Mar. 2nd, 2010

I'm a massive freaking nerd. I mean, this really shouldn't come as a surprise, but sometimes I surprise even myself.

I've been working on my Enochian.

This involves reading lots of rather dry and irritating pseudo-linguistics, like Towards an Enochian Grammar, and An Essay on the Pronunciation of Enochian, as well as deciding whether or not the alphabet consists of 21 or 24 characters, and interpreting the idea that it's "usually" written left-to-right as meaning that it doesn't have to be (which seems to be the case if you're writing in geometric shapes, like when you're seeking the Abyss Experience, and I am not making this shit up.) Also, the only linguist who seems to have worked on this is named Donald Laycock. I am not making this up, either. I think he probably became a linguist to understand how he got saddled with such an unfortunate name, which still reduces me to 12-year-old giggles every time I read it. Basically, he says that Enochian isn't a language, and shares traits with more run-of-the-mill glossolalia, but that's not nearly as much fun as a secret angelic script. Plus, what does he know, his last name is Laycock.

In a moment of caffeine-fueled insanity last night, I even stumbled across Enochian Sudoku, proving, as Terry Pratchett would say, that there's nothing really damn stupid humans won't do.

(I know that I should instead be working on learning more Spanish than I need to understand basic dirty jokes from the guys in the kitchen. However, Spanish is useful and real and therefore not nearly as appealing.)

Even more caffeine later, I had decided that since Castiel was an Angel of Thursday and also of November, he was the Angel of Thanksgiving, which got me thinking all sorts of things about how he would speak sternly against the genocide of Native people and push Indigenous People's Day. Also, I am customarily hungover on Thursdays, since they are my Saturdays in the wonderful world of working at a bar and the day that I usually don't train. So when I'm lying there muttering to myself Never again will I combine four shots of whiskey with that many vodka tonics and I really shouldn't have picked that fight by playing "Legs" three times in a row on the jukebox and then beating the annoyed gentleman in question at darts, Castiel is listening!

Anyway. Time to go for a run, and then sit down and puzzle out some calls. Onward and upward.
Back in the day, I was talking to my poetry professor. (It was one of the conversations we had that was actually about poetry instead of gardening, which turned out to be our other shared passion.) I told him that I couldn't hear my prose. I thought it was okay, but I wasn't ever sure.

That's because you're a poet, he said, and shrugged, and we went back to discussing how to use the metric ton of grape tomatoes our vines had yielded that year.

I didn't know what he meant until I wrote this, which turned out to be a lullaby, a long-form sonnet, a love song. Or, y'know, 400 words of pretentious iambic prose, complete with alliteration and internal rhyme. I've read it out loud a million times, I have a sore throat, and I'm done trying to figure it out.

As always (and especially here), all feedback ranging from "huh" to "wtf srsly" is welcome.

Title: Flicker
Author: [ profile] xaara
Rating: PG
Timeline: season 5-ish (no spoilers)
Characters: Dean/Castiel
Summary: His charge, who sings the songs of sirens

Flicker )



May 2010


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