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Amara Aquilla [userpic]

War drums

January 31st, 2006 (10:33 am)

I quit watching the news after the first report. Bullshit is hard to swallow under the best of circumstances, moreso when it gets caught up on the truth lodged somewhere in my throat.

Tabi was there, she's got the broken arm to prove it. SHIELD was there. That's hardly mutant-on-mutant crime, no matter how you spin it.

I never met the big blonde that died, but I knew Rachel well enough. I take some karmic comfort in the fact that the last time I saw her, we were capable of civil discourse, which is a step up from scratching and hair-pulling in the park like heathens.

For about a second, I considered driving out to Westchester for the memorial, but decided it might in bad taste. Perhaps I'll call on Dr. MacTaggert or Logan and deliver my condolensces that way. Or there's always a nicely written letter, I suppose. I'm not entirely keen on running into Little Red Riding Hood and having to fight off her Big Bad Wolf. Some people just don't know how to let go of a grudge.

I haven't called Westchester home for nearly a year and a half now, but part of me still feels connected somehow, no matter how little they may want to claim me. This is all very surreal and I'm not entirely sure how to feel about it, other than a general feeling of disbelief and smoldering anger. There would have been much subtler ways to declare war than attacking a school full of defenseless children. But I'm somehow convinced the government wasn't after subtle. Subtlety is lost on them, and I have the scars to prove it.

Amara Aquilla [userpic]

Of strays and why I collect them

January 20th, 2006 (02:34 pm)

current mood: bored

It often perplexes me, the fact I make friends more easily with men than women, Tabi and Paige being the rare exceptions. I don’t know what it says about me personally beyond the fact I’m a horrid flirt and that’s usually a frowned upon activity between platonic girlfriends and thus eliminates the source of half my really exceptional wit.

I collect people like some collect stamps or coins or dolls (or, in the case of Josh, Jeb and Vern, porn and video games). My psych prof tells me it's my way of rebuilding the tribe that was ripped away from me. My real family was fractured already when I got it back and never felt right or natural to me anyway, so I've had to go about forming my own out of the bits of pieces around me. The Guthries and Tabi, Mack and Rosie, Warren before he became a bastard and Pete before he got too good for us. Stray bits gathered up from odd corners and fit together to build something close to home.

This is meant to preface the fact that...Collapse )

Amara Aquilla [userpic]

By the book

October 20th, 2005 (01:57 pm)

<td width="20%"><td width="60%">fear (fîr) n.: 1a. A feeling of agitation and anxiety caused by the presence or imminence of danger. 1b. A state or condition marked by this feeling. 2. A feeling of disquiet or apprehension. 3. Extreme reverence or awe, as toward a supreme power. 4. A reason for dread or apprehension. Synonyms: fear, fright, dread, terror, horror, panic, alarm, dismay, consternation, trepidation</td><td width="20%"></td>

At night, I dream of fists. No arms, no faces, no stringy hair or crooked teeth or thin lips. Just fists. Huge, cruel fists that fall like endless rain and leave pooling blood in their wake. Their laughter is thunder; it bounces off the unseen walls and ricochets endlessly through the room. They promise pain and deliver it in bulk; they hint at death, but it’s only a tease. I can hear myself begging for them to stop, but words are a poor shield and tears even moreso.

I wake up shaking, but silent. Saved from the indignity of flailing about and screaming as I’d been reduced to before, now I only whimper and tremble until I wake myself up from the nightmare. According to the clock, it’s two-thirty in the morning. Still four hours of night to live through, and I’m wide awake.

The bruises are long gone, but I can still see them in the ambient light coming in my window. By the time Sam, Josh, and the SHIELD boys got us out of that Hell, there was barely an inch of me that wasn’t bruised to some degree. “Lucky they didn’t break anything,” the doctor said. But at two-thirty in the morning, when I’m lying here staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping peacefully curled against the Josh-shaped lump next to me, I wonder if they didn’t break something after all.

But broken less than others are. And really, I’m used to being in pieces. And Red works as such fabulous glue to try to hold me all together.

Amara Aquilla [userpic]

Why trips home are doomed

October 1st, 2005 (03:56 pm)
Tags: ,

By way of recap, and to spare myself the horror of endless exposition, I offer the following summary of the Great Southern Migration 2005: Deliverance, with big robots.

If that somehow fails to correctly encapsulate my summer vacation, I do apologize. Let me try again.

Imagine, if you will, absolute agrarian utopia. A quiet pond fed (through my investigation) by an underground spring. Solemn wooded areas and clearings. Smelly and often-times demanding farm animals. A quaint farmhouse filled to brimming (and this is hardly an exaggeration) with spirited children and young people fond of the term “y’all” and subsisting on a diet that revolves greatly around fresh produce, fried chicken, and things called grits. Order is kept in this pit of perpetual chaos by a single woman and her shot gun rolling pin.

This is Guthrieville, USA. More accurately, this is Cumberland, Kentucky, home to the majority of the Guthrie clan. The town itself looks like any rural Southern town you’ve ever seen on television, complete with a few remaining dirt roads, small, local-owned businesses, and a Walmart. It is too quiet, too clean, and the mountains have been so hollowed out over time by the mining industry that they feel dead. But at least there are mountains, and open expanses of ground and sky not drown in concrete and steel. You can see the stars at night and something other than car horns lulls you to sleep through your open windows.

And I’ll never look at it that way again. There is a large black mark over the entire place, put there by a family that obviously missed the passage in that Holy Book of theirs that talked about compassion and loving thy neighbor.

To spare the gruesome details and blood-covered minutiae, let it simply be said that the Guthrie/Cabot feud came to a head during our trip and left casualties on the one side, and fatalities on the other. Some of the battle scars are deep and may never really heal. I’ll tuck mine away with the ones PIPER left behind and pretend they don’t exist. Others of us won’t find it quite so easy. Some of us will be cringing for years at the mere mention of a road trip down South, and not because of the music Sam subjected us to on the drive.

Amara Aquilla [userpic]

Wasting Away Again in Margaritaville

April 11th, 2005 (12:12 pm)

Dear Diary,

It’s five thirty a.m. and I’m awake again. Have been, off and on, for the last hour, fighting against the island’s restlessness as it tries to rock me from peaceful slumber. I’m careful not to toss and turn or fidget in case the person curled up in the other half of the bed object to a five a.m. wake up call. I can think of pleasant diversions he might not mind at this ungodly hour, and the evil little sprite on my shoulder growls and hisses when I tell her to keep those diversions to herself. Lately, even the angel on my right shoulder is whispering devilish things in my ear when I settle beneath the cool sheets on my side of the bed.

I claim the hammock when the fight becomes futile and sleep remains elusive, water and yogurt claimed from the mini-bar my only companions. My internal alarm won’t work right by the time I get home, too used to late nights and early mornings and shared energy enough to keep me moving despite both. I’ve been here ever since, listening to birds calling as they make their way toward the ocean’s endless buffet. Listening to the early risers jog past on their way to the beach. Listening to the redhead snoring still in the bed I left behind. The hut next door slowly awakens, someone singing Jimmy Buffet songs loud enough and off-key enough to make the dog down the way howl, either in complaint or accompaniment.

Then things fall quiet...Collapse )

Don’t worry, Brody. I’ll come home and protect you from the cold glares of the Guthrie Three. I wouldn’t abandon you, even for paradise, though the thought is wholly tempting. Maybe I’ll be nice and come baring pressies. Though, yours won’t require batteries. Might be inflatable, though, and I’m not talking about pool floats either.

Amara Aquilla [userpic]

(no subject)

March 31st, 2005 (07:24 am)

Dear Diary,

I hate planes.

I'm not afraid of flying, that's not my problem. The time in the air between New York and California (where we changed planes) was almost tolerable, with the Dramamine. But once we got out over clear water...

I've never felt so sick in my entire life. I've never had a hangover that felt that bad. I was never so happy to land somewhere in my entire life. Instead of trying to hunt down Paige yesterday, I spent the most of it in bed, just trying to get my equilibrium back. I'm not sure where Tabi was - she could've been putzing around the hotel room but I was honestly too out of it to notice.

I'm almost feeling normal again, though. Hawaii is such a font of geothermal activity and I can just feel the way the island seems to throb deep in my bones. It's a rush, but I really have to be careful not to go playing around here. Beautiful as the place is, it's not exactly what one would call geologically stable. Last thing I need to do is cause a semi-dormant volcano to errupt while I'm here.

So. In review...

Planes - suck.
Hawaii - rush.
Room service - rules.

Wonder if the boys have noticed we're gone yet...

Amara Aquilla [userpic]

(no subject)

March 20th, 2005 (01:35 pm)

The nightmares have been rare.

Some nights, I close my eyes and dream of little boxes and gray faces with wide, sneering mouths. I'll wake up in a cold sweat, tangled up in my blankets and fighting like hell to get free. One night, I rolled myself clear out of bed in the process. Lucky I didn't bust a stitch.

It shouldn't surprise me I had one the other night. Even not knowing what happened, I could still tell something was very wrong. Nothing ruins a good guiness buzz like an impending sense of doom. I thought about calling Mack, but if they're busy, the last thing he needs is a worried woman calling and trolling for information. If I haven't heard something in a few days, maybe I'll try to track the cocky bastard down.

St. Pats was otherwise one hell of a fun experience. I couldn't believe the people they got to play at Reilly's. The guiness was free-flowing, the entertainment was amazing, and the people were great, except for the guy who was getting gropey with Pete's friend Kitty. Tabi and I both flirted shamelessly with Mack, who flirted right back. I also subtley interjected the suggestion in Mack and Rosie's minds that maybe they need an extra set of hands around the Pub. Something to keep myself occupied would be a good thing, I think.

Amara Aquilla [userpic]

Monday Karaoke

March 14th, 2005 (11:22 am)

Dear Diary,

All right, everybody sing a long. I know you know the words.

"Jebbie's got a girlfriend, Jebbie's got a girlfriend..."

Or, there's the time-honored:

"Jeb and Misha, sittin' in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G..."

Of course, it's just speculation about that last bit. Although, if a girl takes you to a strip club, by her own choice, you better at least be giving her a kiss or two for her trouble. Hell, I think I'd be demanding more than a kiss in payment.

That is, in fact, exactly where she apparently took our sweet, innocent Jeb on one of their dates. Tabi and I were lamenting the loss of poor Jeb's innocence, as well as the fact his first look at a real, up close, living breathing naked woman was one probably stuffed so full of silicone she'd bob on the surface of the East River if you pushed her in. It's going to entirely skew his perception. Of course, porn has probably done that already.

We got to meet her last night. The girl, not the stripper. Well, Piotr and I did, anyway. I'll have to make a full report to Paige and Tabi later. She seems like a nice enough girl, though potentially evil to the core. Really should beat her for the "Josh and Jeb making out" images I've had stuck in my head all night. Not generally my preferred form of hot boy on boy action, thanks.

Amara Aquilla [userpic]

The Rumor Mill, it is a-turnin'

March 11th, 2005 (08:32 am)

Dear Diary,

Sam and Tabi made it home late last night. Heard them stumble in sometime after 2. Sounded tired, so I didn't step out and ask how things went. I'm sure if Sam was hurt we would've heard much Tabi grousing and crying. And if Tabi was hurt, we would've heard things being smashed into tiny pieces. Sam's got a horrible temper when you mess with his people, I've come to notice. I'll pull Tabs aside later and get a rundown. What she'll offer, anyway. I just hope Piotr wasn't involved in this. He's in no shape to be doing any such thing and I'll tell him so in great detail if need be.

Stubborn men.

Sam and Tabi weren't the only ones I heard stumbling in last night. At first I just thought it was the boys stumbling into the Pit, but given the snippet of conversation I overheard this morning, that might not hold true. Rumor has it Jeb brought a girl home last night. And not one prone to leaving him to freeze to death in the park covered in scratches, it would seem.

Which is all fine and dandy. As long as she doesn't do anything to hurt him. Because, whether he actually wants my friendship at this point or not, I do care about the mopey little hillbilly and if this girl so much as looks at him wrong, I'm going to open up a hole in Central Park and drop her in. That is, if Tabi and Paige don't tear her apart first. As much as we complain about the over-protectiveness of the men in this little clan, we women are just as bad. You hurt one of the boys, we make you regret the day you bought your first training bra.

God, I think some of Tabi's recent maternalness is rubbing off. Make it stop!

Amara Aquilla [userpic]

(no subject)

March 10th, 2005 (01:18 pm)

Dear Diary,

I dreamt last night that a transistor radio was flying past my window spewing pea soup. All it's dials were spinning wildly counter-clockwise, and a little red crab with horns and a pitchfork was dancing on top of it while singing Disney showtunes. I beaned it with a geomorphology text book and sent the little crab flailing. I hate that movie. Sining, dancing sea creatures are highly disturbing. Almost as disturbing as singing and dancing furniture.

Of course, I've had that bloody song stuck in my head all day. I may be forced to take drastic measures to eradicate it.

As an FYI...kissed Josh last night. Or vice versa. Details are fuzzy, but I'm fairly positive someone kissed someone on that couch last night. Very nice kisser, by the way.

Now please excuse me while I go dunk my head in the sink to get this abnormal warmth out of my cheeks before Paige or Tabi see it and never let me live it down. Amara Aquilla does not blush, damn it.

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