?
drove around doing errands and unsuccessfully searching for a dress for my uncle's wedding

3) When do you plan on having kids or your next kid?
the 12th of never...if I want a family, I'll adopt.

4) whens the last time you smiled?
really smiled? yesterday

5) Who has your heart?
I do, and I don't plan on giving it away anytime soon.

6) Can you use chopsticks?
hell no!

7) How old were you when you lost your first tooth?
6

8) Were you a hyper or mellow kid?
mellow with a ridiculously high level of concentration

9) Why did you throw up last?
I had a mild case of food poisoning

11) What's for dinner?
whatever I can scrounge out of the fridge

12) Ever been to the Statue of Liberty?
No, but I've seen it from a plane...I will go there this summer

14) How many e-mail addresses do you have?
umm...three

15) Do you HAVE to have brand name stuff?
fuck no.

16) Last time you washed your hair?
this morning

17) Who will you be sleeping with tonight?
*sigh* Me, myself, and I....though I wish it was someone else...

18) Do you like Oreos?
I love them. They're a vice.

19) Do you send out Thank-You cards?
For important things....like Christmas and graduation presents

20) Can you ice skate?
yep

21) Do you have a brother?
uh-huh

22) Do you know how to change a diaper?
yeah

23) Do you flip people off while driving?
No. I drive while I'm driving.

24) What color is your car?
I don't have one.

25) Would you take a bullet for anyone?
meh...I doubt it

26) Do you keep a planner?
just a calendar

27) Who is your favorite judge on American Idol?
I don't watch, but I rather like Simon

28) Do you like to grocery shop?
no

29) What kind of mood are you in?
a not so good one

30) Last time you cleaned?
a few days ago

31) Did you get an Easter basket?
no. Easter happens while I'm at school.

32) What pills do you take daily?
erythromycin, but I ran out

33) Are you in anyone's wedding this year?
no, but I'm attending two

34) Do you do your own laundry?
At school

35) Do you go tanning?
FUCK NO!

36) Has someone close to you passed away?
my step-grandfather died last year...he was a better grandpa than my 2 biological ones

37) Baths or showers?
showers, mostly...but a bath is nice every now and then

38) Do you take out the garbage?
nope. I have a little brother.

39) Are you getting engaged any time soon?
hahahaha! no.

40) What's the best part about being single?
umm....I don't know.

41) Paper or Plastic?
either one

42) Do you watch "The Hills"?
do I watch the what now?

43) Last song you played?
I think I woke up to "Enter Sandman" this morning...

45) What do you order from taco bell?
whatever strikes my fancy

46) Which one of your friends is going to have the cutest baby?
probably Lyndsay because she's gorgeous and so is Keith

47) Are you wearin any bracelets?
nah

49) Last thing someone bought for you?
my mom bought me some pants...

50) What are you going to do now?
something equally as pointless as this

Just because I'm bored...

2008-05-08T17:33:09Z

Since I'm rather bored and haven't done anything in a while, I'm going to post pointless surveys today.

So far in 08:

1. Have you had any relationships this year?..
in a way...

2. Have you had your birthday?
yes

3. Been to church?
Nope

4. Cried yet?
Once or twice, I think.

5. Been on a diet?
perpetually....hypoglycemia will do that.

6. Pulled an all nighter?
Actually, I haven't! It's miraculous! I did all my papers before the night before they were due.

7. Drank Starbucks?
twice...

8. Went shopping?
I assume this means for recreation...so, no.

9. Went Camping?
unfortunately not

11. Bought something(s) for over $200?
plane ticket to New Jersey so I can get to work

12. Been out of state?
nope

14. Gone Snowboarding?
uhhh....no

Have you...

1.) Hugged someone?
yes

2.) Slept in someone elses bed?
not yet! ;D

3.) Drank any?
ew, no.

6.) Gone over your cell phone bill?
I don't think so

7.) Been called a whale?
no, can't say that I have.

8.) Done something you regret?
Recently? Nope.

9)Last Person you hugged?
Neal, yesterday

10)Last Person to call you?
also Neal

11)Last time you took a shower?
this morning

12)When was the last time you felt stupid?
my production jury...ugh!

13)Who was the last person you danced with?
umm...Jensen, I think, for a movie, ages ago.

14)What did you do today?
Woke up to "The House of the Rising Sun" (yay! good song!), ate some Cheerios, took a shower, got dressed and dried my hair, made myself a sandwich, and now I'm fucking around on this thing.

TEN FACTS

01. Hometown?
Valparaiso

02. Natural hair color?
Blonde

03. Initials?
SJM

04. Hair style?
Shoulder length, stick straight

05. Eye color:
dark blue/grey

06. Height:
5'9"

07. Pets:
My dog, Oliver

08. Mood:
irritated about being stuck in the house with my sick, perpetually pissed-off mother

09. Where would you rather be?
somewhere on the other side of the Pond

10. Last thing you drank?
milk

TEN THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE:

01. Have you ever been in love?
I don't think so

02. Do you believe in love?
yes

03. Why did your LAST relationship fail?
Considering nothing ever got started, there was no failing to be done...still sucked, though

04. Have you ever been heartbroken:
yes

05. Have you ever broken someone's heart:
I hope not!

06. Have you ever fallen for your best friend?
a very close friend, yes

07. Have you ever loved someone but never told them:
it wasn't love, but yes.

08. Are you afraid of commitment?
not at all. That's a dumbass thing to be afraid of. It can't kill you.

09. Would you ever go back to one of your exes?
Since I don't have any exes, I'd have to say no.

10. Have you had more than 5 different serious relationships in your life?
I'm only kinda sorta halfway working on 1. Five is just ludicrous.

5 EMOTIONS

01. Are you missing someone right now:?
oh, yes

02. Are you happy?
that's a loaded question, and I refuse to answer without clarification.

04. Are you eating anything?
no

05. Do you like someone right now?
Yep, and things are good for the moment. :D

It's been awhile...

2008-04-08T16:57:10Z

since my last rant, and I really need to set my thoughts down about this.
My anthropology class is currently studying gender and gender roles in society, including issues pertaining to the GLBT community, and right in the middle of this, a certain Female to Male Transgenderd man decides to start marketing himself (and I use the term deliberately) as the world's "first pregnant man".

Now, I have no problems whatsoever with the fact that he's transgendered. That is not the issue. If a woman feels like she was born in the wrong sex body, fine, remove your breasts and take testosterone! Legally change your name and sex! I don't care. Same goes for a man who feels he is actually a woman. It doesn't matter either way.

My problem with this is the way he is portraying himself and the way it's being reported and received. I understand the circumstances of their situation, which is that his girlfriend/wife can't conceive. Fine. I, however, don't consider this to be a pregnant man. Gender and sex are not the same thing. Gender is how you see and carry yourself in a social context and sex is purely biological. In a biological sense, this man still has ovaries and a uterus...as far as the laws of nature are concerned, he is still a woman, and when I say "laws of nature" I don't in any way mean the "laws of God". He can have no breasts and as much facial hair as he likes and dress and act like a man, but that doesn't change the fact that he is still biologically female.

Therefore, I see this as a transgendered pregnancy. It's not special. Yes, the one carrying the child is considered male socially and legally, but he's still got a woman's insides. The day a man without a uterus (transgenderd or not) conceives is when we can announce that a man is pregnant. The only thing making this sensational is that he's walking around saying "Look! I'm legally considered male and I'm pregnant! Yay!" Does anyone else find this odd? If he was so uncomfortable being a woman that he had to change his gender, why is he so pleased about being pregnant?

Really! If you're a female->male transgendered and you still have all the necessary pieces for bearing children and you want a child, fine. Whatever. But at least have enough respect for us biological women who are quite happy to stay female to call it what it is. You can think of yourself as male, the legal system can call you male, society can call you male, but the laws of nature govern childbirth, not the laws of man. And sorry, but nature says you're female. Bearing children is a woman's responsibility. Please don't take that away from us.

Singles Awareness Day, 2008

2008-02-14T06:46:29Z

So it's that supposedly joyful, Cupid and candy-hearted time of year again, when all us reasonable people get migraines from the over abundance of red and pink, and probably break into hives from the sight of too much lace. Despite my cynicism, I don't actually feel quite so annoyed and depressed about it this year. No, I haven't had some sort of inner strength revelation, I've become unofficially attached to a member of the opposite gender. I say unofficially because while the tone is undeniably lover-like, nothing has actually been decided.

Anyway, being as busy as I am lately with rehearsals for my assistant directing position, I've been largely absent from the fanfiction community, which is rather upsetting to me. I miss my stories and my characters, but my soul still hasn't recovered from the repeated creative rape it endured in last semester's film class from Hell. They've seriously not said a word since the start of first semester, and it worries me. Not that I really have the time to devote to it at the moment, but it would be nice if they'd pop in for a chat now and then.

Religious musings

2008-01-23T23:51:53Z

It's increasingly difficult being the only religiously open minded person in a group. This causes the unfortunate circumstance of whenever I would like to have a serious discussion about something in the spiritual realm, I get looked at askance and shot down with broad comments.

I get endlessly irritated when people refuse to come to their own conclusions, and just take the words of others as truth. For example, a friend of mine said last week she wouldn't vote for Obama "because he's Muslim". This made me scratch my head, because the only mention I've ever seen or heard of Obama being a follower of Islam was in a poorly spelled, all caps response to an article that made no sense what-so-ever. When I asked her how she knew this, the response I received was "I heard that he was". Whether or not he is is of no import to me, really. The unnerving thing was that she seemed to have no desire to find out for herself. She just preferred to be a blind little sheep and follow along with something she may have heard somewhere said by someone.

The same holds true with panicked religious fervor. I went to see the Golden Compass. I even saw it twice, the second time with my fervently atheist friend (as oxymoronic as that statement is.) I happen to be wired in such a way that controversy is endlessly intriguing, and I have an intense desire to debate it. However, neither my devoutly religious friends from school, nor my fervently atheist friend from home were willing to have a serious discussion with me about this film that has sparked so much talk among church circles. I began to wonder....why was that? It seemed strange to me that, in the case of my atheist friend especially, that she didn't have more to say.

I think what it comes down to, after a lot of thought, is that no one wants to question. Set patterns, whatever those patterns may be, are easier, more comfortable, safer. Regardless of what the film is actually about, the point is...why avoid seeing it? I understand the concept of a boycott, but church groups here and there boycotting a huge industry film is not going to have much influence, and in some cases, can work against the case of those doing the protesting. It's like Prohibition...once something becomes illegal, it becomes exciting.

But really, things get so out of hand, and yes, I'm going to place direct blame on religious establishment. It's fine and dandy to disagree, but don't tell your congregation that their children and grandchildren are going to Hell! Back a few years ago, during the Harry Potter hatred phase, my grandmother bought me a book called "Harry Potter and the Bible", which I read because....hey, I read pretty much anything. The author was a complete moron who used slanted writing and heavily weighted resources, not to mention was hypocritical to an extent I didn't think possible. While he spends the entire book claiming that Harry Potter will make your children worship Satan, the last chapter is devoted to retelling, in grim detail, the story of one young man who worshiped the Devil and practiced human sacrifice, and was sentenced to death for murder. This chapter also happened to list a full Satanic ritual. I was so enraged by this author's complete idiocy, I searched for a way to contact him, just so I could know what on earth he was thinking. Sadly, I wasn't able to. The same thing happened this year with the Golden Compass. My grandmother was convinced I was going to Hell because her pastor told her I was, and my mother, who is a much more open-minded Christian, was able to calm her down before she went buying me any books this time. I was very angry when I heard this. My grandmother has just lost her husband due to complications from a drunk driving crash two years ago, has just moved house, and is highly stressed right now. She did not need some pompous pastor telling her he knew just where my soul was going. That is not a stressor she needs!

I discussed this whole debacle with my mother, and we came to this conclusion. Modern churches, not the religion of Christianity itself (this is an important distinction) is imperfect, corrupt. Why? Because it is run by Man, who is, by nature, imperfect. We are not God, and we never will be. This is why I don't follow organized religion. I don't need to tell another human, and no other human has authority over the fate of my soul. That right is reserved for whatever the higher power is. To me, the theme of the Golden Compass is not "go forth and kill God and be atheist". It's "use that free will of yours and question!". Free will is a gift from God, our intellect is a gift from God...if we weren't intended to use them, why did God bother giving them to us? This point is something so many hard-core religious types, including my college friends, can't seem to wrap their minds around.

Well, I think I've got that out of my system for the time being.

NEWS! Wonderful news!!

2007-12-18T18:41:21Z

Peter Jackson officially has charge of The Hobbit movies!

SEE!? Look here!!!

Unbelievable!

2007-12-04T21:22:34Z

"Early in the book I have a chapter called "The Criminalization of Natural Play." Add up all the federal, state, and local laws -- and all the well-meaning and probably necessary restrictions on kids picking up horny toads and the like. Then add to those the enormous increase in covenants, conditions, and restrictions -- about 75 million Americans now live in communities covered by these things, to different degrees. On the first day of the book tour, a woman told me that her community association had just outlawed chalk drawing on sidewalks -- which, you know, does lead to cocaine use.

Try to put up a basketball hoop in some of these communities, let alone build a tree house. The message to kids and parents is very clear: nature's in the past. It doesn't count anymore. The future's in electronics. The bogeyman lives in the woods. Playing outdoors is illicit and maybe even illegal."

That's it. If I ever have children, I'm raising them in the middle of nowhere on a working farm. And if I can't do that, there will be no videogames allowed. I've seen what those brain-sucking machines do.

I mean, come on! Nature is not going to kill your children! In fact, keeping them too clean will probably give them more issues, since their bodies will have NO CHANCE to build IMMUNITY to things!

Seriously! Go catch a frog! I've kissed the things, and I'm not dead!

I have come to this...

2007-11-02T04:51:02Z

...Realization:

I am too much like Dani for my own good.
Why do I have to put myself into my stories?
Damn.

EVERYONE WHO SEES THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2007-10-21T04:10:13Z

CLICK THE LINK! WATCH! VOTE!

http://edcommunity.apple.com/insomnia_fall07/item.php?itemID=311

If we win we get MacBookPros with FinalCut and all sorts of fun editing stuff!!!! so....

VOTE NOW!!!!

murderous rampage

2007-10-18T18:41:49Z

Mac, how do I hate thee? I cannot count the ways.

Seriously. They eat their own files without warning, don't allow other files to transfer, have stupidly tiny icons, and get hot enough to fry yourself a full country breakfast!

They just suck out loud.

Insomnia!

2007-10-14T19:24:51Z

So yesterday was the Apple Computers Insomnia Film Festival in which thousands of high school and college students torture themselves by making a 3 minute film in 24 hours.

I was on a team of 3 people, myself included. We got the list of things we had to use in the film at 9AM. We finished editing at 6AM the next morning. 23 hours of filming. This is what I'm setting my life up to be.

Anyway, our film went great! We got extremely lucky on locations and costumes, and we were able to get an awesome actor. Being the only girl on the team, I ended up spending more time in front of the camera than behind it, but I'm not complaining. I got to waltz with and kiss one of the most gorgeous and talented men in our Theatre department. It's times like that when the repetitive nature of film making is a good thing.

Voting opens on October 19...if we win, we get MacBookPro's equipped with the motherload of editing software, national recognition, and an instant "A" for the semester. Did I mention that MacBooks cost upwards of $4,000?

So.....VOTE for "Who's Listening?"!

Prepare to set sail!

2007-09-19T01:49:33Z

Talk Like a Pirate day is imminent! I intend to represent the voice of reason and the Royal Navy in all the madness that will undoubtedly ensue in my residence hall.

Now. Off to read Marxism.

My writing is suffering severely from my course work. This weekend I hope to actually have time to do something!

Why the World is Evil

2007-09-11T13:44:09Z

1) I have 21 credit hours worth of classes.
2) One of said classes requires me to make a short film every two weeks. In the interim week, I must remake the film from the previous week.
2-a) I must find all my own actors and locations.
2-b)Which is difficult not having a car.
2-c) I have to edit on a mac, which I don't have which means that I have to use the labs.
3) I have to find actors for and find time to rehearse for a Chekhov scene for my Directing 2 class
4) I have to somehow magically find myself a new Assistant Directing assignment that I will have time to commit to.
5) I have to make a film today, when I have no location.
6) I have to work on ridiculous discussion board assignments that I don't give a damn about, but have to do because I have to do well in all my classes.
7) Somehow in between all this, I have to search for as many scholarships as possible to finance my possible study in Northern Ireland next year.
7-a) find time to complete forms for any scholarships I happen to find.

So, in a nutshell, the world is a cruel, evil place that should be shot with a bus.

The Smuggler and the Scoundrel: Chapter Four

2007-09-04T00:10:13Z

This has been a really long time coming, but here it is!

Chapter Four: Careen at St. Kitts

In the five days it took to reach St. Kitts, James saw more of the captain than he had on the whole two month voyage. Their conversations became a nightly occurrence and she often stood watch with him or sought him out to discuss tactics. An unspoken agreement had manifested between them that so long as he didn’t ask about her past, she wouldn’t press him about his; James was grateful for that as well as the company. The concern she had shown for him the night after the raid had been so surprising he hadn’t been sure how to react; after all, it had been so long since anyone had given him a second thought. It meant something to him—what, he couldn’t say—but it was something, and he owed her thanks for it. The words, though, stuck in his throat like sand, and so he thought it best to let his actions speak for him. For nearly four days, not a drop of rum passed his lips. He ignored his appalling thirst and suddenly shaky hands as best he could, all the while refusing to acknowledge what he knew it meant. His crewmates knew it as well, though they never spoke of it openly, and not even Cromley would broach the subject within James’ earshot. They simply shook their heads in a pitying sort of way, watching him grow more agitated and sleepless as the agonizing hours of each day wore on, and waited for him to fail.

And fail he did. However much James thought he could combat the physical need, he was no match for his conscience. True, his body ached for the touch of alcohol, but his mind craved the numbness that came with intoxication. It was a nightmare that finally broke him, one that had since become a regular torment. In it, he had slaughtered his men one by one in the most gruesome, horrific ways a soldier’s imagination could invent, followed and encouraged by Elizabeth murmuring in his ear, “One more, James. Kill one more and I’ll love you”. He had woken in a cold sweat, utterly shaken, unable to think. He’d made his way to the hold where, he assumed, he had proceeded to drink himself into unconsciousness. When he came to the next morning, he had found himself back in the forecastle, under his hammock with his worst hangover to date and almost no memory of what had occurred. His failure disgusted him, but, as horrid as it was, his life was easier to bear when he was drunk—when it took all his concentration just to stay on his feet, he didn’t have a thought to spare for the dead.

Now, pushing his way through the crowded avenues of St. Kitts, James tried his best to force such thoughts to the back of his mind. The Glory had docked that morning, and he had been more that glad to get away. He hefted the small leather pouch in his hand, his cut of the bounty paid for the Spanish ship and her cargo. It wasn’t a fortune, not even a small one, but it was enough to buy him room and board at a decent inn for a week or two, which was what he wanted. After receiving some strange looks from his crewmates when he’d turned down their offers to accompany them “on their rounds” at the bawdy houses, Cromley had finally recommended him to a decent place that didn’t hold with procuring its serving women.

James halted in front of a simple, three-story building whose carved wooden sign bore an elegantly drawn compass rose and below it the legend The Star and Compass. It looked respectable enough, but it wasn’t so far from the docks that a grungy sailor would seem out of place. According to Cromley, the place regularly put up men from the Glory, and the proprietor, a Scotsman by the name of George Hunter, was an honest fellow who charged a reasonable price.

He was surprised when he stepped inside at how calm and quiet it all was. The common was far from empty, but there was no grating music, no brawling, and no garishly painted women hawking their services, just the low rumble of conversation. His fears that he would be forced to repeat Minorca vanished. His worn uniform earned him a few curious stares as he crossed the room and he sighed resignedly. There was nothing he could do about that—they were the only clothes he had. At least he’d had enough sense to leave his hat and decrepit wig on the ship.

The woman at the counter, though, spared no glance for his appearance. She was a pleasant looking woman with a broad forehead and a kind set to her mouth. Her brown hair, greying slightly at the temples, was swept up into a messy bun at the nape of her neck and her dress, while simple, was of a good cloth; clearly business was well enough to make ends meet and a little more. The woman, whom he assumed to be the innkeeper’s wife, looked up from her work as he approached and smiled.

“Good day to you, sir,” she said in a thick, Scottish brogue. “What might I be able to do for you?”

“Room and board for two weeks, ma’am, if you’re able,” James said.

“That we are, sir. Make your mark here, if you please,” the woman replied, turning the logbook toward him. He took the quill and hastily scrawled “Adams” onto the page. It would never do to use his real name—he was fairly certain no one would make the connection between the slovenly “Mr. Adams” and Commodore James Adam Norrington.

Former Commodore.

“Now then, Mr. Adams,” the woman said. “Shall I show you to your room or would you like a bite to eat first?”

“I’ll eat first, ma’am. Whatever you’re serving.”

Mrs. Hunter laughed. “I should have known. That’s what all you sea-farin’ sort want. We get some in here what haven’t had a hot meal in over a year, poor souls. You’re just come into port, I take it?”

“Yes, ma’am. On the Glory,” James answered.

“I’m glad to hear it!” Mrs. Hunter exclaimed. “The Glory’s been missed these past few months. Edward Grace is a good, honest man. We’re always glad to have men of his here.”

James managed a smile, but it felt forced and cold and no doubt looked it. If Mrs. Hunter noticed she gave no sign, for which he was thankful.

“Sit down, then, and I’ll have something for you in a moment,” she said, closing the logbook. She disappeared into the kitchen and James turned from the counter to find a seat. He moved automatically for the back of the room where, he hoped, he would receive fewer curious looks. He threw himself down on one of the long benches near the wall and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Any moment now it would start; the whispers, the furtive glances…

“Lord, what’s a Navy man doin’ here?”

“Ah, he’s no Navy man.”

“Sure he is. Lookit his fancy threads.”

“Well, ‘e coulda stolen ‘em couldn’e?”

“By Gaw, that’s true. Is ‘e a pirate, then ye reckon?”

“You’re a sailor.”

The young voice jerked him out of his sardonic imaginings and James looked down to see a boy seated beside him on the bench.

“Beg pardon?” James said.

“You’re a sailor,” the boy repeated. Judging by the lilt in his speech, he was the innkeepers’ son. “Me Da taught me how to know ‘em.”

“Is that so?” James replied, feeling his mood lighten in spite of himself. “And how might that be?”

The boy ran a hand through his black-brown hair, tugging at the curls that flopped over his forehead. “You walk like you think the ground’s s’posed to move.”

A smile tugged at James’ mouth. “Your father’s a sharp man,” he said.

“He is, that,” the boy said. He paused for a moment, then went on in an excited rush. “It’s my birthday next week, you know. I’ll be nine.”

“Nine?” James replied. “Getting on in years, aren’t you?”

The boy smiled, all innocent excitement and James sighed.

God, what I wouldn’t give to be a child again.

To be free of guilt, free of any worries beyond who would play the pirate in tomorrow’s game. With a sarcastic chuckle, he recalled how he’d always played the pirate in such games. The world was a cruelly ironic place.

“Is it good to be on the sea?” the boy asked suddenly.

“Yes,” James answered. “Better than most things.” It was true. He had always felt awkward on land in a way that had nothing to do with how he walked. The sea was in his blood, he knew that; was that why it felt so good to be sailing without the press of duty?

“Well, that’s good!” the boy went on. “I want to go to sea someday.” His dark eyes shone with enthusiasm. “My Da says I can join the Navy when I turn twelve!”

It was as if someone had shoved ice through his heart.

“What’s your name, boy?” James asked, his throat tight.

“Benjamin Hunter,” the boy piped.

“Benjamin,” he murmured. He looked at the boy, so optimistic, full of dreams, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. “I hope to God you have better luck than I.”

“Benjamin! Get out from there!” Mrs. Hunter exclaimed as she approached with a plate laden with food. “Let Mr. Adams be.”

Benjamin slid off the bench and scurried away without a word.

“I hope he wasn’t bothering you much,” Mrs. Hunter said. “He’s a curious rascal.”

“Not at all,” James said absently. “He seems like a bright boy.”

“Aye, he is. And crafty, too. But never mind that. You just get to work on that plate,” she said, and bustled away.

James hung his head; he suddenly wasn’t at all hungry. The way Benjamin had looked at him, that glow of admiration…

I don’t deserve that.

He had a sudden, familiar desire for a bottle of rum—several bottles of rum. He forced the thought out of his head the moment it entered. He could not, would not, get drunk here. True, he had failed before, but Benjamin, he could tell, was going to be a powerful deterrent.

* * *

The study was as contradictory as it had always been, a rustic shambles incongruous with the proper opulence of the rest of the mansion, but as the most private room in the house, it was allowed to be unfashionable. No servants ever entered here, nor did any visiting dignitaries: the governor permitted only his family and closest friends in this room. Grace smiled as she took in the merry disarray of dusty books and mismatched chairs. She had so many fond memories of this room; studying and struggling with her lessons, countless hours being tutored by her uncle, who had trusted no one else with her education.

Grace turned, setting her glass on the table as she heard the door open. Her uncle entered and, closing the door swiftly behind him, turned to her with a smile.

“There you are, my girl!” he said with a laugh as she embraced him. “You look well, Grace. Lord, but it’s still strange to call you that. And those clothes!”

“All necessary, Uncle, you know that,” Grace said, picking up her glass and taking a seat in one of the armchairs. “I couldn’t very well come as myself when I’m purported to be living in Boston.”

“No, indeed,” her uncle chuckled, pouring himself a glass of brandy. “Now,” he said once he was seated. “Let us discuss this Spanish galleon sitting in my harbour.”

Grace grinned. She had been bringing prizes into St. Kitts for nearly nine years, ever since she’d convinced her uncle to commission her as a privateer. His standing as a royally appointed governor had been a blessing to her all her life, but the Letters of Marque had made her doubly thankful. Yet, while it made her secondary profession logistically easier, it also made it morally disquieting.

But I sleep at night, so it’s well enough.

“It’s clear you brought her in,” the governor continued. “Yours tend to be missing the same sections of the taffrail each time. I don’t know how you manage it.’

“You have John Fletcher to thank for that, Uncle Thomas,” Grace said. “The man’s a superb gunner. I pray I never lose him.”

“Oh, I doubt you will,” Thomas said. “But tell me, what the Devil did you do with the Spaniards this time?”

Grace stared down into her brandy with a sigh. “There’s no ransom to be had from a merchant man and his daughter. We weren’t far off from Spanish water as it was. We came as close as we could to the Florida coast and set them out in longboats with enough supplies for two months. More, if they’re cunning with the rations.”

“It was a good move, Grace,” her uncle replied. “But you seem displeased with it.”

She swirled the brandy in her glass, not looking up. “It’s…hard, Uncle,” she said. “When there are women on the ships I take. I know my men wouldn’t be fool enough to harm them—I’d have them swinging from the yardarm in a trice, and they know that—but the women…God, some of them are barely more than girls! The fear I see on their faces…it makes it hard not to unmask and let them know I understand.”

“It’s a quandary you knew you’d have to face.”

“Yes,” Grace sighed.

But that doesn’t make the facing it any easier.

“My dear, this self-doubting despair does not suit you,” Thomas said, suddenly cheerful. “This may lift your spirits.”

Grace hardly had time to ponder his words when the door burst open, revealing a lanky, sandy-haired man in fine clothes, a roguish smile on his face.

“Isaac!” Grace exclaimed, nearly dropping her glass. “What on earth are you doing here?”

With a hearty laugh—no doubt at her expression of shock, Grace thought—Isaac Braddock swept into the room, closing the door behind him with a flourish.

“Well, dear cousin, I’ve been called away from Boston on business and I thought I’d visit home and my old haunts,” he said, settling into a chair with the easy grace of confidence. Grace smirked into her brandy; “old haunts” for Isaac meant rowdy taverns, bawdy houses, and the bedrooms of at least two wealthy, young widows—he was a proper rake, her cousin.

“How long have you been here?” Grace asked.

“Ages, it seems,” Isaac replied. “Constant sailing almost, from here to the Carolina colony, to Nassau, to Port Royal, back to bloody Carolina and back to here…six months or so now. I’m glad to have caught you in port. You’ve been gone eight months, I hear.”

“Yes,” Grace said. “Mostly around the coast of Spain, trying to catch an outgoing merchant or two, and a bit around the Mediterranean. Nothing much of note, really.” She paused, frowning. “Except for a sudden storm near Tripoli of all places, or so I heard, and a bad one.”

“Thank God we’ve had none of that here yet this year,” the governor intoned.

“No weather storms, but plenty of the political persuasion,” Isaac said. “You’ve come back at a tumultuous time, cousin. As usual.”

Grace sat up straighter. “Has something happened?”

“I should say it has!” her uncle exclaimed. “Piracy is on a sudden rise, these past four months. I know you don’t like to go for pirates, Grace, but you may have to.”

“But surely the Navy…” Grace began, then froze.

James.

James Norrington, the Scourge of Piracy, whose very name made the most hardened cutthroats quake with fear was on her ship, thoroughly beaten down and broken. The Naval forces in the Caribbean had never been large, despite please to the crown for more resources. Without James’ leadership and no-quarter reputation to precede them, the Navy would be all but powerless.

“The Navy?” Thomas scoffed, taking her pause for confusion. “The Navy hasn’t been able to do a damn thing since Commodore Norrington vanished half a year ago.”

Grace schooled her features, feigning surprise. “Vanished? What do you mean vanished?”

“Just that,” Isaac said. “He took off after some pirate nearly seven months past, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of him since.”

That would be because I have him…Lord, but he could have me any day!

She felt her face flush and ducked her head, hoping to hide it. It was hard to admit, but just the thought of his wild, green eyes and devil-may-care grin set her blood boiling. His voice alone—that rich timbre that played so deliciously along her spine—was enough to make her want to—

Grace froze that line of thought before it could go any further. It wouldn’t do to let her imagination run away with itself. It wasn’t like her to be so distracted, and especially not over some man. The conversation around her faded as her mind wandered, despite her attempts to stay focused. The truth of the matter was that James had her well and truly infatuated with him and it had been so long since her last romantic foray that she had quite forgotten how to handle it. It was bewildering—after that initial surge of desire, her feelings should have faded, not amplified, especially after coming upon him nearly comatose in the cargo hold. Had it been any other of her crew she would have been livid, but with James…she just hadn’t been. The way he had looked at her that night, so sad and resigned to his broken existence, had sliced through any anger she may have felt and struck at that place in her heart that the sea hadn’t managed to harden. She’d taken pity on him despite herself and helped him back to the forecastle—no mean feat considering his height—where he’d tumbled to the deck under his hammock, very nearly taking her down with him. He had waved her off with a slurred “No, let me lie,” when she’d knelt down to help him up, but he’d caught hold of her hand as she made to rise.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said. “I didn’t want…I tried.”

“I know,” she had told him, and she had allowed herself to touch him, to stroke his hair away from his face. It had seemed to soothe him. “I know. Just get some sleep, James.”

He had released her hand and closed his eyes, a strange, half-smile on his face. “Yes,” he had murmured to himself. “…very pretty with her hair down.”

Foolish as it was, Grace couldn’t help but wonder if he’d meant her. She knew it had probably just been the rum talking and odds were he didn’t even remember saying it, but…

“…I certainly hope so. He’s been a thorn in our side for years, has Jack Sparrow.”

Grace’s head snapped up, her mind jerked back to the present; if anything could focus her, it was that.

“What about Jack Sparrow?” she asked, her hand tight around her now empty glass.

“You haven’t been listening at all,” Isaac said, and it was clear he found that odd. “He’s the pirate Norrington’s gone off after.” He paused. “You don’t…know him, do you?”

“Unfortunately,” Grace said, sneering. “What has he done this time?”

Arrogant bastard! If I ever get my hands on him…

“It’s been Hell to piece together, but from what I can tell, the lucky rascal escaped his own hanging under some very suspect circumstances,” Isaac explained. “Apparently the local blacksmith was involved and now he’s set to marry the governor’s daughter or some such nonsense—the blacksmith, I mean, not Sparrow. But it seems—and this is what’s most unusual about it all—that Norrington let the man go!”

Grace narrowed her eyes. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“No, no it doesn’t,” Isaac continued. “That’s the business I was sent down for. The Company wants this mess sorted out. I’m afraid most of what I have is hearsay, but my report’s been sent.” Isaac sighed and rubbed his chin. “Still, hearsay or no, it’s enough to justify arrest.”

“How likely is it?” Thomas asked.

“I might as well arrest the blacksmith tomorrow,” Isaac sighed. “And Norrington, wherever he is, should consider himself a fugitive. Commodore or no, his neck is for the noose, as well.”

Grace tried to hid her unease, tapping her glass on the arm of the chair. Isaac was dreadfully loyal to his family, loyal to the point of breaking the law—he’d done it for her more times than she could count—but if it didn’t involve his kin, he was the Company’s man through and through. If he found out about James, she didn’t think any amount of pleading could silence him.

“Isaac, why would the Company send you to sort this out?” Grace asked. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that business maneuver you mentioned in your letter, would it?”

“Business maneuver?” Thomas said, regarding his son quizzically. “What might that be? You’ve not spoken of it.”

Isaac shifted in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “That, Father,” he said, sounding highly irritated. “Is because I am entirely skeptical about the whole mad scheme.”

Grace raised her eyebrows. “And what mad scheme would that be?”

“Some plan of Cutler’s to increase trade on a massive scale,” Isaac answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s impossible.”

Thomas laughed. “Ah, yes, how is your friend Mr. Beckett?”

“He’s a lord now, actually, as he’d tell you if he were present,” Isaac replied with an air of amusement. “And he’s reveling in it.” He sighed, shaking his head. “He’s a fine gentleman, but too ambitious by far, I’ve always thought. I fear sometimes the man won’t stop until he’s Glamis, Cawdor, and King.”

“A gloomy comparison,” Grace said, but for all it’s dark connotations, it was an apt description. She had only met him once, and while he had liked him well enough, the meeting had left no doubt in her mind that Cutler Beckett lived for business. “He’s not changed at all, it seems.”

“No,” Isaac said, suddenly serious. “No, he hasn’t.”

“Ah!” the governor exclaimed, looking at his pocket watch. “Nearly three…forgive me, Grace, Isaac, but I must be off.” He stood and hurried to the door where he paused and looked back with a grin. “Grace, my dear, be sure my rogue of a son doesn’t drink all my brandy, will you?”

The door clicked shut behind him and the moment it was closed Isaac nearly leapt out of his chair.

“My letter,” he said. “You received my letter?”

“Yes, thank God!” Grace said. “It was nearly too late! The Company has got hold of one of my merchants; I’m sure of it.”

Isaac swore, running a hand over his face. “What did you do with your cargo?”

“I recorded it in the prize report and had it all transferred to the Spanish ship. It was mostly wine and some textiles…none of the usual this time.”

“And the crew didn’t question it?” Isaac asked.

Grace resisted the urge to roll her eyes and groan; she would have thought that by now Isaac would have spent enough time at sea to know a few things.

“I’m captain, Isaac,” she said. “If my men question my orders, I can have them whipped for as long as I please. Besides, they don’t wonder where their coin comes from so long as they get it before the brothels open.”

“Fine, fine,” Isaac said, standing. “What really matters is that you aren’t caught with cargo you shouldn’t have.”

“And the merchant?” Grace pressed. “I can’t ignore him, Isaac. He knows things.”

Her cousin turned to look at her, his eyes worried. “How much?”

“Enough to bring everything crashing down,” Grace admitted. “He’s seen me return to the Glory, and that’s enough to assume a connection, though I doubt he suspects Isabel and Edward to be the same person. Still, pressed as he is, he’s sure to mention it.”

“Which merchant is this?” Isaac asked.

“Henry Skinner from—”

“From Charleston,” Isaac broke in. His posture relaxed and he smiled weakly. “I have charge of his case. I can help you out of this.”

Grace sighed, letting her head fall back against the chair. “You know what I have to do, Isaac,” she said, and even to her own ears her voice was anxious.

There was a quiet moment as they both contemplated her meaning. Grace had killed her share of men over the years, for various reasons. She didn’t like it—in fact, she loathed it—but she could shut down, block off all emotion for the time it took to do the deed, but she paid a heavy price for it later.

“I can keep the Company men away, but you need a suitable place for it,” Isaac said at last. “A tavern would be best, the worst you can find. Do you know any?”

“No,” Grace said, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. “I’m unfamiliar with Port Royal, but I know someone who might know a place.”

It was a long shot, really. She didn’t expect James to know much about the seedier side of Port Royal, but he would at least be able to tell her the respectable places, the places to avoid. And she needed to see him—if there was soon to be a price on his head, it was only right he be warned.

“I’d best go,” she said, standing. “It could take some time to find him.”

Isaac nodded, then pulled her into a tight embrace.

“I wouldn’t want your life for the world, cousin,” he said. “You never have a day of peace, it seems. Are you sure you aren’t ready to come to Boston in truth? You would get on so well with Anna.”

Grace sighed, thinking of the countless cold nights spent in misery and her dream—her foolish, little girl’ dream that she just couldn’t forget—that one day she would have a home, a husband…and children. The thought was more painful than any cold night.

“Not yet,” she said with a slight smile. “Boston isn’t ready.”

“No, I suppose not,” Isaac chuckled, releasing her. “Good luck finding your friend.”

She nodded and turned towards to door, her mind already occupied with other things. She would have to go down to the docks, and probably the Mad Fiddler, before she even hoped to begin searching for James; if anyone knew where he might have gone, Cromley would.

“Grace?” Isaac said suddenly, and she paused, looking back at him. He was leaning against a chair and frowning in the way he did when he was uncomfortable and trying not to show it. “Do you know anything about…about Davy Jones?”

“As much as any sailor,” Grace said, confused at the strangeness of his question and the troubled tone of his voice. “Why do you ask?”

“Is he real, do you think?” Isaac pressed, and now his unease was apparent. “A man without a heart—in the most literal sense—it can’t be possible.”

“El Diablo del Mar,” Grace murmured, feeling a chill at the very thought. “All sailors fear the sight of the Flying Dutchman, Isaac. And rightly so.”

“Are you saying it’s real?” Isaac queried and there was something almost frantic in his tone now. “The Kraken and the Dead Man’s Chest? One hundred years of service, all of it?”

“Isaac, what’s this about?” Grace asked. “You’ve never had any interest in these things before.”

He smiled and shook his head, all traces of fear gone. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I just find myself more inclined to believe in things lately. Go on…I didn’t mean to keep you.”

Grace didn’t consider that a satisfactory answer, but she left the room all the same—there was no use trying to ferret out the reason behind her cousin’s unusual questions. There was a reason, of that she was sure, but she had more pressing matters to attend to than Isaac’s newfound superstition.

As Propriety Demands, chapter 4

2007-08-25T18:23:23Z

I decided I should post some more of this since it's been sitting patiently on my hard drive for so long.

Chapter 4: The Consequences of Post

If life were far simpler than it is, and this a far simpler story, it could be said that after the pointed conversation he shared with Miss Rebecca Clarke, James was instantaneously cured of his heartache. Alas, for life is not simple, this is not a simple story, and this was not the case. In a desperate attempt to eradicate all thoughts of Elizabeth and her rapidly approaching wedding, he buried himself in his duties with an increased fervor that tripped unsteadily along the threshold of obsession. For this was the way in which James Norrington dealt with emotional upheaval, and to those few who knew him better than he realized, it was about as obvious as Jack Sparrow in a room full of English dignitaries. However, these privileged few were also aware of James’ rather volatile tendencies when in such moods. Therefore, it was with a sensible amount of trepidation that Theodore Groves and Andrew Gillette invited their superior officer to Andrew’s house for drinks, and were just as sensibly surprised when he accepted.

“And that, I believe, is checkmate,” James said, placing his piece with a flourish and leaning back in his chair.

Andrew studied the board with frantic intensity for a good two minutes before he relented and threw up his hands with an aggravated sigh.

“One of these days, James,” he said, ignoring Theo’s laughter. “One of these days, I will beat you at this!”

“Impossible,” James scoffed good-naturedly. “I’ve been undefeated in chess since the age of seventeen.”

“Half a minute, now!” Theo exclaimed. “That’s not true. I’ve beaten you!”

“Indeed?” James said, smirking at his friend over the rim of his glass. “I don’t recall.”

“It was the night of your promotion to captain! We were sitting right here in this very room, and—”

James shook his head. “I’m terribly sorry, Theo, but I have no memory of any such moment.” He grinned. “And if I can’t remember it, it hardly counts.” He quaffed off his remaining brandy and reached for the decanter to pour himself another. “Now, gentlemen,” he said. “I propose we now turn our conversation to the real reason you invited me here.”

His lieutenants exchanged the barest of glances before Andrew spoke.

“Chess and brandy, James?” he answered haltingly.

James shook his head. He’d had his suspicions about the true purpose of this outing since his friends had extended the invitation. He didn’t relish the questioning that was most surely coming, but he had been secretly glad for a diversion that wasn’t stacks of paperwork.

“No, Andrew,” he said. “There is an alternate purpose to this, and as I’m fairly certain I know what that purpose is, I would appreciate if you would begin.”

“Clearly, you suspect us of some nefarious objective,” Theo replied. “And if you consider a plot to abduct you from the fort for a few hours nefarious, you would be correct.”

“Abduct me from the fort?” James asked, wryly amused by Theo’s choice of words.

“That’s about what it amounts to,” Andrew said. “You spend far too much time there.”

James frowned. “I have a great deal of work—”

“Work that we should be doing,” Theo interrupted. “You have subordinates for a reason, James, and you’ve not let either of us so much as seal an envelope. To be quite plain, we’re concerned for your well-being.”

“You have no cause to be.”

“Oh, we haven’t?” Andrew quipped. “I happen to have it from the best authority that you haven’t been home in over a week. When was the last time you slept properly?”

It was a simple question, but it gave him a pause, and James was startled to find that he had to search his memory for an answer. It was true, he hadn’t been home in over a week and he hadn’t been sleeping much lately. What could he say? That he avoided his house because he just couldn’t stomach the lifeless solitude of the place anymore? That he feared what he would do if left alone with nothing to occupy his thoughts? He stood up, agitated, tapping his fingers against his glass.

“I have accommodations adjoining my office, you know,” he said, not bothering to mask his irritation. “I sleep there.”

“For how long?” Andrew pressed.

“Damn and blast, Andrew, you’re not my mother! What difference do my sleeping habits make to you?” James snapped, his tone a mixture of ire and that voice—the one he gave orders in, that demanded deference. But his Lieutenants were unruffled by it and he was met only with stoic stares.

“Answer the question, James,” Theo said, his face impassive.

James stared down into his brandy, sighing resignedly. “Two or three hours,” he mumbled at last.

“Good God, a man can’t function on that little rest!” Andrew exclaimed.

“And yet, as you see, I am functioning just fine,” James shot back, willing his friends to believe it, despite the obvious falsehood. He was not functioning fine at all, and he knew it. Again, the desire to just disappear washed over him.

“You were never any good at lying,” Theo said with a slight smile. “With as long as we’ve known you, do you honestly think we don’t know when something’s off?”

James glared at the floor. “Nothing’s off with me,” he snarled.

“Is it wrong that we’re worried?” Andrew wondered aloud, frustration apparent in his tone.

“You shouldn’t be,” James said, turning to the window and gazing out at the rapidly darkening world without really seeing it.

“But we are. You have to admit you haven’t been yourself lately,” Theo pressed. “Look, we know—”

But what exactly Theo knew, James never found out, for at that moment there was a sharp, urgent pounding on the door.

“Who the devil could that be?” Andrew wondered, rising from his chair to go to the door. The knocking continued, constant and frenetic.

James let out the breath he had been holding, feeling the tension release from his shoulders like a wave rushing back to sea. He had a fairly good idea of what Theo had been about to mention, and was thoroughly glad the sudden disturbance had prevented it. He had no desire to mull over his romantic failure.

“All right, boy, all right! He’s just in here, calm yourself!” came Andrew’s voice from the hall.

James set down his glass, glancing at Theo just as a spindly boy—a cabin boy by the look of him—in rather unkempt clothes came darting into the room, an envelope clutched tightly in his grubby hands. His sandy hair was tousled every which way and he had clearly been running, and frantically too.

“Captain says ‘m s’posed ta give this ta th’ Commodore an’ ‘m s’posed ta do it right sharpish ‘cause it’s a real important an’ urgent-like message!” the boy yammered, standing on his toes, waving the envelope above his head.

As soon as he heard the words “urgent message”, James’ shoulders straightened and his eyes hardened, his face becoming an impassive mask; his brief respite from duty was over.

“Stop flapping about like a gull and give me my message, lad,” he commanded. He didn’t bark the order as he would have with any of his midshipmen or marines, but the boy still froze, shamefaced. He handed over the letter, and as soon as James had taken hold of it, the boy scurried away as quickly as he’d come.

“Twitchy little fellow, that,” Theo remarked. “I think you scared him half out of his mind, James.”

“Indeed,” James replied absentmindedly as he broke the seal on the envelope. It wasn’t a seal he recognized, nor, he saw when he unfolded the parchment, was he familiar with the hand.

To Commodore James Norrington, RN; Regards.

It is my most regretful duty to inform you that two days past, on 23 March, your brother, Robert, who had long struggled with repeated illness, was taken with fever and died late that night. To you, I extend my sincere condolences.

As you are no doubt aware, the late Mr. Norrington had been a widower these six years. As I was both his friend and consultant in life, it has fallen to me to oversee the distribution of his estate and to be certain this is done so in accordance with his written will. What takes precedence in my mind, however, is not the fate his properties, but rather that of his children. His will states, quite clearly, that if death were to befall him while his children were still dependent upon him for care and shelter, that the guardianship of his daughter, Hannah, and son, Lucas, was to fall, without question, to you.

Therefore, I shall depart for Port Royal with the children one week hence from this day, 25 March, to personally deliver them to your care.

Your servant.

Mr. Geoffrey McCormick

James blinked and read the letter once more. Robert, dead? His throat felt as though he had swallowed sand. Robert who had eaten the mushrooms off James’ plate when their mother wasn’t looking, who had supported his interest in the Navy even when their father hadn’t, who had taught him to pick locks and swear and hit a man properly and all the things an elder brother is supposed to teach the younger. True, he hadn’t seen Robert for some years, but there was no hostile reason for it—James’ duties simply didn’t allow for trips to the Virginia colony. The last time James had seen his brother had been seven years ago, when Robert, his wife, Evangeline, and little Hannah had come to spend the Christmas season in Port Royal.

Had Robert really been so ill? The last letter James had received from him had been a mere two months ago, containing both congratulations on his promotion and a few choice words concerning Elizabeth that he had been shocked to read. There had been no mention of sickness, none at all, but that was Robert’s way: to carry on as if nothing at all was amiss. Their father had called it a family trait.

James stared down at the piece of correspondence with rising antagonism. Why now? Why did his brother have to up and die now, when his life was already falling apart at the seams? He was indulging in irrationality, he realized, but this…this was so unexpected, so unneeded that James didn’t much care. He was angry and, by God, he had a right to be! He made to shred the offending parchment into a thousand pieces, but he stopped as one word, one, fateful word, caught his eye:

Children.

HUZZAH!!

2007-08-18T04:13:21Z

I'M BACK IN SCHOOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And now that I'm back, I will be writing again!!!!!

More importantly, I've finished chapter 5! Though I'm a bit unsure about the beginning of chapter 4 now, and it all might need some major revision before it's up (actually, I'm sure it does), but I'm getting there. The release of Harry Potter took up some creative space, and I was lamenting the deaths of ALL my favorites, but I think I've got my Muses back now. They're being particularly cooperative.

scribeling @ 2007-06-12T18:16:00

2007-06-12T22:17:18Z

After several days of the absolute insanity that I love so dearly, I have free time! Recital came off well, with the only major mishap being one girl cutting her finger open rather badly on the stage and getting blood all over her (green) costume. I, however, called my SuperSeamstress! Mother and inquired how to get it out, and it was successful. I was insanely jealous of my old tap class, because they did "Siamsa" from Lord of the Dance in the traditional style! Last year we were Flamenco dancers, which was still awesome, but...it was Irish dancing!

My accomplishment for this week: I finished Chapter Four!!!!!!! (in a way)

5, 6, 7, 8!

2007-06-07T23:50:07Z

My old dance studio's recital is this weekend, so in honour of it I made a new thing. *points to icon* (Yes, those are my feet.) I'm working backstage, so I won't be able to come to the library to post or anything, which is sad. However, I may have time to write, and actually finish Chapter Four. It shouldn't be taking me so long...I know exactly what happens! It's my new character making problems, I think. I haven't quite decided who he is yet.

Must run...apparently storms are coming!