feeling kinda bummed;
was expecting more than just
two friends holding hands

[ I just finished watching The Legend of Korra and I have to say… I’m pretty bummed about the way Korrasami turned out. While I understand the creators weren’t sure what sort of homoromantic subtext they could get away with, there is NO subtext in the show. None, not even a teeny tiny you’d-have-to-be-queer-to-pick-up-on-it bit. I’m the queen of picking up on queer subtext and believe me, I would notice if Korra and Asami were sending signals, even subtle ones. They barely even speak to each other in the last season, let alone in the last few episodes! Even their final conversation, the one which leads them to go off together into the spirit world, doesn’t in any way hint they may have deeper feelings for each other. For all intents and purposes, they’re just two friends going off for a well deserved vacation. Even the fact that they hold hands in the last five seconds of the show isn’t really proof of anything; Korra makes more obvious moon eyes at Mako in the final episode than she ever does at Asami. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad Korrasami is canon, and it sounds like the comics will develop their relationship further, but… I’m still bummed. I was really hoping for some legit representation, even if it did occur in the very final episode. But that? That wasn’t anything. Oh well. Good thing I still have all the queerness of Hannibal and Carmilla… ]


“Dum spiro te amo”

kiss and raise a fist
give your bow, gentlemen
this stage won’t forget

[ If you haven’t read Kathe Koja’s stunning work Under the Poppy, or its equally as heart-wrenching and powerful sequels The Mercury Waltz and just-released The Bastards’ Paradise, do yourself a favor… read them all. Now. ]


I wonder what those grunge singers and goth kids would have done if they knew such gods as you existed, if they had been told their militant atheism could find a better home in your worship than in the denial of any worship at all. How might their songs have changed if they had sung to you instead? What fires might their rebellion have lit if they had rebelled for you? Death gods abound and always have, but there are none in any pantheon that light even a candle to your fierce and fantastic blaze. If things had been different, you might have had a following instead of a single scribe. You might have had an army clad in leather and safety pins, black painted nails and kohl lined eyes; an army fed on stolen cigarettes and hard liquor, energized by sorrow and hate. I just wonder what others may have accomplished with you to fuel their dark creativity – could someone like Kurt Cobain or Elliott Smith have handled you, or would your darkness have only fed on their own? Or perhaps you were there after all, in another iteration, another cycle, whispering the same wrenching dirges in their ears as you do now in mine?


Don’t tell me what happened to Amelia Earhart, D. B. Cooper, or the crew of the Mary Celeste. I don’t want to know.
Don’t explain why there are stairs in the middle of nowhere or plane-hungry triangles out at sea, rows of lights in the sky or holy faces appearing in rock, plaster, linoleum, clouds. I don’t want to know.
Don’t try to convince me The Wreck of the Titan was just some crazy coincidence or that famous black and white picture just a grainy snapshot of a floating log. Let some of the mysteries remain.
Let people disappear without a trace; let the wilderness swallow up whole ships, planes, settler communities, and leave behind only a word carved into a tree to prove they ever existed.
Let Tutankhamen’s curse sleep in infamy. Let the Chupacabra skulk through Mexican jungles. Let the Flying Dutchman live to haunt another day.
Is it so bad, not to know the truth?


Is this the winter you’ll finally tell me why the Moon killed the Sun?


Are you ever going to tell me?

Probably not. Besides, who knows why the gods do anything?

That’s a terrible answer.

Isn’t it better to get an honest “no” than be promised truths you’ll never receive?

I feel like you’re getting too into this trickster-death-god role.

I thought that’s what you wanted?

Yes, I mean, maybe, but… I’m getting Loki/Set vibes from you and it’s becoming a little alarming.

I’m well suited to the role, that’s all. Anyway, you already know the answer to your question. I don’t know why you keep bothering me about it.

I feel like every time I get an answer it just inspires ten more questions.

It’s been thirteen years and you’re just now catching on to that?


Muddled dreams; your fingers, the knife, the needle, fear and exhilaration; strange you’d choose these forms (yes, I know it’s you), suiting masks but so many meanings; lovers and enemies and one never without the other, by blood building a world to suit you both (or neither); so whose mask should I wear? the daughter, surrogate born in her own blood, so precious she should be sacrificed rather than set free (as if you allow a trinity); or the broken one reborn as avenging angel, she who managed to capture the Devil and would have held him until the end? (as if he can truly be held, ever); the dreams don’t tell me what role I should play; in them your masks are mine; in them the knife is dear to me, and I submit (you enjoy this, don’t you); but if I write about blood and feed you dark anthems the dreams recede for a time at least.


Raised as I was on songs of rebellion and mischief, stories of maritime disasters and ghost ships, it’s no wonder you became who you are now. It was no isle of Lost Boys and the vacuum left from their defeated foe who turned you to gleeful pirate villain, was it? No, the brine and salt were always in your blood, the storm and gunpowder in your bones. I should have known from the beginning that you’d become this beautiful, wicked creature itching for battle and anarchy; I should have seen the flicker-crack of lightning in your emerald eyes and understood your future. Forest outlaw. Wanderer queen. Captain of the dread ship Jolly Roger.