For the Chronicles challenge on Sunday Scribblings (can everyone congratulate me on trying to do something creative and not writing on the Methos chronicles from Highlander: The Series) I've been struggling with how to tell this story for quite some time. I think the chronicle idea might be just the fit. I was extremely ranty about this story for some time, perhaps the chronicle thing will help curb my anger.

I wish it to be known that:
1. I am not a pro restaurant dancer in the city of snow. I just am chronicling their story.
2. I generally do not enjoy posting angry posts, but felt the need to let this out. I hope my retained humour about this situation is visible throughout this post.

Warning: This chronicle may contain a smidgeon of authorial interpretation/comment.

There was once a city in the snow. Long ago, a fiesty and strong-willed woman named Anemone wanted to bring some warmth to the chilled populace and decided to start belly dancing at local eateries to provide entertainment and colour for the clientele. She and her brand of sensual dancing (it was exotic and it was dancing, but it was not exotic dancing)were much loved and the eateries at which she danced rose in popularity. But all was not roses for the fair Anemone.

As she was the first to make shimmy in the icy city, there were many rules and regulations that she had to stamp out with the owners of these establishments, such as payment for the dance, and the treatment of her physical person. Being both fiesty and strong-willed, she managed to wrangle a fair price and regulations about dancing. The owners all acknowledged her rules and played fair most of the time, and everything was mostly peaceful. There was only one owner, who this author shall call C, who owned a chain of restaurants we'll call the C-spot, who ever snarled and quibbled about prices and occasionally threw a disrespectful word the dancer's way. But he was of Mediterranean blood and people expected some eccentricity from him, and being the kind of woman she was, Anemone never had too much trouble taking him down.

Many years later, Anemone left off dancing in the restaurants because she was quite tired and because she wanted to allow newer dancers, such as Shahenda, Aldiya, and Tatiana to enter the business. These other dancers grouped together to form a strong alliance, they encouraged and protected eachother as Anemone had taught them. They are a force to be reckoned with and are comparable in quality with dancers across the world. Whenever C tried to dispute prices, the dancers would stick together and not undercut eachother. There were newer belly shakers who did not yet know the rules and who tried to underprice, but they were not as good and they did not have the quality of beautiful costuming that the other dancers did. As he could not get a professional dancer for less than the standard rate, C always had to bow down and pay the official price. And so, the popularity of the dance grew and the audience, dancers, and restaurant owners lived in harmony with one another.

Then came this past New Year's Eve. This is the one evening a year where the prices for the dancers changes, they charge double as it is a big night and they all have many places to perform at. Just providing petrol for the transportation on that evening could cost a dancer a pretty penny. C, as always, put up a fight about the extra cost and, as always, the performers stuck together and refused to let him bully them. Or so the perfomers thought. A dancer named Viraj, who everyone had supported as he had had a bit of difficult climb being a male belly dancer, had decided to tell C that he would dance at the regular rate and not charge double.

Here I must explain the story of Viraj, as apparently chronicles have to be in chronological order and I'm not sure how the hell to do that in this type of story wherein in so many characters'lives are intertwined. Viraj started dancing and had a gift for it, and so the dancers tried to get him a place in the performance world. He was, truth be told, a little lazy and did not make much of an effort to learn about the culture from whence his shimmy came. But he was a good performer. The real problems came when he started to promote himself, as a more false advertiser could not be found in the land. He claimed to be Canada's only male belly dancer, clearly false and especially egregious given the proximity of a male dancer far more proficient than he, the fabulous Nath Keo. He claimed to have danced with Cirque du Soleil, which if you will pardon the author's french, is total horseshit. He also claimed on some of his promotional material that he was taught by Shakira's intructor's instructor. As no one is at all sure who this unnamed instructor could be, this author cannot verify whether this last statement is false or not, but if you'll allow some authorial comment, I feel that the statement is, at best, iffy.

Returning back to the night of the New Year, Viraj undercut all the other dancers and even offered C his student dancers at a reduced rate for the evening. This was the first time this sort of thing had happened amongst the professional dancers in the city. When one of the grand ladies of the art called C to ask what was happening, C replied, and I quote: "Oh come on, I could get a blowjob for less than that." At which point, the grand lady cut the lines of communication between them (she hung up on him). All the professional dancers, aside from Viraj, are refusing to dance at the C-Spot.

Having obtained C's approval, Viraj is the booking agent for dancers at those two restaurants. Viraj is using his students (who this author can only assume do not know any better) and charging a reduced rate to C and he is taking a cut of the dancers' pay (which is customary of a booking agent), as well as taking a cut of the dancers' tips (not so customary).

Having heard this completely impartial chronicle, no one in the city in the snow ever took belly dance lessons with Viraj again, nor did they eat at the C-Spot. They discovered the lamb was better at Koutouki (and other restaurants) and that the dancers at these other, non C-owned, restaurants gave off a warmth and grace that could not be competed with.

I'm pulling a 12 hour work day today, but I couldn't let the whole day go by without wishing everyone a happy Robbie Burns day.

I've been named an honorary Scot, so I might lose this prestigious title if I let the day go by unmentioned.

God how I'd love a deep fried haggis from a chippy in Glasgow right about now.

Uh oh, the Sunday Scribblings this week is "fantasy" and she wants us to discuss the genre. For a girl who lives for fantasy, is a total geek, and is doing an MA in Comparative Literature in Children's Portal Fantasy, and who is, on top of all this, extremely long-winded, this could be a long post.

Or I could just copy paste something from a debate on Kirtles' blog about the validity of the genre. I won't even say what Kirtles said to prompt this debate, except that the word "silly" was used and I jumped on my high horse to become the white knight of the genre and a good discussion was had. We were discussing sci-fi and fantasy, but I tend to vear more towards the fantasy. I have a few theories on why this genre is so popular, and this is one of them.

What I think is actually at the route of both the problem and the beauty in this genre is comfort. I have this theory that geeks like myself (ie: obsessive/compulsives) want comfort, they are obsessed by things that provide comfort and for some reason, much of what sci-fi/fantasy puts out provides that. Part of how they provide this is in the escapism of course, the very existence of an otherworld, in which a variety of things impossible in our world can come true. They provide a place where we can believe things can be different - which is essential to believing we can make a difference in our world - they create possibility and hope, which is comforting. Somebody, Donald Palumbo I believe (I don't pull out my thesis books for blogging), said that fantasy is the genre used to express ideas which might be possible in our world, whether that be eradication of homophobia, that the isolated kid will eventually get his cake, or simply the idea that wonder might seep back into our world. Escapism into otherworlds, and the possibility of something different is also just pure, unadulterated fun - sure women can have three breasts, why not? Gaining comfort and amusement from this opening up of possibilities is the beautiful part of this type of fiction.

The bad part of where the comfort comes from are the formulaic plots. Human beings sometimes gain comfort by doing things that they know the outcome of. They can gain comfort in routine and knowing where they are going. It’s the same thing with lovers of the romance novel - the reader knows where the plot is going and how it’s going to get there before they even finish reading the first page. Some, though certainly not all fantasy authors, can fall into this category. The quest fantasy and the spaceship sci-fi often provide exactly this sort of thing. And I’m not saying it’s wrong to want this sort of comfort sometimes, to pick something up and know what you’re getting, but it’s kinda depressing to want it all the time. But it’s what some people want, or it’s what some authors mistakenly believe people want, so they just use the fantasy/sci-fi formula and create a series (series’ rather than stand-alones are very important for the obsessive/compulsive).

Anywho, it's just one of my ideas about the popularity of the genre that has so entranced me for so many years. The other theory of why I like it is that it has a lot of small people conquering over big people, which always makes the shorty in me happy :)

And from the man who uses the genre to open doors, windows, volcanoes of possibility:

Okay, I know I know I'm very late with my Sunday Scribblings thing.

This week's prompt is "idea" so I thought I would finally put up the pics from an idea of mine. I had the idea to go to New York which led me to take Ariellah's Darker Side of Fusion workshop, which led to me loving gothic belly dance, which led to me doing her choreo and getting Jodi to come up with an additional one to perform at this year's Isis show. It was pretty damn different from anything anyone had ever seen at an Isis show, so I was happy. This idea then led to my having the idea to invite Ariellah up to do a workshop, which I am organizing in my usual gong show way, but I think it'll be awesome! We're getting a couple of goth-gear vendors in, and some of the music she uses. She usually teaches for people already slightly skilled in bellydance (1 or 2 terms of classes taken), just to warn the total novices who might want to join. The info is up at our still half-assed but hopefully soon whole-assed website. Kanga is coming to take pics of us for the website on Sunday so WOO HOO! (told you I'd get my way on you being our photographer didn't I?)

Anyway, here are the pics from my first duet and my first goth performance. They're not the most stellar pics, but poor Stacey who was taking the pics was apparently crying her eyes out in joy for me. Which is only fair as I bawled my eyes out during her first solo. I was going for evil Raggedy Anne, I think I succeeded.

Two more entries in my challenge of describing a french kiss (with the word tongue in it). I like the story of the first one, but I think the actual tongue action is better in the second. The two authors shall remain anonymous unless they tell me otherwise.

"I can't fuck you" he says "I won't".
"So come in and don't fuck me" She grabs him by the belt and pulls him through the door. She stops short and he runs into her. She laughs and turns. The hallway is dark and mostly it's just the shape of her. Their mouths meet; her lips tasting lightly of fruit and her mouth of whisky.Her tongue, twinning to his, a warm touch and slide as the two brush. The very tip of his tongue traces the inner line of her lips,the bottom edge of her front teeth, and then the tip and the sides of her tongue.
She presses forward and then pulls back and grinning says "don't fuck me".
"I won't fuck you" he says again and reels with the want coursing
through his body. He half falls against the wall and then grabs her by the back of the neck and kisses her again, hard. She has one leg around him and a hand on his hip as she pulls and bites the side of his mouth and she tastes him again, her tongue on his.
"I have to go" he says.
"So go" she says.
"I have to go". He grabs her again and kisses her and then pushes her away.
He looks at her and he's about to say something but then doesn't.
He bolts out the door and halfway to his car screams "fuck" into the night air.

and

Their lips met, tentatively at first, and her breath caught with desire for the first time in so many years. Her walls fell slowly away as they kissed, hesitant like teenagers, though she could feel an adult's hunger trembling below the surface. When their tongues touched she felt a stab of wet heat between her legs- had kissing a man ever been like this? Every brush of her lover's tongue across hers brought with it an inescapable wave of image and sensation, lips and labia tingling as one while they explored taste and touch and the first awakenings of passion.
That song that says 'it was only a kiss' must be a man's song, she thought, for truly women make love with their tongues...

To Kirtles, thank you for making me laugh with this entry for the "describe a french kiss with tongues" challenge (note this is after I had said that perhaps it's so hard to describe well because "tongue" is not a sexy word):

Their two tongues touched in a warm, wet tango of tonguiness. In their separate yet united mouths a bilingual party of lunging, licking, and lapping exploration of taste buds, tonsils, and teeth. Tongue. Tongue. Tongue. Meanwhile, the French are perplexed and indignant, as usual, but perhaps with good reason

"Bilingual Party" is going be my new way of saying "french kiss"

The move to the new house has gone well, though I still have much cleaning to do at the old place. And though I have a whole month to clean it, I'm one of those people who will be over there on January 29th, cleaning furiously because it's not done yet. Unless there is the proverbial fire under my ass, that ass is just going to remain seated thank you very much.

Which would explain the slow going on this damn thesis. I have a supervisor now who seems to understand things - he actually said "academia just isn't what you want to do is it?" and I said "very perceptive of you" and so he said "then who cares? just get the thing done, it doesn't have to be perfect" and it made so much sense to me. I love academia, I love learning, I love reading, I love discussions and thinking. But I think I may be a person who enjoys doing things, rather than reading about other people doing things and analyzing what they've done. I love my academic friends, but have noticed that some of them have never lived a day in the real world and sometimes that just irks me. This from a girl who likes to spend entire years in daydream. My hypocracy knows no bounds.

And there's so much to do right now, I'm trying to set my troupe up, we're holding a Gothic Fusion workshop in March, I'm stage-managing the Gyspy Caravan show that VibeTribe is bringing up in April, I've got all this practicing to do. There are classes to organize, there is the learning of how to write grants for non-profits and how to write business plans for the school we hope to open up. And yet more practice of the dance.

And I get so excited when I think about it and spend all day watching videos of dancing and working out moves and emailing to the groupe about organizational stuff and then I sit down to write the thesis and all the energy seems to go "poof!" I've been given time off for the next two months (barely working at the bookstore) and I'm supposed to use it to finish this damn thing, but...I don't wanna!

Okay, I will get off my ass at this computer and go sit on my ass at a non-internety computer elsewhere. I can do this, I am doing this, I WILL DO THIS!





Hmmm...still here. Dammit. Oh well, better go see what YouTube has to offer.

This week's Sunday Scribblings is kissing. I was going to try to write something creative, but actually I've been wanting to post about people writing about kissing in all the erotica I read. Some people really have describing kissing down, they really get how to do it. But no one I have read has ever described french kissing well, actually if I read one more description of "tongues dueling" I just might throw myself off this mortal coil. Tongues don't fucking "duel." I'm not quite sure how to describe what they do do, but it ain't dueling. I also don't like the description of tongues
"stroking/exploring every bit of the inside of his mouth" - that just creeps me out, what is the guy doing? Counting your teeth? I just don't know that any writer has ever done the tongue action justice - this is not to diss any writers in particular, I just don't know if the act of two wet, slimy protuberances joining in a moist environment will ever be successfully described. In fact, here, I issue an addendum on to the kissing challenge! Describe a hot french kiss, the tongues involved in it, and do it so it makes me weep for the beauty of it.

Hot fanfic is fairly difficult to find, in reality. I've been reading a lot more for the writing than the porn, but I've noticed that the writers that are just downright steamy (who needs a humidifier?) are the ones who get the angst just right. They know how to bring an intensity to the moment of copulation through the utter angst of "how can this actually work, heartbreak is imminent" and then they just desribe the act really really well. So basically, if you're looking to write hot smut, my years of reading expertise have given me the formula:
angst + hotgraphicdescription = good porn.

This is a review of some of Mairead/Aristide's fic (her dark and light personas have different noms de plumes). She is by far the angstiest, hottest slash writer out there and this review is actually of one her lighter stories.
Aristide: The Declaration

I'm just. I can't. Mo-ther. I'm just gonna paste in my fb to her as the rec:

I may have mentioned this before, but... Jesus GOD, woman! This story is a
*sin*. See, 'cause, I'm panting and my eyes are tearing and I'm at that stage
where I just want to find two recently showered huge, hairy biker bears and
let them take turns before coming back to devour them until they *scream*.

My inner sub is quivering. My inner dom is *roaring*.

But dammit, the build-up was so *good*. It was! It made me smile, and it
was so *them*, even without the blood and god *dammit* its' not *fair* what
you do to me. Duncan. Methos. *wail*

Mother Mary.

Get the picture?


Where was I? Right, kissing. Kisses without the actual description of the tongues involved have been very well written in erotic fanfic. I shall leave you with descriptions from one of my alltime Spander faves, she's both funny and talented, the fabulous Anna S.

From "A Week of Wrong"
He palmed Spike's neck, rubbed his thumb across the collarbone and then up. When Xander caught his eye again, the vampire was gazing at him like dinner, lips ever so slightly parted. That called for a kiss, tongue even, and as their mouths closed negotiations, something like a light switch snapped on and Xander came to and felt what he was about to do with every shocked, electrified cell of his body. He made a ragged sound and forced Spike's mouth open, finding an angle that made so much sense he finally got it, he got geometry.

From "The One in the Cave"

This is one of the classic Spander plots where they get caught by monsters and the only way to get out of a bad situation is to screw. This moment comes after Xander states humourously
"Just so we're clear: I'd never screw you if the alternative wasn't giant pigs."

A few minutes became a few more and they were still just kissing but it didn't feel like they weren't making progress. Xander felt as if this was the first real conversation he'd had with Spike and every moment that passed he understood more and more. Spike was telling him things, his thoughts; secret thoughts, quiet thoughts, soft thoughts, thoughts that were broken and tangled and difficult to get across, and serious; and Xander talked back and could feel words spilling out the way they did when he was excited, jumbling and tripping back over themselves, and the conversation slipped into that groove where you're both talking over each other, finishing each other's sentences, nodding, yes, yes, because you're both on the same wavelength, and you need to get out this next thought, and another, and get to the end of it, because when you do, the other person will laugh, nodding in recognition, and you'll laugh in relief, being heard. Xander was being heard.