Welcome to Gaia! ::

I love this image: "spilling you forth with the blood of warriors".

I'm not sure I could even say why, but I think it's fantastic. X3

Alright, this one's kind of a cop-out, but other people have posted very short entries and personal nonfiction, so I don't feel too bad about it.





I've written something like 5000 words, at least, all just directionless ranting to try and ease my mood. It hasn't worked. I feel awful. I feel beaten down and raw, and there's nothing I can retreat to that gives me any comfort. Except earlier today, I saw something, just a generic post referencing a relatively old interview.

To set this up, an interviewer brings up the "god of the gaps" argument, the idea that if science can't explain something, then GOD. No, that isn't an error of grammar, though it is an error of logic. In response, Neil deGrasse Tyson replies, "If that's how you want to invoke your evidence for God, then God is an ever-receding pocket of scientific ignorance."

Such a simple idea, one I've probably heard a hundred times, but this repetition came at just the right moment. The words "ever-receding" resonated in my mind, and for a moment, I felt warm. I felt comforted.

I am grateful for Mr. Tyson and those like him, for the words they say, sometimes in casual passing, that shine out like a light in so much endless night. I am grateful, because some days, I feel I hang on to hope by a very thin thread, and those moments, those words, are new threads reaching down.

The future may not be as rosy as Mr. Tyson implies, but at least I'm reminded that the possibility still exists.

Out of all you've posted, 004, 007, and 013 are my favorites. 004 because you didn't want to just give up, 007 because of your different take on the phrase (which was a really interesting turn, by the way; I love different interpretations of phrases).

But 013... The way you put the words together is amazing. You said you wrote it backwards, so that's the way I read it first, starting at the bottom line and working up. Then I read it the way you posted it. And, although it may just be a happy coincidence, it's still moving through both readings.

Sorry it took so long to post again. I had a touch of writer's block (aka depression) and then was busy worrying over my main project. This challenge just became too frustrating. It's meant to keep me writing, not meant to stress me out as I desperately try to fit in my serious writing around it. Also, PMS hasn't been posting, and I lose interest quickly when I'm left alone. XD


Context: This is from the world of Bridget, Caleb, Cody and Roxy. Different characters again. Here we have Daniel, codename 'Shark', international soldier and freelance agent invited out to the private island of Julian Price, owner of just about everything. (Imagine if 1 of 6 mega-corporations bought out 4 others. Yeah.)



It took nearly two hours for Daniel to drive from his posh hotel -- presidential suite, reserved for his arrival -- to Xanadu, the artifical island state of Julian Price. A nation unto itself, it paid no taxes, answered no law but its own, a libertarian wet dream, and Daniel ought to know. He'd spent more than few nights sweating in desire of it.

That was before Yaozu, before all the talk of compassion and community, before he started to really see poverty instead of just blinking past it. Now he voted progressive and hid his money in offshore accounts in case the taxes ever rose. Was the hypocrisy better than sincere greed? Even Price made his charitable donations every year. 'PR dollars,' the man had said, 'Work in the measurements of the poor. You spend ten dollars out of a billion, and they love you as if you spent the rest.'

The Porsche Spyder hummed beneath him, top down and the sea breeze ruffling his hair. Sunlight glinted off the rippling water, as if the waves were diamond-encrusted, and in the distance, a pod of dolphins breached. They were safer here, in the waters owned by Price, not because the old man cared for them but because he didn't permit military tests or drilling anywhere near Xanadu. So maybe the rich were good for something, after all.

Daniel smiled and turned up the stereo, indulging in a little classic rock as he covered the last mile of bridge. Black-clad guards met him at the gate, their uniforms a style he recognized from the disbanded Xe. Mercenaries, well-trained, well-paid. While they ran his invitation and verified his identity, he imagined ways of killing them, of slipping past the various defenses from the island's rim to the inner sanctums. It wasn't anything he intended to try -- pretty much all scenarios ended in death -- but it was a habit he'd fallen into, the immediate response to all places tight and secretive.

"Here you go." A guard returned the invite card. "Mr. Price is waiting at the main villa. You need a map?"

"No. I've been there." Daniel slid his sunglasses back on and pulled away. He continued to watch the men in the rearview mirror until they were out of sight. Never trust a mercenary, especially the old Xe. For that matter, never trust anyone who employed them.

He passed through a farm, fields full of organic crops. The agriculture of Xanadu was capable of feeding its entire population, while an assortment of energy strategies provided all they could need. Price had his hands in nearly 3/4 of all oil sales, yet his own island shunned the stuff. That should tell you something.

After the farm came residential streets, well-kept lawns and designer homes, kids playing soccer in an empty patch of field. Some of Julian's brightest minds and closest allies lived here, enjoying the patronage of Price, their benevolent monarch. Benevolent provided they never crossed him. That was always the part that turned Daniel off. He had an open invitation to join the Xanadu nation, but he was pelagic by nature, prone to driving or flying whenever the urge struck, and he'd grown accustomed to the Defender clearance which let him do it.

Past statues and fountains, little shops and cafes along cobblestone streets. Heads lifted as he went by. A gas engine like the Spyder's was rare, especially in town. He felt like shouting, 'I buy fair trade and have a solar home, so piss off.' When they invented an electric convertible with the speed and performance of his baby, he'd think about switching. Until then, pollution be damned.

At last the town ended, and he drove the final thoroughfare, seeing the manmade hills dotted by science domes, wind turbines and a herd of grazing deer. In the distance, the ocean's glittery edge winked between the hills. Maybe someday, Daniel thought, when Price finally stopped propping up the US economy and let the place collapse, maybe Daniel would consider a place here. Then again, the UAE had better parties.

With a laugh, he revved the engine and raced the last stretch to the gate.



The main 'villa' was more like a palace, boldly striking with its ornate windows, columnades, arches and stairways weaving through the several segments of the whole. Domes and garden balconies accented the style, a mix of ecomodern and barqoue styles

Margot met him at the door, dressed smartly in a white suit and tie. He gave her the barest nod, which she didn't return, and fell into step behind her. She was the type of woman -- no-nonsense, efficient and lacking in creativity -- who'd fought her way to the upper echelon of personal assistantship. That placed her squarely in the zone of no-use to him, not that she cared in the slightest. She wasn't clever enough to realize all the ways he could have helped her, if he had incentive.

The servants were another matter. Cooks, maids, groundskeepers, he knew many of them -- some more intimately than others. From the shadows of a hall, Inez gave a tiny wave with her fingers as he passed, and he flashed her a seductive smile.

"There are brothels for that sort of thing, Mr. Leucas," Margot said coldly, her voice sending Inez fleeing down the hall. "You weren't called here to play with the help."

"Of course," he said with good humour. "Just being friendly."

She sniffed with derision, and he chuckled at her misperception. Even as a teen, he'd seen the value of the overlooked and made it a point to stay on good terms with any working class staff. They often had wider access and a better understanding of what went on than the higher-ranking yes-men and assistants, and their alliances could be much more flexible.

Margot directed him to a balcony, where Julian sat at a little table, its wrought iron frame curvy and white. A mostly finished breakfast tray sat to one side, leaving room for a tablet and a cup of tea. With her charge delivered, Margot turned and disappeared.

"My dear Shark, so good to see you." Julian motioned him to the other chair. "The tea isn't quite hot but still high quality, a Darjeeling blend."

Daniel poured a cup for the sake of politeness, though the fragile china felt strange in his group. He'd gotten too attached to the handleless cups Yaozu had filled the cupboards with.

"I take it I'm late," he said of the lukewarm tea. It really was a good blend, and he took a long taste while observing his host. By the wrinkles, you might place him at sixty or so, but Daniel knew it was nearly two decades beyond that. Surgery and luxury treatments had been kind, though Daniel still shuddered to think of the day when his own good looks truly began to fade. Already, he detected a hint of sagging, and seeing a face like Julian's, the white hair resting lazily against the pasty folds of skin, was both a great boost to his own ego and a terrifying reminder of time's inevitable crawl.

Julian smiled, and his hazel eyes twinkled with the intelligence of a mind too sharp to be trapped in such a failing body. With a touch of teasing, he said, "I appreciate how quickly you come when I call."

Like a well-trained dog, that's what he was implying, but Daniel wouldn't be ruffled by such a minor insult. When you played the game as he did, you knew how to smile and let the other party feel smug. Although, in this case, Julian really was the one in control, making it less of a game and more of a dance. Stay nimble and you might survive.

He flashed a charming smile. "Sharks tend to show up when there's bait in the water."

Julian reached into a pocket, then tossed forward a roll of bills that Daniel caught with ease. As he thumbed through it -- 15k, a lot for simple 'bait' -- the smell of the paper and ink wafted up, that characteristic scent that only came with money. He actually salivated, then cursed himself for the weakness, but a shark couldn't deny it's nature. Like a drop of blood floating in the current, this promised a greater meal ahead.

"So what's the scenario?" Daniel asked. "Data recovery? Obstacle removal?"

Julian lifted his cup and took a long sip, his eyes casting out over the ocean. Waiting was another part of the game, like a dog with a biscuit on its nose, you just had to sit and wait for the man in charge to get his silly kick.

"I can't really answer that," Julian said at last. "What I have in mind is far too complex."

Daniel leaned over the table and narrowed his eyes. "What, exactly, do you have in mind?"

"All we ever do is talk business, curt and clean." He took another sip. "But life is so much more than what you shoot or retrieve. Indulge an old man in some conversation, won't you?'

'We need to talk.' They say those words are never good, and as Daniel leaned back in his seat, he knew something big was occuring. The world always managed to change on the most pleasant, unassuming days, and if there was one thing he'd learned, it was that the outcome could never be predicted. Hang on, little fish. The current is about to get rough.

Julian was still waiting for an agreement, a sign that the situation was understood and negotiations could proceed. Willing his body to stay relaxed, Daniel said, "I don't suppose someone could bring me a bourbon."

"Bourbon on the beach. At three in the afternoon. Your roots are showing." Julian smiled and lifted a phone, sending a quick order down to the kitchen. Then he set the phone down, took a deep breath of satisfaction and said, "Tell me, how do you like the presidential suite?"



* I actually wrote a bunch more of their actual conversation, which revolved around the value of wealth and youth and so on. That's what I originally wanted to talk about with the prompt, but the conversation was long and choppy, and I didn't feel like finishing it, so I decided to just post this intro bit. >_>;

* I am bullshitting quite heavily on the architecture. XD

Excuses, excuses. Even with reliable internet, you'd be busy. =P

The challenge is going terrible. sweatdrop Not that I don't write every day, but that I can't always be bothered to come up with something coherent enough for the challenge on top of my other writing. If only I could do 100 word drabbles... D=

And yet, I've got this nagging desire to make a Tarot Challenge, like I've got room for anything more. rolleyes



"Trying" being the important word, right. xp I've been planning for several projects now and still don't think I'm doing it right. It's funny, because you'd think "Oh, planning. psh. I know how to do that," and then I get to the project and think, "OMG, I'm so unprepared!" XD

I'm so not ready for Suwrimos. I don't want to start an outline, because once I do, my brain will switch entirely to the new novel, so I need to finish this one first, but it's making me sad, cause I want to move on, already. D=

And yet I've been working (procrastinating?) on world details, "magic" and divination, religion, timeline, families, etc. I really need to get them solidifed so I can make sure everything is consistent. I have this fear that I'll finish the book, put it out, then need to change a major detail... gonk

I'm sorry. This post nothing to do with irony, although I threw the word in to try and pretend. In reality, when I think Irony, all I can picture is that episode of Futurama where Bender points out how everyone uses the word wrong. sweatdrop

I guess Futurama made me think Robot Devil which somehow led to this. I dunno. I love the first two stanzas, and the rest feels more like filler to make it seem more full. >_>; But I'm behind on the challenge (again) and I don't want to spend days wracking my brain for something actually irony related. Gomen ne.



They say a woman rides the beast, sex astride virility.
Her cup is filled. The womb, it overflows.

Thou shalt have no other than the One Creator -
a jealous God, let the record show.

Absurdity wrapped in tragic irony.
They love the sinner with fire and stone.

They wage the fight, they say 'for life!'.
Keep the fetus, let the woman go.

Nature is the flaw, opposition to God's law.
Silence, woman, you could never know.

Crowd the Earth, deny its worth.
Apocalypse will take them home.

When the righteous fly to heaven,
we may find some peace down here below.




*sweet marmalade, this poem is bad. I weep for its badness. gonk