peg22: (welshdragon)
Loved the Tonys. except Catherine Zeta Jones and  her swivel headed singing. More proof that awards have a tendency to totally miss the mark when it comes to honoring the best and brightest and I hope the Tony voters are not being seduced by the movie stars headed over to the broadway what with their movie star fans and bucks . . . I mean, I loved loved loved Hugh Jackman in Boy From Oz, I just don't want New York theatre to become a bigger version of regional dinner theatre where all the Love Boat cast are enjoying marvelous careers acting in such cerebral fare as Nunsense - Back From Hell. Or something like that. 

Actually, that could even be a plot bunny - combining Nunsense the Musical (which as some of you know, has been horribly sequel-ized to death) and Supernatural.  Lucifer has escaped again. Can Sister Mary Hubert and her novices defeat the hounds of hell before Dean and Sam get fully undressed??? Stay tuned.

And its rainy and cloudy so wish me luck to stamp out another part of my Crossover crack opus. It's so hard to start - to actually sit down and begin to move the boys around the board.

Oh, and also, planning a wedding may just kill me. And Hutch. And everyone else caught in the undertow of the BRIDAL INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX - think Elton John will come sing at my wedding???

Happy Monday . . . and yes, Hutch, I am finishing the laundry. Swear.

P.S. Back to Catherine Zeta Jones Douglas - Carys and Dylan? Carys and Dylan? Could you have chosen any more cliched Welsh names?? Where's your Angharad?  What about Ystan? Or even Myfanwy which may be cliche but only in Wales. Okay, that's all.
peg22: (TimHortons)
 . . . and I'm grading papers, which are not that bad, and which show at least a nugget of things I taught them this semester.

. . . and I'm trying to write a new fic - not fan - and all I really wanna do is get Stephen Fry on the set of Supernatural for some mayhem.

. . . and I'm very proud of my Hutch for writing not one, but TWO SPN fics in the last week.

. . . and I'm waiting for her to write some S/H, because just because Dean and Sam are all shiny and new, there is still a loyalty issue.

. . . and our trip to the West got cancelled due to illness, not on our part, and due to scheduling cluster fuck, on my part, and Hutch has yet to bemoan the fact that I stole the ocean from her. So what I really wanna do is pop down to NYC this weekend to see "beverly leslie's" new show, something about "The Pink Carpet" . . .

. . . and we set the date and it looks like we may be honeymooning at ShareCon - is that wrong? Or perhaps totally right, since it twas the boys that brought us together . . .

and a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO AUDREY AND MARION!! What a lovely thing - a spring birthday - go outside and celebrate!!!
peg22: (stephen)

Post a single sentence from each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick).  No context, no explanations.  No more than one sentence!

And I know I cheated about the sentences . . . sue me. Or take these babies off my hands . . . whatever!
Because in these hard economic times . . . )
peg22: (wistful hugh)

So Laura's beautiful pictures of her grandparents, coupled with my Sunday visit with my own grandma (85) and my great aunt (81) who fight like sisters and whose mantle is lined with pictures of my grandpa who died 2 years ago and whose memory still sends my grandma to bed for "weeping spells" and then I think of my other grandma (95) who is dainty and proper and losing her memory which means she's losing my memories because she's the one who remembers my kindergarten jokes and my fear of mice and then I remember her husband, my other grandpa, who died in 2001 while I was in Amsterdam, which will always make it that much . . . more.

It just all reminds me that I am soo lucky to have been raised in a multigenerational world and so I thought I'd share something Wot I Wrote about that:

peg22: (venicearches)
I wanna play!

I'll take any sentence.

I'm loving all the drabbles being created.

Just the medicine for my bad bad infection of a life right now . . .

Am equal opportunity drabbler, too.

Will write for S/H, H/W, P/D, Jack/Ianto, C/L (just kidding, Susan! - but really, what you got against the femslash I wanna know!)

My nephew is reading Spiderman comic, watching iCarly, and putting together a Bionicle. I am superflous and need my own project. 
peg22: (stephen)

So I have become increasingly disgruntled at my place of livelihood - a misnomer if there ever was one. And the disgruntlement does not stem from the usual job-related sturm und drang - because I love my boss, enjoy my co-workers, believe in the "product" and can write crack and fic most days . . .

It all comes down to personal worth and how many hours of life are left and how many I really have to waste on pushing papers around a desk or tapping out figures or smiling when I want to howl. That's all.

Beverly Rollwagen wrote it better. This is from her poetry collection, "She Just Wants" from Nodin Press.
It's simple. And perfect. Just the way poems should be. 


She just wants to be employed
for eight hours a day. She is not
interested in a career; she wants a job
with a paycheck and free parking. She
does not want to carry a briefcase filled
with important papers to read after
dinner; she does not want to return
phone calls. When she gets home, she
wants to kick off her shoes and waltz
around her kitchen singing, "I am a piece
of work."

sigh . . .  and then to prove that I really just need to sit ALL DAY and string words together, she writes this and I have to lie down and contemplate the way a sentence whittled down to its essence is just about the most perfect creation in the world.


She just wants to keep her essential
sorrow. Everyone wants her to
be happy all the time, but she doesn't
want that for them. There is value in
the thread of sadness in each person.
The sobbing child on an airplane, the
unhappy woman waiting by the phone,
a man staring out the window past his
wife. A violin plays through all of them,
one long note held at the beginning and
the end.

TGIF, y'all

peg22: (ds/pmg)

on my friend's show where he had people come on and tell a story about a song that 
was significant in their lives and then he played the song. It was really great. 
Some of the songs were Carole King and Joni Mitchell and Evelyn Champagne King. 
And Tchaikovsky . . . and mine of course was David Soul . . .

So my nearest and dearest told me to post it. Cuz the general population probably didn't 
get the subtle nuance of a good Torino joke . . .

Who knew when I bought my first Huggy apple hat, that I'd be buying another one 30 years later . . .

peg22: (Default)

So a couple of years ago I was riding on a train through a beautiful Welsh valley, on my way to Tenby and the coast of Wales for a holiday, and I looked up and saw the regular pastoral: rolling green hills, sheep dotting everything, a small house, a small cemetary. I sighed, lost in the travel brochure-ness of it all. The cemetary had odd headstones - rows and rows of what looked from a distance like popsicle sticks.

The woman sitting next to me leaned into my shoulder and whispered, "Aberfan."

I suddenly noticed the entire car had grown silent, everyone turning to stare at the little rows of white. If I were prone to romanticism and fancy, I do believe the sky grew darker . . .

So the train turned out of that valley and I asked the woman, "Aberfan?"

So she told me the story of the day the slag heap - the coal waste - slid down the hill and buried the elementary school. She told me about how parents dug and dug and dug, trying to unbury their little children. She told me how the children that survived were treated as royalty, told me how the grief of the town seeped through the entire valley, much like the rain through the slag.

The story tore my heart apart. I can't ever let it go. I've written a story, a play, a poem, and the beginnings of a novel about it.

My pal Sheila reminded me of the anniversary today. And urged me to post the poem. Thanks, bachgen. Someday we'll meet in the annwyl bryn, prydferth Cymru. 

Here's the BBC link today:


peg22: (Default)

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