my heart is a glorious machine;

I've been meaning to do this meme for some time (nicked from last_archangel), but I wanted to fill the empty slots in my icons first. I am currently a bit stuck in the Novel -- started the fourth chapter and realised I have no idea what to do with it -- so perhaps a little fictionplay will reconnect the wires in my head? I hope so. 

P.S. I am faintly disturbed -- or is it amused? -- by the fact that all of my fictional relationships seem to have their roots in Remus/Tonks. I mean, first off, there's Ian Braddock, reclusive teacher, in love with cheerful, clumsy, neon-haired Tuesday Aiken; and then we have Mr Caruthers, who probably would argue that he is too old, too poor, and too dangerous for Evy (I almost want to make him say at at some point, for the in-joke hilarity of it all), plus there's this whole awkward mess in the sequel (AAAARGH) in which there is a War, and he has to go do dangerous undercover stuff probably with vampires, which makes him distance himself from Evy -- For Her Own Good!, and nearly has a nervous breakdown, and someone probably has to operate on him to remove his nobility gland or something. (Of course by this time they are married, so it's more like a cross between Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows, except they don't die at the end. Or look like they died but totally didn't I mean look JKR wrote that they looked as though they were sleeping she definitely did not use the word "dead" I MEAN COME ON.)

That's not even counting that I have two-thirds of an idea for a story (mostly images and snatches) about John and Emily Lewis and how they manage their marriage and his lycanthropy...

Today my bicycle finally acquired a name.

I spent much of the afternoon at the library with Sarah, Hannah, and Victoria (Alessandra left yesterday to spend Pascha -- Orthodox Easter -- in Maine with her family), except for the part I spent doing yard-work (not entirely voluntarily, but Sarah and Hannah stopped to chat after church and Caroline stopped to chat and play with Leandra whilst walking her dogs), and the other part I spent running an errand to get sugar, and ask about hair dyeing materials at Sally's. The errandy bit was interesting, as it involved me on a bicycle dodging things and being berated roundly by the-voice-in-my-head (which has weirdly taken on many characteristics of Spike's; don't even ask) and, alack, getting my first tan of the season. I shall have to be more vigilant with the sunscreen after this.

Anyway, I attained a bag of sugar and rode downtown to the library with the bag dangling off my handlebars and thudding awkwardly hither and thither. I had my satchel with me, of course, but it was full to bursting with hardcover books for the library, and therefore not much help. We met up in the midst of the stacks and poked books at each other and were not very good at being quiet. I found some stray books, and Sarah found an Angel novelisation which amused us greatly. Later we wandered downstairs to watch the children while Mrs M went to the supermarket, with Sarah and some assorted youngsters. Hannah and Victoria and I somehow got onto the topic of The Death Of Moony The iPod, or The Cruel Murder Of Moony The iPod, depending on whom one asks, which turned into plotting out a murder mystery game in which we solve the mystery of Moony's untimely death and pretend to be other people and have silly names (I am Winifred Partridge, grieving -- so far as we know -- fiancée of the late Irving Podsworth; also I am probably a vampire, which is wont to cause trouble as the late Mr Podsworth was, as most of you know, a wereipod werewolf). Frodo-the-action-figure, for reasons only partially known, is a major participant in the proceedings.

There was then the traditional migration to Hockman's, and, as we headed out the door, several of us said "Quickly, to the Angelmobile, away!" nearly in unison, which resulted in a group effort to quote the entire monologue from memory. ("And prancing away like a magnificent poof is truly thanks enough!") Hopping aboard my bicycle, I had an epiphany, and cried out, "I've got it! I've been trying to name my bicycle for ages, and from now on, it shall be known as -- THE ANGELMOBILE!" Agreement and hilarity ensued. (And it's all true. I've been scrambling after a name for some time, as I've got to call it something when I'm shouting at it. I thought briefly about Serenity, but my bicycle could only be called such by the blackest of irony, as it has attempted to kill me on several occasions. The Angelmobile suits its crotchety personality and delusions of grandeur, and my sense of geekery and fangirlism OH SHUT UP.) This distraction enabled us to lose Sarah, who called a minute or two later from Hockman's scolding us for not being there. We scolded her for not being here, and I managed the feat of bicycling one-handed while eating an apple: rather suavely, I might add.

Then we bought a lot of chocolate, and the following dialogue also ensued.


Then someone got to singing "Early One Morning" and I put my hands over my ears and attempted to eat Victoria. We're a lot of ridiculous geeks, we are. (Fortunately, so are the proprietors of Hockman's, so they aren't terribly worried.)

I bicycled home quite happily (despite "Rest in Peace" remaining firmly lodged in my head, forcing me to sing it out loud all the way home), satisfied with having had a great deal of exercise, and cosied up with a book and my newfound chocolate and the window wide open with the breeze coming in and Solas' live album (preparation!), with breaks in between to bake peanut butter cookies and eat some of them.

I am very fond of Saturdays.

Right, so, what does it say about me that I have spent substantial periods of time figuring out how best to make a record player work by magic? -- Look, it really wouldn't be that difficult; isn't the main way a record player works is by rotating, and the needle scratching along the surface of the record? (I have not actually seen very many record players in action.) In that case, one would simply have to charm it to go round, yeah?

...Yeah.


In other news, a very happy (and somewhat belated even on this side of the world) birthday to ressie_noldo , who is v. spiffing. ♥

I'm a bit overdue on this one, but -- comment and I will name you 3 interests from your list, and 3 userpics, and you explain them in your own post, asking the same of your f-listers.


And today was a good day. I bicycled to my guitar lesson in spectacular weather, thereby getting some much-needed exercise (and sun!), and then I stopped by Rosie's Bookshop on my way home and was redeemed for That One Time when they had two copies of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell and I didn't purchase either of them because there was a new copy on the shelf and it is now mine (!!!). (I will have to post about the book when I am finished re-reading because it is amazing and possibly the only book that comes close to being comparable to Tolkien in any substantial way.) I also found The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (!!!) and a new copy of Anne of the Island (mine has pages missing, and the book itself might actually have finally got itself lost, as it is not in my bedroom nor the box with M-authored books in the basement), and got a little sack of chocolates, and made cupcakes when I got home (cupcakes that were not sour).

I saw Padfoot again today, being walked by a large bloke with absolutely no hair at all by the large, tangley hill directly behind my house. He was sniffing something. Perhaps I dropped something? He's trying to find me, I know it. After he finds me, I haven't any idea what he wants to do, seeing as he can't speak while trapped in dog form, and I have no...anything. Especially not tickets to London. (Then again, if Remus lives in my closet...) 

And who's the bald bloke, and how does he play in? (He could be someone completely random that happened to pick a bedraggled-looking dog off the road, but that's not interesting enough!) Are there American Death Eaters? (Um. No.) Or has he noticed the dog's proficiency for crossword puzzles and is exploiting him at fairs and things?

Er. Yes. I have gone quite, quite far off the deep end. I am swimming in the middle of the ocean, practically. But this is the best. conspiracy. theory. ever. (And it wants to be fic. I'm not sure if I'm ready for that yet. *cowers* That, and Ted/Andromeda angst-fluff set to 'All You Need Is Love'. Which I have been humming all day.)

In other news, I have stripey stockings (green and black, and I only just realised what a Slytherin I must look--all in black, except for the stockings!), and the medallion from Pirates of the Caribbean, because I am a geeky fangirl. Soon, I will have black and white and red and white stripey stockings. I also bought an orange-green-yellow-brown plaid scarf that looks like a relic from the seventies (we've pictures of Dad in trousers just like it!), and I will pretend that it used to be Sirius'. Er. 

It is also very nippy and rainy today, and there are beginning to be great splotches of orange on some of the trees, and I have been alternating between Prisoner of Azkaban, Beowulf, and the first volume of Simon Schama's History of Britain all day, which has made for a pretty cheery day.

I am attempting to come up with something really scintillating and fascinating to write here.

(Drawing a blank.)

So, um, does Sirius Satelite Radio and its alleged omnipresence, omnipotence, and general mind-reading ability (as displayed in the television commercials, albeit discounted) have anything at all to do with my Sirius theories? At all? Because can't you see Sirius thinking one day: "I'm bored. I think I will start a company. With the proceeds, I can probably fund my hunt for the Other Curtain and my other selves." (Businessman!Sirius is an irrationality all its own, so we will just ignore that part. Even if it is desperately amusing.)

I do believe that I am being haunted by the ghost of Sirius Black. 

Of course, that would mean that he is actually dead, and I am still clinging to the hope that he is simply lost, hiding, or stuck. Or something. In any case, he is trying to contact me. I am sure of this. 


In conclusion: yes, he isn't dead. But why is he contacting me? I mean, me, of all people! I can't even drive! If I write about him, it will always be angsty! I own a cat! I don't have enough money to ship him off to England where he belongs and hopefully has god-grandchildren. Or something. (Furthermore, what the bloody plague is he doing in my small, insignificant Pennsylvania town? Twice?)