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Saturday, February 1, 2003

So, S. came over tonight for dinner, S. my dear old ex whom I haven't seen in a couple of months. He was, as always, loquacious, charming, full of stories, though many of them were about the illnesses and decline of those older than us (parents, relatives) and the egregious fuckwittedness of those younger than us (stepchildren, nieces/nephews). He and I are in the midlife lull, that becalmed stretch reaching into the 50s, while on both sides of us the other generations, those preparing to leave life and those just launching into it, are doing so with a fair amount of tumult and neediness.

He talked for a while about F., the woman he's been living with for a number of years now, and in between tales of how her father is lapsing into Alzheimer's and her son is back in drug rehab after blowing his parole, he said that he and F. are going to get married in July. I found myself immensely happy for him--for both of them--and terribly touched by this act of ... I don't know what to call it--faith? ordinary humanity? When S. and I were together, there was never any thought of marriage between us, we were young and reckless and all defying-of-convention. But we're older now, and I feel a deep gladness that he's found something he feels willing to anchor to, or rest upon. And he, in turn, seemed very happy to hear about my prospects of total life upheaval, and promised to come visit me, if I do get the job.

There are times when I think I've screwed up most of the things life has put in my path, but one thing I remain proud of, one thing I've managed to accomplish with some degree of grace, is this movement from being partners and lovers to being good friends. We don't see each other often, but there's a lovely mellowness between us, when we do meet, a kind of ease and comfort that I have with no one else. And I keep thinking that's no small accomplishment.

I don't regret that we broke up, all those years ago; it freed us each to take new directions in life, and those new directions have, on the whole, gone well. No regrets. But I'm terribly happy that we've been able to stay good friends, and to know that we'll always matter to each other. I find myself thinking Adulthood is a wonderful, wonderful thing, on those occasions when one manages to actually achieve it.

And I am quite flown with wine, and shall now stagger into bed. Busy day tomorrow, and Sunday, I'm off to Seattle, in search of new adventures *g*.

Posted @ 01:25 AM CST [Link]2 comments

Thursday, January 30, 2003

So I've been more than a bit stressed lately about the impending interview, possible move, etc., and doing a lot of the hand-to-forehead "Oh my life is so complex" thing lately. And then today I get an e-mail from one of my advisees--an extraordinarily bright young man, double neuroscience/philosophy major, who's also in the military--saying his unit's being deployed, leaving Monday, and he needs to be withdrawn from all his classes. And all of a sudden my own small anxieties resume their proper significance in the grand scheme of things, which is to say negligible.

I haven't had anyone I know personally sent into combat since Vietnam. I'm still wanly hoping it doesn't come to that, again, but such hopes seem foolish at this point. I don't really know what unit this guy is in, so I can't track what's happening with him, but I'll be thinking of him, and wondering. He was preparing to apply to medical school. Did I mention extraordinarily bright? And twenty years old--everything still in front of him.

So, anyway. Less bitching about trivia from me, at least for a while.

Posted @ 11:06 AM CST [Link]2 comments

Monday, January 27, 2003

[Scene: Superbowl viewing party, at brother's house. Kat and utterly-non-slash-conscious sister-in-law are sitting on sofa, both with a considerable margarita buzz on.]

S-i-l: Whoa. That one player ... just kissed ... that other player.

Me: (sententiously) There is, in fact, a profound and palpable homoerotic subcurrent in professional football, what with all the manly ... bonding ... between, uh, manly men.

[pause]

S-i-l: You mean, uh ... like in "Wild Wild West"?

Me: [falls off sofa spluttering with laughter]

Posted @ 12:01 PM CST [Link]3 comments

Sunday, January 26, 2003

Well, while my entire life is on hold--waiting for the job interview, waiting to see if I'm going to move my entire life across country, waiting for beta comments on the story--I figure, why not leap into the roiling waters of the RPF debate? Ha-HAH!

No, actually, I'm not going to talk about my personal opinions of RPF; it's not something I have strong feelings about one way or the other. But what strikes me is that while this whole issue tends to get cast as a black/white, either/or kind of thing, it's actually much more of a continuum; and I would find it more useful, not to mention more interesting, if in discussing it people tended less to draw battle lines, and more to delve into where on that continuum their comfort zone lies.

Let me (try to) explain, by sketching some points on this continuum, as I see them:

Point A: Fantasies about actors; stuff that stays purely in one's head, unshared. OK, if you try to tell me you've never fantasized about actors, I'll be surprised; interested, but surprised, since I've never known a fan who doesn't from time to time. These can be very innocuous fantasies (e.g. "So I'm visiting Vancouver, and go to Starbuck's, and whoa! Callum Keith Rennie gets in line behind me! And instead of melting into a gushy puddle, I say something sharp and funny that still manages to convey my admiration for his work, and he seems pleased, and then we go our separate ways."). They can be not so innocuous ("...so then he invites me back to his place so we can talk some more, and whoa! he has a hot tub! and ..."). They can veer into the most florid Mary-Sueishness. Or they might not involve the fan in question at all, but rather involve actor A and actor B together, in anything from wholesome off-camera camaraderie to torrid sex. The point is, they're fantasies, I'm sure we all have them from time to time, and they stay private.

Point B: Sharing these fantasies. Say, with another fan, over drinks late one night at a con, usually with much giggling and silliness. Again, I'm betting many of us have done this from time to time. Once we've put these fantasies into words and made them public, even if only by sharing them with one other person, something has changed; they're no longer strictly private. We've begun telling a story. Often, usually, it goes no further than that--fun amongst friends, quickly evaporating.

Point C: We write these fantasies down, in a more or less coherent narrative, however brief or silly--maybe in a private journal, or an unshared document. However, just as putting a fantasy into shared speech changes it somewhat, makes it a more public act, so putting it into written words concretizes it still further. It makes your fantasy into a story. It *is* a story, a piece of RPF, even if you never share it with anyone.

Point D: Sharing what you've written with a few select friends, via e-mail or on a private list. At this point, the story not only exists but is public. However much you may trust your friends, you can't guarantee that you'll retain control over where that story goes; it's now a public phenomenon.

Point E: Sharing what you've written more widely; putting it on a website or in your LJ or wherever, with disclaimers and warnings and meta robots tags to block search engines and so on.

Point F: Putting your story on a website without any blocks or warnings.

Point G: Taking steps to draw attention to your story, by giving copies to the actors involved, or sending them the URL, or whatever.

Now -- having sketched this continuum, I think it's safe to say that even the most morally scrupulous among us would have a hard time getting very bothered by Point A. It's in your head, it's fantasy, and hey, we all do it, right? And who's it going to harm?

On the other hand, I think most (though not all) of us have major issues with Point G, for reasons I don't need to recapitulate here.

But all of it, really, at every point on the continuum, is, when you come down to it, real-people fiction. We're making up stories about actual human beings, fantasizing about others' private lives or selves.

The question is: where's the cutoff line? Where's *your* cutoff line? How far along that continuum are you comfortable going, and where do you start to feel squicky, and why? And is it different when you're reading and when you're writing?

Posted @ 06:39 PM CST [Link]4 comments

So. I had the conversation with P., about the impending job interview, and that went ... so very, very, not well.

And now I believe I am going to treat my brain to a massive infusion of brandy, enough to temporarily stifle the black dog that's sitting in the corner, telling me that I am an evil, selfish and contemptible person. And so to bed.

Except that I'm moved (with the brandy kicking in) to append here a poem that I posted here a couple of years ago, one that I really sort of wanted to use somehow as an epigraph for the soon-to-be-posted story, but which feels apropos tonight on a number of levels:

In the sludge drawer of animals in arms,
Where the legs entwine to keep the body warm
Against the winter night, some cold seeps through--
It is the future: say, a square of stars
In the windowpane, suggesting the abstract
And large, or a sudden shift in position
That lets one body know the other's free to move
An inch away, and then a thousand miles.
And after that, even intimacy
Is only another form of separation.

"Rules of Sleep," Howard Moss

Posted @ 01:52 AM CST [Link]3 comments