| want to walk to the beat of my own drum. |
[Feb. 8th, 2012|02:47 am] |
[Enough cringing, enough waiting, enough tiptoeing on eggshells. Time to poke her head out of her den and see what's what. Talia dusts off the journal (no, that's a lie, it isn't dusty; she's been reading avidly but she simply hasn't been writing), uncaps her pen, and then -- hovers, indecisive. Until she finally settles on a topic. A tentative nudge into the ether.]
Personally, I've always held that Valentine's Day should be a day to celebrate your closest friends instead. Mustn't let the significant others get too cocky, after all -- an entire day to themselves? Goodness! Whatever will they demand next? It's like they think they're people.
[Tongue in cheek, vaguely. This from the woman who's only ever had the one serious relationship -- and look how that ended.] |
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| don't tell me how the universe started. |
[Jan. 18th, 2012|11:20 pm] |
[The new (by which we mean 'old') Talia comes crawling out of her hidey-hole, shamefaced and dragging her heels. Ill-fated, magic-inflicted religious belief has finally relaxed its iron grip on her throat, and she's free to be herself again -- only to discover that she isn't ready. She's still not up to facing her old cohorts and friends and stomping grounds, but some things do need to be addressed. And she addresses them: haltingly, with handwriting messier than the neat Mormon-script she'd adopted over the last couple months, but not quite with the same fluid confidence that typically accompanied the younger Sullivan.]
[GIDEON FOSTER.]
I missed your birthday, didn't I? Happy birthday, Gideon. And thank you -- from what I hear of what happened, I owe you. |
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| latter-day saints. |
[Nov. 20th, 2011|12:14 am] |
[And it's finally happened. The woman's habit of treading too lightly and taking safety for granted has backfired in the instance of a certain visit. The two of them had a long conversation with Talia leaning forward, elbows on her knees, wide-eyed, listening and taking it in (really truly listening). After what felt like a life-changing understanding sinking its way into her, she started -- slowly -- making adjustments accordingly. The wardrobe is the first to change, as she segues into long skirts and high, decent collars. This is important, she knows. It's time to re-evaluate everything she's ever believed.]
I've been doing some very careful thinking and I ought to do some changes with my life. For starters, I can't come in to work today [the normal Talia would have accompanied that with a flippant 'darlings', would have peppered her language with diminuitives,] as it's not right to work on Sundays, but really, that's not the start of it. There's lots I've been doing wrong. My -- well, my job, it's obviously immoral and I can't continue with it anymore. It was a mistake. I'll find better work -- more honest work. I can be so much better.
[And she does believe it, earnestly. It's a seed planted by that fresh-faced young Mormon, something latched on beneath her skin like a virus, like a pestilence of... integrity and morality and honesty and legality. All perfectly good things, of course, but they feel alien in this skin -- this Talia is patently not Talia. The real Talia Sullivan is tarnish and varnish and blown kisses, not chastity--]
Ephraim, we should have some home evenings together, just us. This isn't a good excuse for a family, these days, and we've lost touch with our spirituality. I realise that now. We need to spend some quality time together. |
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| red-handed jill. |
[Oct. 30th, 2011|06:49 pm] |
[Talia's been having bad dreams lately. The roiling stewpot of memory has given her more than bargained for, flinging too much uncontrollable nostalgia in her path: old memories retouched and redone in dreamlike form. And it means sleeping worse. It means crankiness, sharp retorts, and an outer skin with barbs. A sister more tired than she should be. Until, one day, said twin sister comes home to find it mewling: there's no note and no explanation for the fluffy creature in her home, just a very bright ribbon and little claws that immediately draw blood. It doesn't seem to like her.]
Pardon. Did someone leave a kitten at my flat?? |
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| wake me up when september ends. |
[Sep. 2nd, 2011|12:41 am] |
And it's officially September! Only twenty-one days until the official start of autumn, darlings -- I'd say we should prepare for magical hibernation, but it really seems the opposite. From what I recall of my last time wintering in London, beasts and beasties seem to get antsy with their own version of cabin fever. Is that still very much the same?
[LOCKED TO: SULLY, LIAM, GEORGE, RUDO, SERENA, VIVI, CANDY.]
Not this weekend, but the next: housewarming (or whatever you call it when you've been here a couple months, but it's your first chance to entertain). I'll cook something but mind you, I'm horrid, so bring snacks. And drinks. V, C: you'll get to see where I live and meet the lads (and ladies). Ephraim Sully, you c Sully, you can bring Cass if you like. Actually, anyone feel free to bring a guest if the mood strikes; it's spacious, we ought to fit. Or we'll simply get cozy by the end of the night. Whichever! |
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| raise our heavenly glasses to the heavens. |
[Aug. 1st, 2011|09:09 pm] |
Now that 2011 is the year of new beginnings for me (fresh move, new apartment, new job), I find myself becoming awfully philosophical about everything. So, let me ask: are you happy with your jobs, dear network? Did you see yourself becoming what you are today?
Me, I dreamt of being a veterinarian before I realised exactly how much work it would be.
[LOCKED TO: RUDO & SERENA.]
And we need to celebrate my change of circumstances, darlings. I'm employed, and this calls for a drink. |
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| the basics. |
[May. 18th, 2011|12:05 am] |
Dearest community: Recommend some watering holes, please. The less grimy, the better.
And you know, at this rate, this network's really just a glorified TimeOut.com. Are there any web designers in the audience today? The Library and Market should get racing on this -- anyone who's anyone has their own website these days. Branding. Social networking. It's all about Twitter. Threadbare journals are just so very passé.
[Dry, droll. Talia has less to offer, today -- her attention is scattered, knees drawn up to her chest, pen circling a separate notebook filled with private notes. Life has taken longer to fall into place than she expected.]
[LOCKED TO: EPHRAIM.]
Darling, I found someplace to live.
[LOCKED TO: MADAM.]
Is this the [a slightest pause, unnoticeable but for the hairbreadth' bleed of ink on the page--] proprietor named Madam? |
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| awkward turtle. |
[Apr. 8th, 2011|10:40 pm] |
[She's cleared out a corner in Sully's studio for herself; still living out of her backpack but now sprawling outwards, like a spider slowly weaving its nest. It's satisfying enough, but one can't sit still forever. If Talia is concerned about the rumblings on the journals, she does her best to mask it. There's a faint coffee-stain on the corner of her page, hurriedly brushed off before it deepens and darkens into something unseemly.]
So is this a terrible time to say that I'm also looking for a new job? Something interesting and something to do with people, please. Sometimes it feels like I've done everything entry-level under the sun, so I'll do anything, honestly, as long as it doesn't end up with a knife in my back. (Although I did know the most charming knife-thrower once. He threw impeccably.)
As luck would have it, I'm on the search for lodgings too, but that's something best handled alone. No offense, darlings, but I trust most of you about as far as I can throw you.
[LOCKED TO: EPHRAIM.]
Haven't noticed anything wrong lately, have you? Besides the obvious, obviously. |
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