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Lois Lane Has Nothing On Me

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March 17th, 2009


There is so much that we talk around, so many thoughts and fears and secrets that become like reflections in the glass of shop windows. The closer we get, the less we are able to make out what we're looking to see.

At night, I sometimes lie in bed, staring up at the stars while I prepare my confessions. I find the idea of letting those secrets I have never told a soul spill out to be so deliciously cleansing and yet, when the time comes to speak the words, my tongue refuses to form them. In some ways, it is just as well. I forget, during those long hours spent alone with the view, that while I have known him for most of my life, I've only just met him in his current form. I wonder whether I really know him at all.

I love him, I'm certain of this. Yet it is not always the softness of velvet I long to feel against my cheek as I imagine sharing the unread chapters of my life's story. This is the one confession that I will never share, for while we may find words for a million secrets yet unspoken, I dare not complain. I know exactly how it makes me sound, but I will take whatever he is willing to offer from whichever version of him is willing to offer it.

No strings, no demands, that's the promise I made to him. It was foolish and impulsive, and I suspect it will only become more difficult to hold myself to it. I have never felt as though my life required a man's presence to make it complete and that has not changed. Whether he is here or gone, my life is rich and full of such wonderful adventure. In truth, he would be in the way if he stayed for too long, and yet... I miss him.

It's different to the bitter ache that I nurtured for decades, this is a softer thing. I don't mourn for him now, instead I find myself reaching for my mobile as if I could just call him up for a chat. I want to share my fears when the monsters have all gone and the children have finally fallen asleep. It's not as though I can admit to them when I've been well and truly rattled. It's not only the fears, it's the triumphs I want to share as well.

And Luke. I can honestly say that I never intended or even necessarily wanted Luke to have a father, and yet it is such a strangely natural thing that I cannot imagine it any other way. Were it not for that, I might have been strong enough to send him away. Yet Luke has a father, a brilliant, wonderful man who adores him and I cannot force my son to give that up.

Yet even this leaves me torn. It's not as though Luke can truly depend on his dad to be there when he says he will, and as for the Doctor-- He will, one day, outlive his only child. I wonder if it might not be kinder to them both to simply sever all ties now, before either can get too attached.

I won't, of course. Ultimately, I cannot turn him down. I never could. He has but to look at me and all the strength I had gathered disappears. I don't want him to go. How much of that, I wonder, is a desire for him to stay and how much is the fear that he won't come back?

Eventually, Luke will grow up and go off to university and I won't be the least bit surprised if he becomes his father's traveling companion for a time. I can only hope that the Doctor has the sense to wait until he's finished his education before whisking him away to galaxies and planets unknown, but somehow I doubt it. I don't intend to go with them, not really. I miss life in the TARDIS, but there comes a point at which it's simply not practical. I'm perfectly capable of holding my own now, but I know that it won't always be that way. I am at the age where it becomes necessary to acknowledge that the road ahead is shorter than the one I've already walked. I will become a liability, one of these days, and what then?

Is he strong enough to stay by my side as I grow old and weak? Am I strong enough to find out, or will I ask him to leave rather than take the chance that he is too afraid to watch me die? Everything else that we talk around comes back to this. The details hardly matter when encapsulated.

In the end, we talk around the things that exemplify our twin demons. Do we trust or do we fear? I don't know.


December 10th, 2007

(no subject)

OOC: Posted directly after This Log


Oh, Sarah Jane, you've still got it.


October 2nd, 2007

(no subject)

too cool for the TARDIS
I'm not sure I'll ever get this damn book finished. It's become almost a chore, wading through heavy allusion and doublespeak, constantly rechecking notes to remember what I can and cannot print.

It's a bit of a relief to spend some time investigating something... normal. Shoddy workmanship and corporate fraud are nothing new, but I can't figure out the point of it. Surely there are more profitable avenues than school construction, and speaking of that, just where is the money coming from?

That's for tomorrow. Tonight, it's back to the bloody book.

September 28th, 2007

Sarah Jane Smith was abducted by aliens

The aliens were attracted by the hypnotic nostrils of Sarah Jane Smith
'What will your Headline be?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Oddly appropriate, but I think I'll stick with the byline, thanks.

September 27th, 2007

[Locked to gallifreyisgone]

I wouldn't normally ask, but stop by if you find a minute between adventures. I'm just back from Cardiff (apparently I only just missed you and Rose, completely coincidental, I assure you) and we're leaving for Thailand in a few minutes, but I've a favor to ask of you.

I'm not sure how to ask this, not sure I've the right, but I'm positively at my wits end and don't know where else to turn. It's important, although not exactly urgent. Nothing life threatening, at least. I'll explain later, but I'm running quite a bit late already and the taxi's due any minute now.

On an unrelated note, the end of the universe, really? I'd love to hear the story, Jack was anything but forthcoming.


What the hell am I teaching my son? Lie, manipulate technology, take whatever you want without thinking? It's my own fault as much as anything, he didn't know better. He never knows better, and maybe that'st he problem.

I don't have time to worry about it now, I've got to help him pack before we leave and I'm so far behind on this bloody book I'm not sure I can catch up, and the things I saw at Torchwood-- I can't use them, that was the agreement, but oh, if I could... Doesn't matter. I can't. I won't. If there's one thing I've always had it's integrity, and that's not changing now.

What am I going to do with Luke? The impulsivity, the absolute lack of self-control-- It's getting worse, if my now-overlimit credit card can be considered evidence.

He's cleverer than I am, and more than capable of talking his way ot of any limit I might try to set. The logic's flawless, beautiful even. But logic guided by naive innocence, especially in someone as bright as Luke. He needs guidelines, broad ones, perhaps, but a guiding ethic he can apply to any situation, and try as I might to provide one, he won't hear it from me. I'm not a disciplinarian, never have been, and I don't want to be his enemy.

I think I may need the Doctor.


September 16th, 2007

Writer's Block? Tea.

with the doctor.  the third one.
[Filtered so that marias_dad can't see this]

Every time I log into check my so-called 'friends page,' LiveJournal offers me writing prompts, something I find delightfully ironic, considering my profession. Perhaps even more ironic is the fact that, well, I'm about to make use of one of those prompts.

I rarely write for pleasure anymore, it's the curse of deadlines and relying on the written word as a source of income. The truth is, I haven't written a single word that wasn't aimed at a specific task since adopting Luke, and that's something I find to be unacceptable. I can find twenty minutes in a day to clear my mind or answer a ridiculous prompt from those who run LiveJournal. It's good for me, and what's more, I suspect it will make it that much easier to finish the damn book.

The prompt issued by the LiveJournal Gods today is this:
What is your favorite smell? What does it remind you of?

It was a long time before I began to notice scents the way I do sights, sounds, and more tactile things. When a person travels with The Doctor, there is simply too much to take in to notice everything sometimes. That changed on a little planet in one of the Antennae galaxies. If I'd gotten my way, we'd never have found ourselves there at all, but The Doctor insisted on a short stop between Zeta Minor and London.

Thousands of years in the future wandering through an astoundingly rural marketplace, I discovered what is perhaps the greatest creation in humankind's history: lacmeiohm tea. Made from a blend of about thirty different herbs and teas, none of which have been cultivated on this planet, there's simply nothing to compare it to.

To smell it is to taste it, and it's somehow light and rich at the same time. It's spicy but not in the way that spiced teas here on Earth are spicy-- not in the way anything here on Earth is spicy, really. On one sip I could have sworn I tasted citrus, but on the next any trace of citrus was gone, replaced by something far more complex. I traded a nicked sonic screwdriver for enough of it that I only ran out in 1982.

Lacmeiohm reminds me of travel, of youth, of freedom. It's comfort and familiarity in a world that's unbelievably foreign, a reminder that for all that the world changes, there are little comforts that remain timeless. A cup of tea, such a simple thing, but to find it lightyears away on a world I'll never see again-- a world no one on Earth has ever seen-- it's timeless, really.


September 13th, 2007



Three thousand two hundred ninety five pounds and eighty-eight pence.

I have absolutely not right to be angry with him, he has no concept of money and I should have known his love of excess would extend to downloading music. He was positively heartbroken when I told him he no longer had unlimited access, and standing my ground with him is more difficult than with anyone I've ever known.

He's a brilliant negotiator, but he's still just a child, and I refuse to be manipulated by him.

Three thousand two hundred ninety five pounds and eighty-eight pence.

It's not the money, not really. If I were truly concerned about the money, I'd pull out the good old Jasmine A. Harts alias, write a few thousand words and sell it to one magazine or another. I've plenty of stories left in me and it would take a week at most. It's been a while since she's put out a novel, but I think she still commands a pound a word for short fiction. I should check with my agent. Actually, I think I recouped it already by canceling the Russia trip a while back. That's not the point though.

It's not the money, it's Luke's apparent inability to exercise anything resembling self-control. He has no internalised sense of limitation, not with food, not with books, not with conversation and, it seems, not with music. I hardly have much right to complain, I suppose. I'm sure there are parents out there who would gladly trade their own children's habits for a love of books and music.

I worry about what comes next for him, however. His interests now are innocent enough, save for the damn elephant he still thinks he'll manage to talk me into buying. What happens when one of the children at school passes him a cigarette-- or worse? What happens when he discovers an obsessive love for something that's not so innocuous?

How do I teach self-control to a child who seems to lack any internalised sense of enough? More importantly, can I do it quickly enough that he's safe in the outside world? How do I help him find limits before those who might exploit his brilliance and naiveté find him?

(What's more, how can I even ask these questions when for days now I've been thinking about-- no, longing for-- one specific person who could gain so much by doing just that? I'm a bloody hypocrite, and what's more, I'm a fool for trusting him. In all of my fifty-plus years I've never been one of those women to be fooled by a pretty smile and a few words of flattery. Suddenly, even when all the evidence tells me to run away, all I seem capable of doing is running closer. I'm a bloody hypocrite, that's what I am.)

Three thousand two hundred ninety five pounds and eighty-eight pence, and there's absolutely no one I can talk to about what really matters.


August 28th, 2007

[Locked as Private]

Oh, I'm not going to like Luke's headmistress, I can feel it already. This is the third time I've spoken with her (the fifth, if you include phone conversations aimed at arranging two of our three meetings), and today she suggested that Luke be evaluated for autism. How precicesly does one explain to a woman who has devoted her life to the education of average children that not all non-average children suffer from some sort of defect or disorder?

I am fully aware that many of Luke's particular eccentricities might lead an educator to search for some sort of educated explanation. However, in this particular case, it is not any disorder within Luke, but rather the abnormal circumstances of his existence which lead to the clear difference between his intellectual intelligence and curiosity and his social and emotional development. I can't explain this to the headmistress, of course. Even if she were inclined to believe me (which I doubt), it would put the lot of us in a rather difficult and potentially dangerous situation of precisely the sort I hope to avoid for Luke.

The false history I've created for this sort of conversation was repeated again-- homeschooling, little opportunity for social interaction, brilliant but hidden and sheltered from the world in such a way that the customs and norms of behavior most of us learned in childhood were never absorbed. Every time the story is repeated, it seems to stretch the limits of credulity just that much more, and I fear those limits will eventually snap.

Today should serve as a lesson to me, and I must do my best to avoid any and all dealings with the administration of the children's school in the future.

There is, of course, the option of specialized institutions able to provide a more intimate and individualized learning environment. I'm unwilling to consider this to be a true option at the moment, I feel very strongly that Luke would benefit more from the ability to attend school with his only friend and a group of relatively average children. I feel it would encourage and at times force a bit more integration into normal society, thus allowing him to choose what to do with his life. I refuse to limit his opportunities or permit them to be dictated by the constraints of knowledge and secrecy demanded by a life devoted to the sort of work I engage in.

No, it's far too soon to consider subjecting him to a special education environment, thus further separating him from those who he will have to eventually accept as his peers.

I can only hope I'm making the right decision.


August 18th, 2007

One Word Meme

too cool for the TARDIS
Well, this was certainly an interseting exercise. Words are never in short supply in my life, and it's remarkably difficult to reduce myself to just one per question.

I managed, however.Collapse )
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