No, James! Everybody who knows me know that I love your movies and I love you as an actor. You're one of the best of your generation. You're witty, you're talented and you're smart. But James... sometimes it's just NO. Simply NO.
I'm sorry but this is just not literature in my book... Not by any mean...
Bungalow 89 - a short story by James Franco on Vice.
Why did you do that? (sigh...)
Showing posts with label English. Show all posts
Showing posts with label English. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Sunday, April 06, 2014
They reminded me... it's time
TJ & Eric's is a very moving story. TJ's newest videos are much more moving than he may recognize. In front of you, the funniest person you've ever known of become an emotional guy. I almost couldn't recognize TJ anymore. His twinkling eyes, his "sunshine" smile, the carefree TJ... everything was replaced by an older, more mature version of a guy with the whole world on his shoulder to carry. Things happened (that's why I always stay away from books without happy endings, life's already difficult enough, I don't want my books to be that way, too). Luckily, they still have their friends, families and fans. Moment like this reminds me that faces behind the books are not just faces, they are real humans, no matter if they are an author, a book cover artist, a publisher, or a reader. We are all human with a real heart. And moment like this reminds me that people care, no matter what. And this community really rocks.
And this reminds me that I should not waste my time hanging around like that (lazy me). I'm back with my favourite book today and I want to at least work on it bit by bit everyday. I really want to introduce it with a new "shade of life". I have to start somewhere, sometime. And I've just pressed the start button. Keep an eye on my new project. Hope I can finish it one day (lazy me).
And this reminds me that I should not waste my time hanging around like that (lazy me). I'm back with my favourite book today and I want to at least work on it bit by bit everyday. I really want to introduce it with a new "shade of life". I have to start somewhere, sometime. And I've just pressed the start button. Keep an eye on my new project. Hope I can finish it one day (lazy me).
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Call me by your name - André Aciman (p115)
...
We left the bookstore and lit two cigarettes. A minute later we heard a loud metallic rattle. The owner was lowering the steel shutter. "do you really like to read that much?" she asked as we ambled our way casually in the dark toward the piazzetta.
I looked at her as if she had asked me if I loved music, or bread and salted butter, or ripe fruit in the summertime. "Don't get me wrong," she said. "I like to read too. But I don't tell anyone." At last, I thought, someone who speaks the truth. I asked her why she didn't tell anyone. "I don't know..." This was more her way of asking for time to think or to hedge before answering, "People who read are hiders. They hide who they are. People who hide don't always like who they are."
"Do you hide who you are?"
"Sometimes. Don't you?"
"Do I? I suppose." And then, contrary to my every impulse, I found myself stumbling into a question I might otherwise never have dared to ask. "Do you hide from me?"
...
---***---
So... Do I? I suppose...
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Call me by your name - André Aciman (p234)
...
How was I ever going to explain to him, or to myself, why I couldn't go to his home and meet his family, though every part of me was dying to? Oliver wife. Oliver sons. Oliver pets. Oliver study, desk, books, world, life. What had I expected? A hug, a handshakem a perfunctory hail-fellow-well-met, and then the unavoidable Later!?
The very possibility of meeting his family suddenly alarmed me--too real, too sudden, too in-my-face, not rehearsed enough. Over the years I'd lodged him in the permanent past, my pluperfect lover, put him on ice, stuffed him with memories and mothballs like a hunted ornament confabulating with the ghost of all my evenings. I'd dust him off from time to time and then put him back on the mantelpiece. He no longer belonged to earth or to life. All I was likely to discover at this point wasn't just how distant were the paths we'd taken, it was the measure of loss that was going to strike me--a loss I didn't mind thinking about in abstract terms but which would hurt when stared at in the face, the way nostalgia hurts long after we've stopped thinking of things we've lost and may never have cared for.
Or was it that I was jealous of his family, of the life he'd made for himself, of the things I never shared and couldn't possibly have known about? Things he had longed for, loved, and lost, and whose loss had crushed him, but whose presence in his life, when he had them, I wasn't there to witness and wouldn't know the first thing about. I wasn't there when he acquired them, wasn't there when he'd given up. Or was it much, such simplier? I had come to see if I felt something, if something was still alive. The trouble was I didn't want anything to be alive either.
All these years, whenever I thought of him, I'd think either of B. or of last days in Rome, the whole thing leading up to two scenes: the balcony with its attendant agonies and via Santa Maria dell'Anima, where he'd pushed me against the old wall and kissed me and in the end let me put one leg around his. Every time I go back to Rome, I go back to that one spot. It is still alive for me, still resounds with something totally present, as though a heart stolen from a tale by Poe still throbbed under tge abcient slate pavement to remind me that, here, I had finally encountered the life that was right for me but had failed to have. I could never think of him in New England. When I lived in New England for a while and was seperated from him by no more than fifty miles, I continued to imagine him as stuck in Italy somewhere, unreal and spectral. The places where he'd lived also felt inanimate, and as soon as I tried thinking of them, they too would float and drift away, no less unreal and spectral. Now, it turned out, not only were New England towns very much alive, but so was he. I could easily have thrust myself on him years ago, married or unmarried--unless it was I who, despite all appearances, had all along been unreal and spectral myself.
Or had I come with a far more menial purpose? To find him living alone, waiting for me, craving to be taken back to B.? Yes, both our lives on the same artificial respirator, waiting for that time when we'd finally meet and scale our way back to the Piave memorial.
...
---***---
Remember it? I once wondered when someone and I would be twenty years later. But I also knew at that time things would soon become long lost memories just in less than two years. I was right as I'd known. In comparison to what Oliver was for/to Elio, that man was nothing to me. He was just there when I suddenly had that question about future itself and he was just an object of the subject. But it was enough for me to have a small taste of what the matter itself really means to anyone who looks back to the past and recognizes how his life become with or without that other important part of himself.
...
How was I ever going to explain to him, or to myself, why I couldn't go to his home and meet his family, though every part of me was dying to? Oliver wife. Oliver sons. Oliver pets. Oliver study, desk, books, world, life. What had I expected? A hug, a handshakem a perfunctory hail-fellow-well-met, and then the unavoidable Later!?
The very possibility of meeting his family suddenly alarmed me--too real, too sudden, too in-my-face, not rehearsed enough. Over the years I'd lodged him in the permanent past, my pluperfect lover, put him on ice, stuffed him with memories and mothballs like a hunted ornament confabulating with the ghost of all my evenings. I'd dust him off from time to time and then put him back on the mantelpiece. He no longer belonged to earth or to life. All I was likely to discover at this point wasn't just how distant were the paths we'd taken, it was the measure of loss that was going to strike me--a loss I didn't mind thinking about in abstract terms but which would hurt when stared at in the face, the way nostalgia hurts long after we've stopped thinking of things we've lost and may never have cared for.
Or was it that I was jealous of his family, of the life he'd made for himself, of the things I never shared and couldn't possibly have known about? Things he had longed for, loved, and lost, and whose loss had crushed him, but whose presence in his life, when he had them, I wasn't there to witness and wouldn't know the first thing about. I wasn't there when he acquired them, wasn't there when he'd given up. Or was it much, such simplier? I had come to see if I felt something, if something was still alive. The trouble was I didn't want anything to be alive either.
All these years, whenever I thought of him, I'd think either of B. or of last days in Rome, the whole thing leading up to two scenes: the balcony with its attendant agonies and via Santa Maria dell'Anima, where he'd pushed me against the old wall and kissed me and in the end let me put one leg around his. Every time I go back to Rome, I go back to that one spot. It is still alive for me, still resounds with something totally present, as though a heart stolen from a tale by Poe still throbbed under tge abcient slate pavement to remind me that, here, I had finally encountered the life that was right for me but had failed to have. I could never think of him in New England. When I lived in New England for a while and was seperated from him by no more than fifty miles, I continued to imagine him as stuck in Italy somewhere, unreal and spectral. The places where he'd lived also felt inanimate, and as soon as I tried thinking of them, they too would float and drift away, no less unreal and spectral. Now, it turned out, not only were New England towns very much alive, but so was he. I could easily have thrust myself on him years ago, married or unmarried--unless it was I who, despite all appearances, had all along been unreal and spectral myself.
Or had I come with a far more menial purpose? To find him living alone, waiting for me, craving to be taken back to B.? Yes, both our lives on the same artificial respirator, waiting for that time when we'd finally meet and scale our way back to the Piave memorial.
...
---***---
Remember it? I once wondered when someone and I would be twenty years later. But I also knew at that time things would soon become long lost memories just in less than two years. I was right as I'd known. In comparison to what Oliver was for/to Elio, that man was nothing to me. He was just there when I suddenly had that question about future itself and he was just an object of the subject. But it was enough for me to have a small taste of what the matter itself really means to anyone who looks back to the past and recognizes how his life become with or without that other important part of himself.
...
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Call me by your name - André Aciman (p42)
...
His life, like his papers, even when it gave every impression of being chaotic, was always meticulously compartmentalized. Sometimes he skipped sinner altogether and would simply tell Mafalda, "Esco, I'm going out."
His Esco, I realized soon enough, was just another version of Later! A summary and unconditional goodbye, spoken not as you were leaving, but after you were out the door. You said it with your back to those who you were leaving behind. I felt sorry for those who on the receiving end who wished to appeal, to plead.
Not knowing whether he'd show up at the dinner table was torture. But bearable. Not daring to ask whether he'd be there was the real ordeal. Having my heart jump when I suddenly heard his voice or saw him seated at his seat when I'd almost given up hoping he'd be among us tonight eventually blossomed like a poisoned flower. Seeing him and thinking he'd join us for dinner tonight only to hear his peremptory Esco taught me there are certain wishes that must be clipped like wings iff a thriving butterfly.
I wanted him gone from our home so as to be done with him.
I wanted him dead, too so that if I couldn't stop thinking about him and worrying when would be the next time I'd see him, at least his death would put an end to it. I wanted to kill him myself, even, so as to let him know how much his mere existence had come to bother me, how unbearable his ease with everything and everyone, taking all things in stride, his tireless I'm-okay-with-this-and-that, his springing across the gate to the beach when everyone else opened the latch first, to say nothing of his bathing suits, his spot in paradise, his cheeky Later!, his lip-smacking love for apricot juice. If I didn't kill him, then I'd cripple him for life, so that he'd be with us in a wheelchair and never go back to the States. If he were in a wheelchair, I would always know where he was, and he'd be easy to find. I would feel superior to him and become his master, now that he was crippled.
Then it hit me that I could have killed myself instead, or hurt myself badly enough and let him know why I'd done it. If I hurt my face, I'd want him to look at me and wonder why, why might anyone do this to himself, until, years and years later--yes, Later!--he'd finally piece the puzzle together and beat his head against the wall.
...
---***---
I'll introduce you Call me by your name (by André Aciman) by putting paragraphs that I love so much here. I like this book a lot and can not giving me the freedom of reading as fast as usual. I just read line by line, paragraph by paragraph, page by page and pause long enough to devour each word. I really think of André Aciman as a master of using grammar as one of his effective methods. I like the way he blends the present tense and past tense into one mixture of a story line in which we can pick up easily his remaining emotion from the past and the present feeling which is still there, somehow even through 20 years of distance.
Someone once said time is just another dimension of space as in space has more than 3 dimensions. If you belive it, 20 years is a distance, really... but if you ever catch up with it again? Ever?... Again?...
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Thirteen Reasons Why - Jay Asher
It took more than 7 months since publishing to the day this book appeared on the bestsellers list of NYTimes. The book is strange in many aspects.
"Thirteen reasons why" is a story was told by 2 parallel storytellers, one on the way to find the truth about the death of a girl and the other is that deceased girl. At least, it's how it looks like from the beginning of the story, the day a mystery shoebox-sized package appeared against the front door with Clay's name scribbled on the wrapping.
Have you ever thought of "the other side of a story"? Have you ever wonder yourself what other people re-tell your same stories? Have you ever guessed what that boy/girl thinks about you in a particullar party in which you did wear a funny outlook? And have you ever thought about how your victim of picking-up at school suffer from your joke?
And have you ever asked this question "what if..."?
And what would you have done once 7 audiotapes appeared on your porch from a deceased girl who accused that if your were listening to the tapes, you were one of reasons why her life ended?
Runing away? From what?
Listening to the tape? For what? For making your life more miserable like hers? Or just to know? Or to make something better?
It's your choice. But once you start, you can not stop. The problem is the starting is not the day those tapes appeare on your porch. It was someday in the past... And you know that, you can not change what happened in the past...
I like the ending of this book and I like this whole book in common. It's more coming-of-age story than a romantic love story at the coming-of-age period of some teenagers in a small town. The story starts with a death of a young girl and close with hope for other lives. Even though it's like a very long journey from living to death, from ignorance to awareness about life, love, acceptance and - more important - self-awareness, the whole story is actually lasted some hours from the minute the box appeared to the end of the last tape. Somehow, I think that this story does not come to an end but actually is just the starting of a very new life for Clay. It likes the moment he opened the wrapping he also opened the door of his life, a life which is not bliss by arrogance anymore, but definitely happier.
I don't know if there is any publishing house in VN has the intention translating this book into Vietnamese or not. However, if you have the intermediate level of English, this book will make not much dificulty at all. The only problem reading this book is that you may feel a little bit confuse at first since you have parallel storytellers in stead of a traditional single storyteller one. However, after you make acquaintance with the characters, the whole book is really intrigued.
Highly recommended, especially for people with "what if..." problem and teenagers at the coming-of-age turnabout.
"Thirteen reasons why" is a story was told by 2 parallel storytellers, one on the way to find the truth about the death of a girl and the other is that deceased girl. At least, it's how it looks like from the beginning of the story, the day a mystery shoebox-sized package appeared against the front door with Clay's name scribbled on the wrapping.
Have you ever thought of "the other side of a story"? Have you ever wonder yourself what other people re-tell your same stories? Have you ever guessed what that boy/girl thinks about you in a particullar party in which you did wear a funny outlook? And have you ever thought about how your victim of picking-up at school suffer from your joke?
And have you ever asked this question "what if..."?
And what would you have done once 7 audiotapes appeared on your porch from a deceased girl who accused that if your were listening to the tapes, you were one of reasons why her life ended?
Runing away? From what?
Listening to the tape? For what? For making your life more miserable like hers? Or just to know? Or to make something better?
It's your choice. But once you start, you can not stop. The problem is the starting is not the day those tapes appeare on your porch. It was someday in the past... And you know that, you can not change what happened in the past...
I like the ending of this book and I like this whole book in common. It's more coming-of-age story than a romantic love story at the coming-of-age period of some teenagers in a small town. The story starts with a death of a young girl and close with hope for other lives. Even though it's like a very long journey from living to death, from ignorance to awareness about life, love, acceptance and - more important - self-awareness, the whole story is actually lasted some hours from the minute the box appeared to the end of the last tape. Somehow, I think that this story does not come to an end but actually is just the starting of a very new life for Clay. It likes the moment he opened the wrapping he also opened the door of his life, a life which is not bliss by arrogance anymore, but definitely happier.
I don't know if there is any publishing house in VN has the intention translating this book into Vietnamese or not. However, if you have the intermediate level of English, this book will make not much dificulty at all. The only problem reading this book is that you may feel a little bit confuse at first since you have parallel storytellers in stead of a traditional single storyteller one. However, after you make acquaintance with the characters, the whole book is really intrigued.
Highly recommended, especially for people with "what if..." problem and teenagers at the coming-of-age turnabout.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Twenty Something - Iain Hollingshead
The novel full title actually is too long and somehow too "documentary". Twenty Something: the quarter-life crisis of Jack Lancaster. Gross! Right? Else while, I think the translator of Vietnamese version is a too damn much sentimental lady since she gave it the name "Từng qua tuổi 20". The original title freaks me out for the documentary sense (believe me when I say that if I saw the book somewhere on my traveling days I would certainly pass by it first). And the Vietnamese version makes me think "just another sentimental love story". Fortunately, I was tempted by the author. I always kind of have this feeling for books written by male authors "I wanna give it a try. He's a guy who writes." And then I fall, hard...
Reviews say the book is hilarious. Trust me. It's far beyond just hilarious. I don't remember there has been any time I laugh that much reading a book. Frankly, I could hardly sit in the chair because I was too scared of falling down from laughing. And then, at the moment of tears, I hardly kept back my tears, too. However, the book is also far from sadness or depression. The moment is "the need" for the book as well as "the need" for any young one in life.
I like his choosing writing style. It's frankly, somehow too rude but also emotional, truthful, and really touching. I think the book maybe touch me for the fact that we (I mean the author and I) are the twenty something people and have same problems with our life, aka the emptiness of material life, the struggle searching for the meaning of life, the long way finding the love of life, etc. Oh, LIFE itself!
Searching information (and e-version, I admit it) of the book, I crashed into an article of Iain Hollingshead himself on Telegraph from back then 2006 (the first published year of the book). Ok. I think the guy has a great sense of humor not only for his books but his articles as well, you know, the way he accepted the "prize" himself.
Same main subject, somehow a lot alike characters, there are Duhless (aka Dukhless) and this Twenty Something. Else while Duhless leaves readers nothing for hope, Twenty Something is more optimistic (far beyond). I myself think that Twenty Something has a (somehow) cliché ending. And I think Duhless has more real, near-to-real-life ending (I love the book even though it also leaves me just the emptiness and ache). I have to admit that I also like the ending of Twenty Something since it leaves us hope and love and many more things to embrace.
Highly recommended.
And please take my warning of not sitting on a high chair reading this book seriously.
Reviews say the book is hilarious. Trust me. It's far beyond just hilarious. I don't remember there has been any time I laugh that much reading a book. Frankly, I could hardly sit in the chair because I was too scared of falling down from laughing. And then, at the moment of tears, I hardly kept back my tears, too. However, the book is also far from sadness or depression. The moment is "the need" for the book as well as "the need" for any young one in life.
I like his choosing writing style. It's frankly, somehow too rude but also emotional, truthful, and really touching. I think the book maybe touch me for the fact that we (I mean the author and I) are the twenty something people and have same problems with our life, aka the emptiness of material life, the struggle searching for the meaning of life, the long way finding the love of life, etc. Oh, LIFE itself!
Searching information (and e-version, I admit it) of the book, I crashed into an article of Iain Hollingshead himself on Telegraph from back then 2006 (the first published year of the book). Ok. I think the guy has a great sense of humor not only for his books but his articles as well, you know, the way he accepted the "prize" himself.
Same main subject, somehow a lot alike characters, there are Duhless (aka Dukhless) and this Twenty Something. Else while Duhless leaves readers nothing for hope, Twenty Something is more optimistic (far beyond). I myself think that Twenty Something has a (somehow) cliché ending. And I think Duhless has more real, near-to-real-life ending (I love the book even though it also leaves me just the emptiness and ache). I have to admit that I also like the ending of Twenty Something since it leaves us hope and love and many more things to embrace.
Highly recommended.
And please take my warning of not sitting on a high chair reading this book seriously.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Season One Suessian Poem - Vamphile @ insanejournal
Ok, we all assume that I'm not into poem (mostly). The fact is... I read poem (of course) and I sometimes write poem myself. I studied Literature, rite? So, it's not weird any little getting to know about that. The only problem is I do not regularly like "sentimental poem" and there are tons of that kind of poem. Then I quit. That's all.
Today I fortunately catch this one from the QaF fandom. I love it. And I introduce you all here.
You may reach the original version from the author - wonderful-vamphile-at-insanejournal - here (or simply click the title of this post). She has tons of other wonderful things you may love (or hate) too.
BTW, I have no idea what "Suessian" means.
Season One Suessian Poem
Michael:
You can fuck him in your loft
and let your friends just mock and scoff
You can fuck him at the zoo.
Or in the car… you know you do.
Fuck the kid where you might like
On the stationary bike
The back room at Babylon
You know I could go on and on
Make it special. Make it right
Or just call it an early night
He’ll blow you in a bathroom stall
You needn't fuck him e’er at all
But if you’re gonna do the deed
There’s only one thing that I need
Rim him on the fucking moon
But just don’t fuck him in my room.
Brian's Reply:
I fuck a lot of guys, I know.
Backrooms are fun, put on a show.
I’ll fuck the kid, he’s kind of sweet.
Forsake the rule of no repeats
He’ll blow me while I drive my car
Cause freaks like that is who we are
He’s hot as hell and smart as fuck
Michael your bullshit's run amok
You’ve got your life and I’ve got mine
I cast no blame, my sex life’s fine
I know you wanted something more
Not gonna happen… there’s the door.
So yes I’ll fuck him where I want
Sometimes you are such a cunt
And if he’s living with your mom
Your room is where we'll get it on
I love you and you’re my best friend
This stupid crush has got to end
For Justin I am breaking rules
Don’t bitch at me you fucking fool
If you want to stick around
Then know my bed’s where he’ll be found
And my shower and my couch
The kid can make me seem the slouch
It’s part of life we grow and change
You needn’t make it seem so strange
You’ve got Ben you’ve got your life
Be happy as professor’s wife
Justin and I are solid, damn
Just grow up and be a man
Believe it like the stars above
Accept that he’s the one I love.
Justin’s response
Bottom line is Michael's lame
I’ll let him play this childish game
I’m not threatened, anymore
He thinks he knows Brian’s core
Well I know Brian better still
What he won’t do, what he will
I know the spots that make him moan
I know his moods I know his tone
I know what makes him come too fast
and I know how to make it last
You say i'm just some dumb-ass twink
As if I care what you might think
I know what we have is more
It’s all that you were hoping for
I don’t think I can be more clear
I’m his twink and I’m still here.
Today I fortunately catch this one from the QaF fandom. I love it. And I introduce you all here.
You may reach the original version from the author - wonderful-vamphile-at-insanejournal - here (or simply click the title of this post). She has tons of other wonderful things you may love (or hate) too.
BTW, I have no idea what "Suessian" means.
Season One Suessian Poem
Michael:
You can fuck him in your loft
and let your friends just mock and scoff
You can fuck him at the zoo.
Or in the car… you know you do.
Fuck the kid where you might like
On the stationary bike
The back room at Babylon
You know I could go on and on
Make it special. Make it right
Or just call it an early night
He’ll blow you in a bathroom stall
You needn't fuck him e’er at all
But if you’re gonna do the deed
There’s only one thing that I need
Rim him on the fucking moon
But just don’t fuck him in my room.
Brian's Reply:
I fuck a lot of guys, I know.
Backrooms are fun, put on a show.
I’ll fuck the kid, he’s kind of sweet.
Forsake the rule of no repeats
He’ll blow me while I drive my car
Cause freaks like that is who we are
He’s hot as hell and smart as fuck
Michael your bullshit's run amok
You’ve got your life and I’ve got mine
I cast no blame, my sex life’s fine
I know you wanted something more
Not gonna happen… there’s the door.
So yes I’ll fuck him where I want
Sometimes you are such a cunt
And if he’s living with your mom
Your room is where we'll get it on
I love you and you’re my best friend
This stupid crush has got to end
For Justin I am breaking rules
Don’t bitch at me you fucking fool
If you want to stick around
Then know my bed’s where he’ll be found
And my shower and my couch
The kid can make me seem the slouch
It’s part of life we grow and change
You needn’t make it seem so strange
You’ve got Ben you’ve got your life
Be happy as professor’s wife
Justin and I are solid, damn
Just grow up and be a man
Believe it like the stars above
Accept that he’s the one I love.
Justin’s response
Bottom line is Michael's lame
I’ll let him play this childish game
I’m not threatened, anymore
He thinks he knows Brian’s core
Well I know Brian better still
What he won’t do, what he will
I know the spots that make him moan
I know his moods I know his tone
I know what makes him come too fast
and I know how to make it last
You say i'm just some dumb-ass twink
As if I care what you might think
I know what we have is more
It’s all that you were hoping for
I don’t think I can be more clear
I’m his twink and I’m still here.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Movies and books
Type: drabble
Muses: QaF, B/J drabbles, him
Words: exactly 100
Note: My first ever drabble. Inspiration from my talk with him about my current situation of not updating new movies.
~~~
He asked me if I watched some new movies yet.
“Not any. I have not watched any new one for about 3 months” – silently added in my head – “Only one series since after Tet Holidays, currently on my 3rd consecutive leg, totally addicted.”
“Anything wrong with you? 3 months and not any movie? How about books? Still reading?”
Bingo! Sometimes he just knew exactly what to ask me, movies and then books.
I told him nothing was wrong and I was hooking up with some English stuffs on net – not to mention that they all were actually B/J fics only.
P-052008
Muses: QaF, B/J drabbles, him
Words: exactly 100
Note: My first ever drabble. Inspiration from my talk with him about my current situation of not updating new movies.
~~~
He asked me if I watched some new movies yet.
“Not any. I have not watched any new one for about 3 months” – silently added in my head – “Only one series since after Tet Holidays, currently on my 3rd consecutive leg, totally addicted.”
“Anything wrong with you? 3 months and not any movie? How about books? Still reading?”
Bingo! Sometimes he just knew exactly what to ask me, movies and then books.
I told him nothing was wrong and I was hooking up with some English stuffs on net – not to mention that they all were actually B/J fics only.
P-052008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Black Bag - QaF fanfic
From the Justin Challenge of QaF Challenge asylum at Insanejournal.
You may also reach the story here.
Title: Black Bag
Author: vl_redreign
Rating: R, for language
Timeline: All seasons, specifically 507
Warnings: Angst?
Summary: “I hate that fucking duffle bag.”
Beta: firehead30
It all started with my mother and a black bag.
If you were to see my room at the house that upper middle class aspirations built, you’d think ‘what a spoiled brat’. I had everything a kid could ask for. Tons of shit. And for the last five years, my life consisted of a black bag. It had changed size and shape, but it was still a large black duffle, full of my ‘fucking underwear’, as Brian once said. Funny that he bitched about that, then proceeded to fuck me out of them.
My mother went to see Brian at his office, dropping off a bag, a check, and a reprimand. She couldn’t have picked a worse time or way to introduce herself. She didn’t understand that Brian wasn’t inclined to make it easy for me. In fact, his resolve to kick me out of his life for good grew even stronger with the presence of that damned bag. He didn’t, not right away. Seems he had a few more things to show me. Let it not be said that Brian Kinney does things halfway, especially when it comes to instructing one about the joys of fucking. I was an apt pupil, and I’m almost positive that I learned a new way to walk in those early days, so sore from the frequent plowing of my ass. But hey, who was I to complain? I had a Pavlovian response to Brian’s cock. As soon as I saw it, hard, wet and heavy, my ass was in the air like a cat in heat.
At that moment, I went from a kid with everything to a drifter with one bag to represent my then-seventeen years on this planet. It went from place to place, bed to sofa to bed and back again.
Sometime after entering PIFA, I acquired a black and blue messenger bag. Sometime after that, it became a plain black one. It held my hopes and dreams, much like the way the black duffle carried the few material things that were my own. The funny thing was, it didn’t bother me much. I’ve had to be ready to go at the drop of a hat ever since that night outside of Babylon, when my father gave me a choice. I picked the right one for me. It was only when I accompanied Brian back to his loft, watching him queen out over his face, that I realized that I might have been a bit hasty. It seemed that he cared more about the marring of his looks than the fact that I was now homeless. I changed my mind, however, after I pulled the worst sneak attack in history by attempting to crawl, unnoticed, into his bed. The fact that he merely held up the duvet for me to enter said more than his words ever would.
Not long after its arrival, the black bag was packed once again, hastily, as I ran from the wrath of Brian. It was inevitable, you know. Maybe he was feeling crowded. Back then, I really didn’t care about what he said so much. I’d already figured out that Brian often would say one thing, and do another. It was usually along the lines of calling me a twat, fingers twined in my hair, then fucking me into submission, as if to say ‘Brian’s always right, never forget that.’ Later, I would forget knowing that. I forgot a lot of things. And then, as later, it seemed as if he’d been practically waiting for me to fuck up. And I did.
Did I ever.
He was robbed. They took everything that they could haul off, by the looks of things. Of course, as Brian pointed out, they didn’t touch anything of mine. I mean, come on, Brian’s loft was a lot like McDonald’s, millions served. You can’t tell me that every trick on Liberty didn’t know about Brian’s high-tech kitchen and closet full of designer clothes. Didn’t he announce, loudly, what he was wearing, and who designed it? I’m surprised that it hadn’t happened sooner. But, since I was the last one to leave, it seemed likely that I’d forgotten to set the alarm. I thought I had, but...well, shit happens. Usually to me.
I packed my bag and ran all the way to New York. And Brian hauled it, and me, back to Pittsburgh, and to Debbie’s. Funny how much crap you accumulate in a short time. I had tons of clothes, but somehow, I got them to fit in that damned bag. My art supplies went into my messenger bag. I figured I could box up the rest once I figured out where I’d end up. At that point, I had no clue.
I remember packing the duffle in eagerness and anticipation, ready to show the world that Justin Taylor was coming, just like Rage. Hell, because of Rage. I chased my dreams all the way to Hollywood, where my head and heart were filled with promises and dreams of glory. Just once, I so wanted that to be true. Let me have this one thing.
Turns out, the one thing I was left with was a drawing. One that I stuffed into the bag as I made my way back, dreams of glory left tacked on the walls of a soon-to-be-forgotten stretch of wall in a hidden studio art room. The world wasn’t ready for Rage, they said. It wasn’t ready for me. Not yet, anyway.
I went over to the sofa and laid back, thinking.
I was so tired. So tired. I was twenty-one years old, and I felt fifty. So tired of packing and unpacking, of being shuffled about like someone’s least favorite relative. “You take him, no, you take him.” I felt…adrift. Like a once proud tree, blown over in a storm of circumstance, dashed and bashed by the ocean’s fury, and finally sent in pieces to rest along the high tide line, alone. I know I needed a place of my own. I’ve needed that for so long. But I allowed myself to hope- that maybe, for once, that the bag and my underwear belonged here. That the drawer for my drawers would somehow anchor me to this place, to him. You’d think I’d know better by now.
I remembered the night that I’d first come here. I was a scared, blithering idiot. I cringe when I think of that. I had the barest of ideas what would happen. Films and magazines can’t tell you what actual sex is like. They make it look so easy. Maybe Brian was right all this time. Maybe we should have stuck to fucking.
I glance over at the entry to the bedroom…to Brian’s bedroom.
I hate that fucking duffle bag.
I hate what it represents.
It’s my life. It’s every dream I ever had that was taken away, every home that I’d thought I’d managed to find. It’s my address, my one constant. Justin Taylor, Care Of Justin Taylor’s Black Duffle Bag, Somewhere in Pittsburgh, PA.
When I die, they’ll probably bury the fucking thing with me. Or bury me in it. ‘Here lies Justin, where he belongs; wrapped in the only canvas that matters.’
Okay, that’s maudlin, even for me.
I sat and waited, and wondered. Was this my punishment for hoping? Did I want too much, expect too much? Is it too much to hope for a place, one place, to lay my head and know that it would always be there?
Yeah. My head, resting on that fucking bag, in a park somewhere.
Oh, I know there are places that I could go. But then again…Debbie has Emmett now, my mom’s place is really too small. I could go back to Daphne’s, but I think she’s probably getting sick of me by now. Besides, I’m sure she appreciates the quiet.
Maybe I should have thought this through more.
The bag seems to glare at me from its hiding place. I sigh. It’s time, I know it is. Time to stand up, to be a man, to take care of myself. I can do this. I can.
It’s just that every breath I take seems to strangle me. My hands are shaking, and my head is throbbing. And I don’t want to go. I don’t. But I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t stay, knowing that this is all I’ll ever have. A loft that isn’t mine, full of things that aren’t mine, owned by a man…who doesn’t want to be mine.
The door slides open, and Brian walks in. We talk, or, at least, I do. I attempt to tell him what I want, how I feel. I thought he was listening, and then the panic appeared. He thinks he’s so good at hiding it, but I know what to look for. As soon as he decided that the solution was to fuck it better, I knew. It’s his fail-safe, his comfort zone. It’s all he knows, all he will allow himself to know. And so, with the answers that I need, I walk over to the bedroom entrance, and grab the sum of my existence.
A messenger bag, full of dreams, and a black duffle bag, full of my life.
It’s heavy. It’s so heavy. It seems to slow my every step. And, I as stand in the doorway, looking at him once more, I’m not sure if the weight of it will spill me forward, or tip me backwards. In the end, I right it, center it, and leave.
Brian asked me to let him know where I ended up. I should have just pointed to the fucking bag and said, “Here. Here is where I always end up.”
My heart clenched when Justin grabbed the black bag and step out the sliding door at 507. It hurt again, much more, when he finally decided chasing his dream in NY. But this story nearly killed me moment by moment, sentences to sentences. These lines killed me and made me hurt the most.
At that moment, I went from a kid with everything to a drifter with one bag to represent my then-seventeen years on this planet. It went from place to place, bed to sofa to bed and back again.
I hate that fucking duffle bag.
I hate what it represents.
It’s my life. It’s every dream I ever had that was taken away, every home that I’d thought I’d managed to find. It’s my address, my one constant. Justin Taylor, Care Of Justin Taylor’s Black Duffle Bag, Somewhere in Pittsburgh, PA.
And I don’t want to go. I don’t. But I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t stay, knowing that this is all I’ll ever have. A loft that isn’t mine, full of things that aren’t mine, owned by a man…who doesn’t want to be mine.
A messenger bag, full of dreams, and a black duffle bag, full of my life.
Brian asked me to let him know where I ended up. I should have just pointed to the fucking bag and said, “Here. Here is where I always end up.”
I love this fanfic. I love the way she captured the whole Justin story by the story of a bag. And, you know what... it hurts like hell!
A loft that isn’t mine, full of things that aren’t mine, owned by a man…who doesn’t want to be mine...
You may also reach the story here.
Title: Black Bag
Author: vl_redreign
Rating: R, for language
Timeline: All seasons, specifically 507
Warnings: Angst?
Summary: “I hate that fucking duffle bag.”
Beta: firehead30
It all started with my mother and a black bag.
If you were to see my room at the house that upper middle class aspirations built, you’d think ‘what a spoiled brat’. I had everything a kid could ask for. Tons of shit. And for the last five years, my life consisted of a black bag. It had changed size and shape, but it was still a large black duffle, full of my ‘fucking underwear’, as Brian once said. Funny that he bitched about that, then proceeded to fuck me out of them.
My mother went to see Brian at his office, dropping off a bag, a check, and a reprimand. She couldn’t have picked a worse time or way to introduce herself. She didn’t understand that Brian wasn’t inclined to make it easy for me. In fact, his resolve to kick me out of his life for good grew even stronger with the presence of that damned bag. He didn’t, not right away. Seems he had a few more things to show me. Let it not be said that Brian Kinney does things halfway, especially when it comes to instructing one about the joys of fucking. I was an apt pupil, and I’m almost positive that I learned a new way to walk in those early days, so sore from the frequent plowing of my ass. But hey, who was I to complain? I had a Pavlovian response to Brian’s cock. As soon as I saw it, hard, wet and heavy, my ass was in the air like a cat in heat.
At that moment, I went from a kid with everything to a drifter with one bag to represent my then-seventeen years on this planet. It went from place to place, bed to sofa to bed and back again.
Sometime after entering PIFA, I acquired a black and blue messenger bag. Sometime after that, it became a plain black one. It held my hopes and dreams, much like the way the black duffle carried the few material things that were my own. The funny thing was, it didn’t bother me much. I’ve had to be ready to go at the drop of a hat ever since that night outside of Babylon, when my father gave me a choice. I picked the right one for me. It was only when I accompanied Brian back to his loft, watching him queen out over his face, that I realized that I might have been a bit hasty. It seemed that he cared more about the marring of his looks than the fact that I was now homeless. I changed my mind, however, after I pulled the worst sneak attack in history by attempting to crawl, unnoticed, into his bed. The fact that he merely held up the duvet for me to enter said more than his words ever would.
Not long after its arrival, the black bag was packed once again, hastily, as I ran from the wrath of Brian. It was inevitable, you know. Maybe he was feeling crowded. Back then, I really didn’t care about what he said so much. I’d already figured out that Brian often would say one thing, and do another. It was usually along the lines of calling me a twat, fingers twined in my hair, then fucking me into submission, as if to say ‘Brian’s always right, never forget that.’ Later, I would forget knowing that. I forgot a lot of things. And then, as later, it seemed as if he’d been practically waiting for me to fuck up. And I did.
Did I ever.
He was robbed. They took everything that they could haul off, by the looks of things. Of course, as Brian pointed out, they didn’t touch anything of mine. I mean, come on, Brian’s loft was a lot like McDonald’s, millions served. You can’t tell me that every trick on Liberty didn’t know about Brian’s high-tech kitchen and closet full of designer clothes. Didn’t he announce, loudly, what he was wearing, and who designed it? I’m surprised that it hadn’t happened sooner. But, since I was the last one to leave, it seemed likely that I’d forgotten to set the alarm. I thought I had, but...well, shit happens. Usually to me.
I packed my bag and ran all the way to New York. And Brian hauled it, and me, back to Pittsburgh, and to Debbie’s. Funny how much crap you accumulate in a short time. I had tons of clothes, but somehow, I got them to fit in that damned bag. My art supplies went into my messenger bag. I figured I could box up the rest once I figured out where I’d end up. At that point, I had no clue.
I remember packing the duffle in eagerness and anticipation, ready to show the world that Justin Taylor was coming, just like Rage. Hell, because of Rage. I chased my dreams all the way to Hollywood, where my head and heart were filled with promises and dreams of glory. Just once, I so wanted that to be true. Let me have this one thing.
Turns out, the one thing I was left with was a drawing. One that I stuffed into the bag as I made my way back, dreams of glory left tacked on the walls of a soon-to-be-forgotten stretch of wall in a hidden studio art room. The world wasn’t ready for Rage, they said. It wasn’t ready for me. Not yet, anyway.
I went over to the sofa and laid back, thinking.
I was so tired. So tired. I was twenty-one years old, and I felt fifty. So tired of packing and unpacking, of being shuffled about like someone’s least favorite relative. “You take him, no, you take him.” I felt…adrift. Like a once proud tree, blown over in a storm of circumstance, dashed and bashed by the ocean’s fury, and finally sent in pieces to rest along the high tide line, alone. I know I needed a place of my own. I’ve needed that for so long. But I allowed myself to hope- that maybe, for once, that the bag and my underwear belonged here. That the drawer for my drawers would somehow anchor me to this place, to him. You’d think I’d know better by now.
I remembered the night that I’d first come here. I was a scared, blithering idiot. I cringe when I think of that. I had the barest of ideas what would happen. Films and magazines can’t tell you what actual sex is like. They make it look so easy. Maybe Brian was right all this time. Maybe we should have stuck to fucking.
I glance over at the entry to the bedroom…to Brian’s bedroom.
I hate that fucking duffle bag.
I hate what it represents.
It’s my life. It’s every dream I ever had that was taken away, every home that I’d thought I’d managed to find. It’s my address, my one constant. Justin Taylor, Care Of Justin Taylor’s Black Duffle Bag, Somewhere in Pittsburgh, PA.
When I die, they’ll probably bury the fucking thing with me. Or bury me in it. ‘Here lies Justin, where he belongs; wrapped in the only canvas that matters.’
Okay, that’s maudlin, even for me.
I sat and waited, and wondered. Was this my punishment for hoping? Did I want too much, expect too much? Is it too much to hope for a place, one place, to lay my head and know that it would always be there?
Yeah. My head, resting on that fucking bag, in a park somewhere.
Oh, I know there are places that I could go. But then again…Debbie has Emmett now, my mom’s place is really too small. I could go back to Daphne’s, but I think she’s probably getting sick of me by now. Besides, I’m sure she appreciates the quiet.
Maybe I should have thought this through more.
The bag seems to glare at me from its hiding place. I sigh. It’s time, I know it is. Time to stand up, to be a man, to take care of myself. I can do this. I can.
It’s just that every breath I take seems to strangle me. My hands are shaking, and my head is throbbing. And I don’t want to go. I don’t. But I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t stay, knowing that this is all I’ll ever have. A loft that isn’t mine, full of things that aren’t mine, owned by a man…who doesn’t want to be mine.
The door slides open, and Brian walks in. We talk, or, at least, I do. I attempt to tell him what I want, how I feel. I thought he was listening, and then the panic appeared. He thinks he’s so good at hiding it, but I know what to look for. As soon as he decided that the solution was to fuck it better, I knew. It’s his fail-safe, his comfort zone. It’s all he knows, all he will allow himself to know. And so, with the answers that I need, I walk over to the bedroom entrance, and grab the sum of my existence.
A messenger bag, full of dreams, and a black duffle bag, full of my life.
It’s heavy. It’s so heavy. It seems to slow my every step. And, I as stand in the doorway, looking at him once more, I’m not sure if the weight of it will spill me forward, or tip me backwards. In the end, I right it, center it, and leave.
Brian asked me to let him know where I ended up. I should have just pointed to the fucking bag and said, “Here. Here is where I always end up.”
My heart clenched when Justin grabbed the black bag and step out the sliding door at 507. It hurt again, much more, when he finally decided chasing his dream in NY. But this story nearly killed me moment by moment, sentences to sentences. These lines killed me and made me hurt the most.
At that moment, I went from a kid with everything to a drifter with one bag to represent my then-seventeen years on this planet. It went from place to place, bed to sofa to bed and back again.
I hate that fucking duffle bag.
I hate what it represents.
It’s my life. It’s every dream I ever had that was taken away, every home that I’d thought I’d managed to find. It’s my address, my one constant. Justin Taylor, Care Of Justin Taylor’s Black Duffle Bag, Somewhere in Pittsburgh, PA.
And I don’t want to go. I don’t. But I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t stay, knowing that this is all I’ll ever have. A loft that isn’t mine, full of things that aren’t mine, owned by a man…who doesn’t want to be mine.
A messenger bag, full of dreams, and a black duffle bag, full of my life.
Brian asked me to let him know where I ended up. I should have just pointed to the fucking bag and said, “Here. Here is where I always end up.”
I love this fanfic. I love the way she captured the whole Justin story by the story of a bag. And, you know what... it hurts like hell!
A loft that isn’t mine, full of things that aren’t mine, owned by a man…who doesn’t want to be mine...
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
QaF Drabbles
I never knew about another meaning of the word "drabble" till I saw it on QaF fandom. And now I know "sometimes 100 words is enough".
Title: Not Enough
Author: tweedygal
I shouldn’t want more. Everyone’s always told me not to expect anything.
But they weren’t there when he sat up with me night after night, watching Yellow Submarine, then rubbing my hand while I cried about the fucking mess my life had become.
They don’t seem to notice he looks out for me away from the loft. He thinks I don’t even realize it, but I do.
They don’t know that he asks about my classes, projects...if I’m hungry, if I need a blowjob or toothpaste...
He gives me so much. And I don’t know why it’s not enough.
My POV: Teh "toothpaste" did touch me. It simply works.
---
Title: Long Ago Memories
Author: Foreverbm
Timeline: Future
A/N: This is a death drabble.
Brian walked slowly across the manicured lawn, the eerie silence not off putting in any way; more of a relief than anything.
He didn’t want to see anyone; for them to see him.
He looked at the red roses in his arms, a memory from long ago, of another bouquet he had almost bought, filling his mind.
He reached his destination and squatted down, placing the roses on the ground, brushing away some scraps of paper which had blown onto the grey marble.
The name in front of him may say Justin, but to him, he would always be Sunshine.
My POV: The one that inspired me to write down my first fanfic of ever. It hurts.
---
Title: With Friends Like These, Who Needs Enemies
Author: Philflam
Author's warnings: Remember that as far as I'm concerned, the QAF world revolves around Brian. I see everything through his perspective. This drabble might not be exactly what the mods were thinking of when they chose this topic - :).
Michael “. . . but he’s my Best Friend” Novotny tells Brian things he already knows and assumes he’ll never change. Lindsay “She’s Having My Baby” Peterson loves Brian and is jealous of Justin for lots of reasons.
Debbie “I love you like a son” Novotny slaps him for telling the truth. Ted “I’m better than all of you” Schmidt resents him until he needs help. Emmett “When your boy toy’s broken, get a new toy” Honeycutt mostly ignores him.
Justin “It was love to me” Taylor is the only one who loves Brian for who he is - always has, always will.
My POV: I don't really think Linds having problem with the jealousy. However, I love the last sentence - the definition of Justin's love.
---
Title: The missing smiling boy (I named it, not the author)
Author: jule1122
Timeline: S3
“Justin Taylor.”
Daphne listened to Justin call his own name and concentrated on holding the picture of Marguerite Lopez up. She couldn’t look at the picture Jennifer was holding or listen to her speech.
When she first saw the poster of Justin, she hadn’t been able to look away. She barely recognized the smiling boy she saw there. Daphne was reminded of how much Justin had changed, how much that night had changed him. There would never be justice for Justin, but this was something. She held her picture proudly, defiantly and dared anyone to say Justin’s life didn’t matter.
My POV: I like Daphne and I like the friendship of the 2 much as well. I think it's exactly what she was thinking seeing the poster. And the idea of how much that night had changed Justin really makes my heart hurt.
Later!
Title: Not Enough
Author: tweedygal
I shouldn’t want more. Everyone’s always told me not to expect anything.
But they weren’t there when he sat up with me night after night, watching Yellow Submarine, then rubbing my hand while I cried about the fucking mess my life had become.
They don’t seem to notice he looks out for me away from the loft. He thinks I don’t even realize it, but I do.
They don’t know that he asks about my classes, projects...if I’m hungry, if I need a blowjob or toothpaste...
He gives me so much. And I don’t know why it’s not enough.
My POV: Teh "toothpaste" did touch me. It simply works.
---
Title: Long Ago Memories
Author: Foreverbm
Timeline: Future
A/N: This is a death drabble.
Brian walked slowly across the manicured lawn, the eerie silence not off putting in any way; more of a relief than anything.
He didn’t want to see anyone; for them to see him.
He looked at the red roses in his arms, a memory from long ago, of another bouquet he had almost bought, filling his mind.
He reached his destination and squatted down, placing the roses on the ground, brushing away some scraps of paper which had blown onto the grey marble.
The name in front of him may say Justin, but to him, he would always be Sunshine.
My POV: The one that inspired me to write down my first fanfic of ever. It hurts.
---
Title: With Friends Like These, Who Needs Enemies
Author: Philflam
Author's warnings: Remember that as far as I'm concerned, the QAF world revolves around Brian. I see everything through his perspective. This drabble might not be exactly what the mods were thinking of when they chose this topic - :).
Michael “. . . but he’s my Best Friend” Novotny tells Brian things he already knows and assumes he’ll never change. Lindsay “She’s Having My Baby” Peterson loves Brian and is jealous of Justin for lots of reasons.
Debbie “I love you like a son” Novotny slaps him for telling the truth. Ted “I’m better than all of you” Schmidt resents him until he needs help. Emmett “When your boy toy’s broken, get a new toy” Honeycutt mostly ignores him.
Justin “It was love to me” Taylor is the only one who loves Brian for who he is - always has, always will.
My POV: I don't really think Linds having problem with the jealousy. However, I love the last sentence - the definition of Justin's love.
---
Title: The missing smiling boy (I named it, not the author)
Author: jule1122
Timeline: S3
“Justin Taylor.”
Daphne listened to Justin call his own name and concentrated on holding the picture of Marguerite Lopez up. She couldn’t look at the picture Jennifer was holding or listen to her speech.
When she first saw the poster of Justin, she hadn’t been able to look away. She barely recognized the smiling boy she saw there. Daphne was reminded of how much Justin had changed, how much that night had changed him. There would never be justice for Justin, but this was something. She held her picture proudly, defiantly and dared anyone to say Justin’s life didn’t matter.
My POV: I like Daphne and I like the friendship of the 2 much as well. I think it's exactly what she was thinking seeing the poster. And the idea of how much that night had changed Justin really makes my heart hurt.
Later!
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