Rhapsody

Eh, I have a poem on about faith if I can find it. I really hope this thread doesn't turn into the ugly trash-talking threads it always does on every other board. I like Douglas Adams' answer. 42. Period.

I'm liking this name. How do you pronounce 'Moirai'? What do y'all think about 'Riot'? It was suggested on another board. Still open for siggestions.

True, I didn't even think of that. The river of fire: Phlegthon. And he is a Fire Mage...this is becoming a definite possibility, NoC. Peredhil, where did 'Moirai' come from?

Greek Underworld...like Hades--Elysia, Tarturus, Asphodel. So I'm guessing that would be Pantheon?

I need some major help naming a charcter. It is for a fiction/fantasy novel I'm writing. The Character: A 6'3" Caucasian boy with dark hair, square jaw, high cheekbones, tattooed arms, is a high school senior--fairly well-liked, active in theater, not the sharpest tool in the shed, crushing on a popular girl. He could be your best friend. But by night, he's completely different: a prowler of the streets, a predator, an arsonist. Yes, a VAMPIRE. Since its fantasy, I have taken the liberty of adding magic to the mix. Necromancy, and this character is of the element of fire. His coming heralds a new age of darkness: think fall of the gods, mankind sinking into oblivion, world ruled by blood and iron. Ironically enough, he is the hero, but his character is not dominant, often succumbing to the superior knowledge and experience of his best friend. The protagonist is a little shy, narrow-minded, kind of slow (mentally), naive in the beginning, but slowly matures to a suspicious, competent, keen-minded, and resigned character as he realizes that the Fates are playing against him. Also, as the story goes on, he learns to kill effectively--though he never learns to like it. His character hardens. The Setting: New York City and the Greek Underworld a few years in the future (2012) So I need a name. If someone could post their favorite guys' name, I'd very much appreciate it. I'd even offer a reward for the name that wins...not really. Unless you really want my signature to read "I worship (insert your name here)" Names I've already tried: Normal names: Brian, Mike, Steve, Dan Foreign names: Raja, Alessio, Kenshin, Pierre, Juan, Dakota Names from literature: Marius or Enjolras (Les Miserables), Dorian or Basil (Picture of Dorian Gray), Louis, Lestat, Armand (Vampire Chronicles), Holden (Catcher in the Rye), Byron or Lucas (Light in August , Rayford or Nicolae (Left Behind), Ashe, Gwydion, Tristan, Shrike (Symphony of the Ages), Raoul or Eric (Phantom of the Opera), Sirius or Draco (Harry Potter), even Ishmael, Ahab, or Starbuck (Moby Dick) I've even tried trees. Yes, TREES: Ash, Rowan, Sycamore, Laurel Some things to keep in mind when posting a name: -the meaning behind it (like Brian means "strong") -the language of origin -number of syllables (preferably short) -allusions Thank y'all in advance.

"You never forget how to swim," my dad told me once. It was one of those random spouts of parental wisdom that I've learned to suspect. It was also devious rationalization to goad me into joining our local swim team. One more reason not to trust fathers. Technically, his adage was correct. Muscle memory takes over once I splash into the pool, but the actual muscles fail. I arms and legs go through the motions, without the cooperation of my heart or lungs. Where had all that hard-won endurance gone? Down the drain, along with my finite allotment of patience. You see, I'm a former swimmer. Yes, an aquatic freak who has witnessed the horrific events that comprise competitive swimming. It starts pretty tamely. Head bobs. That's right. Remember those atrocious swimming lessons in which an obese, gum-chomping instructor ordered you to dip you head under and blow pretty bubbles to the top? And novices sputter to the surface, rubbing their burning eyes? Oh, it gets worse. Later, enthusiastic speedoed coaches, complete with repitilian-eyed goggles, urge innocent eight-year-olds to play games of Marco Polo, Dive for the Ring, Sharks and Minnows, and Run-Over-that-Slowpoke-Ahead-of-You. Oh, the latter was the greatest. You're swimming along, minding your own business when out of the blue, that new kid--aka "Lane-Hog"--decides to find out whether or not you're ticklish. He starts jabbing at your feet. You repress the urge to kick him in the face. Emboldened, he grabs at your legs to stop your forward-propelling flutter kick, and then scrambles over you, the damn speedball! Oh, don't get me wrong. It can be quite sensuous. Girls sliding over guys. Flesh on flesh. Until you get that foot in your face. And the coaches laugh. "Swim it off," they chortle. And that's all before you've hit the age of ten. When you get to be a senior, 13 or older, it gets better. Five o' clock AM workouts, long course pools, dryland training, VO2 (velocity oxygen) sets (aka "vomit" sets), anal coaches. Anal pregnant coaches. 3-hour workouts before and after school. Meets every week. Carb-based diets. Listening to coach's choice of music blaring through the pool. Girls dealing with guys' shameless peeing in the pool. Chlorinated everything. Yeah, the car smells continually of chlorine. I use a swimmers' shampoo, bodywash, ear drops. It's wonderful. As horrible as it is, this is nothing compared to actually quitting the team. You think you're out for good. You never have to see another pool, stop watch, or lane line in your life. Your hair will grow straight and soft, your skin revert from amphibious to humanoid, your nails grow at a normal rate, your goggle eyes and bizarre tan lines fade. Your shoulders and knees will escape pain and endless icepacks. "Pull buoy" and "aqua fin" will become antiquated terms. The word "taper" will simply come to mean a candle, its pronunciation unaccompanied by cheers of joy.You'll never again be forced to wear that horrid polo shirt emblazoned with the team's logo.Your flip-flops will last more than two months.You'll stop ruining watches. Right? Right? Haha. Wrong. Dead wrong. There's something addictive about the pool. Maybe its the chlorine already seeping into your brain. You see families flopping about in the pool on public-swimming days and pity them. You revel in the ease with which you glide through the water, cutting through it like a hot knife throught butter. You despise floatation devices and deem lifeguards unecessary. You find yourself chanting along with the PA system those cheers the team used to shout. So this, my friends (despite what the title says), is a eulogy. Hurrah for Christmas Day workouts! Hail the bearers of lettered Varsity jackets! Despite my two-year layoff from club swimming,I find myself back at the pool weekly. And yes, I'm regaining parts of the lost experience. The shoulder pains, the mileage, the massive water consumption, but there is also that primal glory of movement, that bulkiness of regrowing muscles, that surplus energy blazing through my veins...and the hot new lifeguard. Dad was right, this once. You never forget how to swim. Or to love swimming. Thank the gods for that.

*click clack* "Go away. Its not yet morn." *click clack* "My mind is still fuzzy. My body's still worn." *click clack* "Come to haunt me again in my sleep?" *click clack* "Feeling your oats, you equine freak?" *click clack* "Okay!" I glance through the curtains Where light creeps through. Through my dreams... Of riding Seattle Slew. *click clack* *click clack* *Click Clack* *Click Clack* Sweet Jesus! Dawn, an ungodly hour. These beasts wield such arbitrary power. *CLICK CLACK* Muscles burning Stomach churning. Yet the soul is learning. *CLICK CLACK* *CLICK CLACK* Round the gilt ribbon, we fly Hearts soaring, now kin to the sky This savage garden I know as the racetrack This surrogate for wings, atop this horse's back. *CLICK CLACK CLICK CLACK* 'Catch ya next time, cowboy!' Rhapsody rides off into the sunrise, her mount's hoofbeats slowly fading away.

**raises her glass** Hear hear! A toast to the Pen! Nice to see someone openly grateful. The Pen's done a lot for me. I've gained a lot by reading if nothing else. Though my posts have been less than prolific, I've vowed to make more of an effort to come here this summer.

I'm not familiar with the Song of Solomon (I'm far from religious), but this is worth a try. Velvet wriggling, cinnamon on snow Hearth-warm, used as a pillow Porky plump, proud plume Ravenous beast Always consumes Buries and exhumes Defender of our turf Racket in the night Fearing the surf Whimpers his plight Former orphan Now harbored under our roof Child of masters No longer aloof

Thinking is a process Speaking is a link Debating is a strife Crying is a release Sleeping is a quiescence Dreaming is an inspiration Breathing is a requisite Eating is a restoration Running is an escape Swimming is a discipline Reading is an enlightenment Playing (music) is a catharsis Writing is all of the above Writing is life The Pen is my haven The Pen is my heaven Amen

I'm old fashioned in that I actually write things out by hand before typing. It helps my thoughts flow. Pencil, only because you can erase. Pens bleed sometimes. And keyboards...are the mnedium of writers' block. For me, anyways.

I'm new to this analogies thing, so I'd appreciate someone explaining. Religion is a of blinders, not only denying the reality of the senses, but pointing one towards something which is not really there.

I've always been of the opinion that nurture rules over nature. I believe you can be taught to write to a certain extent. As Rune said, grammar and sentence structure and such can be taught, but ideas and style are personal. I think that one who reads a lot absorbs so much through osmosis, especially one who reads from different time periods. For example, the writing of say Shakespeare and Victor Hugo differs greatly from that of JK Rowling or Richard Preston. Coherency can be taught. Style cannot be taught. I say people like Kafka and James Joyce were born with that innate sense of individual style. Some of the Pen members here have a natural tendency to rhyme their poems of to write in a certain meter or rhythm. I think that's nature. It can't be taught. Likewise, perspective cannot be taught. The way ones sees things and records them is unique. That has to do with one's sense of morality, his ethics, values, etc. I think it is vital to write from the heart. As cheesy as it sounds, its true. You can hardly expect others to believe and feel for you if you do not believe in yourself. The same thing goes for writing. Pieces written half-heartedly hardly get a second glance. Piece written with passion or true adherence--I'm thinking Brave New World, Catcher in the Rye, and Song of Myself--have the potential to be immortalized. Everyone has their moments of inspiration. Even one who does not neccessarily like to write can write something substantial, something personal if they have experienced something that moves them. However, everyone's standard of great writing--literature--differs. What they may think is great may not strike your's or my fancy.

Oh, members of the Mighty Pen, forgive this Muse's lengthy absence. In a brief explanation, I was selected as one of six high-school juniors to participate in a nationwide writing contest, judged by AP English teachers. Hence, work on the following has engulfed what writing time I've had. Admittedly, I'm not nearly as prolific or spontaneous or talented as many of my fellow Pen members. I write because I love to write. I try, at least. This is, by far, the most expressive and personal piece I've ever written and yes, it was in a much-reduced rougher form, my application for the Pen. Note to Wyvern, I am female. Without further ado... Therapy in Sonata Form I. Carmen Cordis Prelude: Maestoso Hark! The bard arises Cloaked in velvet dark Taking the floor Taking his measure Merry guests all a-twitter Ensconced candles a-glitter Caged songbirds a-flitter Warble a tune! Thrush and lark Lyre and harp Strum the live wires And conjure forth chords From the lyre Chatter stills, laughter hushes All heed the wordless song Sheer melody quieting barons’ boasts And peasant gossip in one fell stroke Eyes turn to center stage Spotlighted; swathed in shade Dark lord, dark sage Is he mortal or god? Surely divine Wherefore that tragic gleam of the eye? But check your questions He speaks! Vibrant baritone Shaping syllables Shaping stories As story and song elide Magic is born; an irresistible tide Sweeping all aloft Listen hard, for troubadour’s tale swells but soft… Exposition: Vivace It was my way of unwinding from the daily pressure. Come home, drop backpack "thud" on my bedroom floor, set down violin case, and sprint over to my upright piano the color of melted cocoa, the sheen of varnish, covered by dusty manuscripts of scripted music, my niche of paradise. The hardback chair—my lofty throne from which I survey my realm: the chessboard keys of ivory and ebony, cluttered music books stacked haphazardly, scattered theory assignments, staff paper stuffed into various nooks and crannies—the half-formed progeny of my eccentric spurts of brilliance. Little box metronome standing on the corner, addled by time, almost as old as me. Has been clicking about a hundred clicks too fast for three years. I smile—the metronome’s incessant clicking harries the dogs at my instructor’s studio to no end. Twin black labs cringe beneath the coffee table until a sharp rebuke sends them out the door, tails tucked like expatriates. Oh, such memories await under that smooth planed cover concealing the keyboard. Lift the cover off by its polished brass knobs, switch on stand-up lamp, slump into the seat, not even a proper piano bench, and rip into the music. Rip apart the music, like ripping apart the day and this reality. Exhaust myself with these pounding fingers, small hands barely reaching past an octave, yet always stretching until the pain burns in my tendons and my pinkie feels like it will fall off. Poor pinkie; it feels dislocated. Such minute hands: delicately boned, blue veins barely visible, fingers short and slender—more suited to poising ink-dipped quills over parchment than spanning the scales of the keyboard. Apparently, they are perfect for the violin, my other musical interest; still, several Schumann’s, Rachmaninoff’s, even Beethoven’s piano solos remain beyond my reach. My brother, a former pianist three years my junior, sports bigger hands. Yet, he is content with his violin. The irony gods hate me. Development: Allegro con fuoco Start off with the Grieg Concerto. Brazen notes, minor keys, big disconcerting intervals: ninths, tenths, and fingers are screaming for release. This chaos, dissonant chords snarling, fingers scrabbling, feet working the squeaky pedals. The bass, this constant rumble of thunder in my head; the treble a flying falsetto, now trilling, now turning, like a bird in elaborate courtship flight, wings flashing jewel tones in the sun. The music seizes me; through it I, too, soar—but far from free. I am locked in rhythm, overpowering downbeats that explode in the hands and head. This movement, this energy ramming into the yielding keys. Let the tension in my shoulders slam into this stout instrument; let the frustration sear itself away in this flaming melody. This music rushes like wildfire from the pivotal fingers, up my arms, rocking my body, flushing my skin, boiling in my swaying head, and beyond; blasts of sound fulminate in the air, like static electricity, alive with its own scintillations. Agitato, ma non troppo Turbulence—a potent word. The Storm by Burgmuller contorts the soul as well as the fingers, but lifts me into ecstasy. I’m an inveterate performer of the piece. Fast forward several years and we arrive at one of my most hated manuscripts—the Chopin Prelude in C minor. A grand total of thirteen measures long and written completely in the bass clef, it represents depression at its deepest. The old pain remains terrible, and I find myself struggling not only with the notes but scrambling for a reason to reconcile myself with Mr. Chopin. As of now, my signature piece is Pieczonka’s Tarantella, a presto-paced piece incinerating my fingers while feeding the flame of my excitement. Though at first glance, its lime-green cover page and plethora of notes seems staggering, the eight pages whip by in less than three minutes and sticks stubbornly in one’s memory. I must thank my best friend for introducing me to that one. Now for the Mendelssohn Praeludium, so disturbing it reminds me of “Phantom of the Opera”. With its minor keys, odd intervals, and echoing quality, it literally raises the gooseflesh on one’s arms, if one can sustain the thrill through the frowning focus of sight-reading. Truly, these are pieces to burn calories with, work off excess energy or emotion, and then to clamber grumbling into bed. There’s no better medicine for insomnia. Exhaustion, sweat pearling my forehead, fingers warm from exertion, oblivious to the chill nip of the autumn air sieving through the drafty windows. Molto tranquillo Time to relax. Flow into Debussy or Beethoven. Oh yes, the Moonlight Sonata. Gently rhythmic, ostinato bass offset by the complementary undulations of the right hand. My bass blocked octaves are solid without much effort, my melody softly pulsing. My wrists are serpentine, supple—no edges to this music. These gorgeous accidentals ring like raindrops plashing into a puddle. This dark music stirs deep longing; it raises the goosebumps on my arms. Heavy eyelids droop, easing me into a natal darkness where sensation is the only reality. Blind, I pick my path among the keys. I negotiate tricky trails of sharps and flats. The music is palpable; it swells and envelops me in its embrace, its womb. Can one be born from sheer sound? Tears spring from the sheer beauty, hot trails that streak my face, silently trickling from beneath my closed lids, letting the piano speak more eloquently than I ever could. Pure rapture. Yet always the pain lurks. White-hot, cruel light that lacerates my tendons. It’s held at bay only by the unrelenting rhythm of broken chords wrenching down my digits, until I’m numb and the pain recedes to a dull throb. Those huge intervals that must be played, must be heard, beckon my pinkie. Thumb is the anchor; pinkie is the lifeline flung out, hopefully reaching its destination. Is the cast strong enough? Adagio cantabile Beauty is the word, music that triggers that dizzying warm feeling from the pit of the stomach. I refuse to be circumscribed to only Beethoven’s dark vision of beauty. Give me Bach’s pastoral masterpiece, Sheep May Safely Graze, whose divine harmonies lace this secular theme; indeed it is worthy of a full-fledged church organ and glee club. Broadway, too, inspires with Memories, simple and sad, an old favorite that lends itself so well to my hands, I can sing in time. Switch to the Impressionists—pastel gardens of Monet, dappled light of Renoir, and wistful Clair de Lune of Debussy. Two contemporary pieces establish themselves in my repertoire: Gerou’s pentatonic Prairie Winds—picture tumbleweeds and wind rippling through golden stalks of wheat—and Journey West, alternately powerful and poignant. All are testament to the relevance of beauty to the human heart. Animato Rampant energy: the hallmark of a caprice. Sprightly—yes—this is the word. Grieg’s Puck is delight to play, rambunctiously staccato, characteristic of its namesake—the indebted deity of Shakespeare’s Propsero in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Roar into Maple Leaf Rag, torture to the hands, but utterly addictive. Syncopation and chord progressions supply surprisingly facile read. Ragtime means jumping octaves, invectives from the agony in my fingers, and an inane grin plastered across my face as I rip gleefully through. The Rondo Alla Turca is quite a different story—a piece I carry a personal vendetta with. I have a love-hate relationship with Mr. Mozart, no doubt enhanced by “Amadeus”, where Mozart’s effusive laughter alternately tickles and dismays me. Whereas quick treble lines suit me, presto-paced octave-length bass rolled chords do not. Hence, we have a problem, which is rapidly resolved by scrapping Sir Wolfgang and opening the frayed leaves of Bartok’s Grasshopper’s Wedding. High triplets and syncopated bass bring nostalgia for the countryside. Perhaps it’s the theme—constantly changing, but never losing its essential melody. Certainly, it’s enjoyable, but simultaneously piques myriad emotions I cannot begin to define. Physical effects include a tightening of the chest, an ache behind the eyes, a perpetual sad smile. I have yet to understand why. Lento Grave Music makes me sad, particularly piano music, though eliciting a vast spectrum of emotions, inevitably leaves me bereft. “Bereft of what?” I ask myself. “Whatever’s behind this music, whatever inspired it”—love, fever, experimentation—all these diaphanous abstractions that never satisfy curiosity. Then, there’s the opposite view: music relieves sadness. Whenever the Mavericks lose, my grades plummet, a best friend moves, summer ends, or my parents fight, there’s always the panacea of music—mournful music. Beethoven’s Pathetique stirs intensity that lingers atop those ephemeral chords, buttressed by a solid denouement that forces me to swallow hard before flipping back to the beginning and starting again. Few other pieces have the combination of fortitude and tenderness that so moves me. Satie’s Gymnopedie and Rebikov’s Valse Melancolique draw similar responses because of their simplicity and grace. Gymnopedie I first encountered in a computer game (old school Oregon Trail) and fell in love, while my best friend performed Rebikov for me after some cajoling (for I loathe waltzes). Strangely, I nurture a love for Oriental pieces, reveling particularly on a simple version of Shangri-la from Milton’s Lost Horizon. It’s a distant connection to my heritage. As an American-born Chinese, I’ve seen antique heirlooms of gilt and tasseled Burmese harps, have witnessed performers in saris and longyis and elaborate headdresses pluck exotic melodies from unidentified instruments, have heard a Burmese Madonna sing live, but nothing ever strikes home quite so much as playing a piece yourself. Shangri-la, with its peculiar sixths and Asian rhythms, alienates me further. It sounds quaint, but the chords don’t seem to fit the hand. Honestly, it sends shivers up my spine and I’m uncomfortable playing it; that in itself is reason enough for grief. Cadenza: Brilliante End with my favourite: Pachelbel, the jazz version. It’s my preference to first dazzle audiences with, an ingenious twist on an orchestral classic. Tears welling at the slow intro, whipping myself into a frenzy with the unrelenting runs of the cadenza section, crouch close to dancing fingers at delicate phrase played high in the treble, and come battering home, ending on fortissimo grandiose chords. All of it woven together in a round, familiar repeated melodies transforming like gossamer-winged butterflies into something hauntingly different. Six pages of bliss, only enhanced by my fanaticism. Five prison bars confine me, the unyielding bars of the staff. Dark spheres of note-heads weigh me down like leaden anchors, shackled to my feet. The glories of music, lifting me to heavenly heights and plunging me into gloomy Hades. It will be the death of me. Still I cannot get enough. Recapitulation: A tempo, expressivo But Mom can. She's had it with my pounding, my wayward striking, afraid I'll either break the keys or my hands. Banished to my room for another endless night of homework. Glaring at mother, wiping sweaty palms on jeans, jerking the smoothly-planed cover back over the warm glowing keys, leaving fingerprints on the brazen knobs, clapping shut dog-earred volumes of musical text, switching off incandescent lamp, skulking back into the real world. The world of school, world of work. Noisy, noisy, noisy. White noise and incessant jabbering, rustle of paper and scribbling of pencils. My trembling hands, once again subject to numbing cold, picking up pencils, paper, homework. My heart still beating in time to the music felt in my heart, those lingering cadences. I will not be denied. Notebook paper bearings the stigma of algebra problems now are blessed with my poetic scribblings in the margin. Potential song lyrics. Where is my stash of blank staff paper? Let the siren now play the muse; let the keys of inspiration unlock my untapped potential. Let poetry and music merge, let it crystallize into yet another priceless gem to be inset into Calliope’s crown. Yet—I turn back to those pesky numbers—algebra comes first. I gather pencils, paper, calculator…and portable CD player. Yes, time for schoolwork, but only with maestro-god Yanni ringing in my ears. Coda: Mysterioso The hypnotist checks his voice A slight smile gracing His face His spell is woven His tale is done Fragments yet echo in the banquet hall Listeners still noosed in his thrall But slowly they awake Dreams drugging their gaze Bemused—they glance around—ascertaining their assumptions In the mirror of their comrades’ glazed eyes Their truths now twisted An irreconcilable knot lodged in their hearts Forgotten, as they resurface to reality, to play their parts In the drama that Time Ensnared unwittingly in song and rhyme Sated, Orpheus stashes away his lyre His deed perfected Not a soul neglected His message selected Accepted or rejected Slowly, he extends a bow to his king Then melts into shadow; a phantom on the wing Going—silent—as he came To wander the world on his crusade Bearing mine or your name Or perhaps both are the same?

Dear Diary, I have been away on a massive guilt trip. Rhaps has neglected to her duties as a sworn member of the Pen. And has slowly let her writing "skills" whittle away. Blame the SAT's or finals or the absolute passivity summer reduces one into. I'm quite lethargic, sadly. My recreation consists only of massive finger metabolism...typing. More particularly IM. Excuse me a minute while I answer one. * ** *** **** ***** Sorry, got caught up checking out all the fly emoticons they've got here. My friend says I need decaf. She just doesn't understand. She is, by the way, awesome. I was paid to say that. Anyways, I'm dreading the passing of the next few hours. Before I have to pay a visit to good ol' college prep school and take a practice SAT II. Why is life based around standardized test scores? You would think in this day and age, America would get past ranking each other. Freedom and equality right? Riiiight. **Will not get caught up in philosophical discussion. Will not. Will not.** The Mavs lost. Hence, my conspicuous abscence form the board. Depression has a way of stifling any semblance of activity. Will be basketball deprived for the next few days and Mav-deprived until November. Right, I'm here to write. Oh well, won't be the first time I've gotten off topic today. Until inspiration strikes, I'll let y'all in peace. And go search for a serviceable sig. Always, Me

If there are any sports fans here, please speak up. Let's start off with the typical question: Who's gonna win the championship this year? LA? San Antonio? Sacramento? Dallas? Did anyone see the Sacramento game? Could someone update me? The last time I checked Kings were winning by 7. Please tell me they won. Personally, I'm a Maverick fan and after seeing tonight's game, I'm a bit shaken. Portland really brought it to us in the second quarter. I think before the series is over, pure athleticism will play a factor. The Blazers have young athletic guys, while Mavs are known for their soft white boys. And the playoff atmostphere really revealed the Mavs defensive vulnerablilites...as in we have none. When Dirk is on, the Mavs can win. When he's not, we have a streaky record. If Nash or Nav Exel or Fin steps up, we have a chance. If not, we're screwed. Wow, San Antonio absorbed a real heartbreaker today. Even though the Spurs are Mavs rivals, I still take pride in them being Texan. I can't help but symphathize with them. But I have to admit, Marbury's buzzer three was SO FLY! Talk about pandemonium...it eerily reminded me of last year's Horry three at the buzzer in the second round LA-Sacto series. But bad memories. I think the Spurs are the best team in the league right now. They are peaking and have beaten LA in all their outings this season. The way I see it, the Western Conference Finals comes down to Spurs vs. Kings. How about Boston huh? Can't say I'm heartbroken considering the Pacers broke the Mavs 14 game winning streak early in the season. Not that I like Boston. But I think Indiana is too good a team to lost to Boston. But I predict a tough 6 or 7 game series especially after today's upset. What do y'all think of tomorrow's T'wolves--LAL game? Do KG and Sczerbiak really have a chance of beating the 3-peaters? Secondly, who do y'all think will win the East? HOpe I'm not talking to myself.

A very late reply, but I'm looking forward to seeing the Cowboy Bebop movie. Fortunately it is coming to Dallas but I haven't heard much about it. Other than its good "for an anime film".

Mind is good as well, despite not having been checked for several months.

Musically: Beethoven Yanni Joplin Poets: Walt Whitman Robert Frost Writers: Tolkein Anne Rice Ayn Rand George Orwell And pretty much every other writer I've seriously read.

Pissy!! I just had this huge long post replying to everyone's names when my computer went wacko and deleted all of it. Damn!! Peredhil and Gwaihir, the main point was that I knew I'd heard your names somewhere before. I've been harrying my LOTR friends and they were vaguely of the impression they'd heard the words before. But we couldn't quite place it. Now it hits me; you're Tolkein fans! Acutally, I'm planning to use "Gwaihir" in one of my upcoming fics. It just sounds cool on the tongue. Anyways, Rhapsody is plagarized off of Elizabeth Haydon's bestselling fantasy trilogy that includes Rhapsody, Child of Blood, Prophecy, Child of Earth, and Destiny, Child of Sky. Rhapsody is a unique girl of Lirin blood, which is Haydon's equivalent of fey. The Lirin live on the isle of Serendair, and supposedly came from the stars, as is evident in Serendair. She met her soulmate through a twist of Fate, or Time, to put it in Haydon's terms. But he was returned to the future and she was left devastated, so much so that she made a pitiable living as a whore. Now Lirin have several special traits. A Singer, such as Rhapsody was, studies music and sings vespers every morning and evening to the rise and fall of the Sun. Also, being of Namer blood, Rhapsody is physically and pyschologically incapable of telling a lie. Rhapsody's life took a severe downturn when she was kidnapped by two otherworldly creatures and the trio fled into the root of the World Tree, Saiga, whose roots bisect the earth. Something happened through the 14-century journey that made Rhapsody 1) immortal 2) of the element of Fire 3) irresistably beautiful, so much so that she must tie her hair back in a black ribbon to keep from being mauled, and 4) in sore need of a bath. Events transpire and Rhapsody eventually is reunited with her lover from 14 lifetimes ago and ends up using her powers as a warrior, mage, Singer, and healer to save the world from the fiery clutches of the F'dor. In the end, she is married to her lover, who just happens to be the long-lost crown prince of the nation. So she becomes royalty in the end, but is cursed to be barren, or so the legend goes.... Am in the middle of Haydon's fourth book, Reqiuem for the Sun and in the process of finding out whether or not 1) the F'dor is truly vanquished and 2) if the Seer's enigmatic words of death-bearing childbirth really relate to Rhapsody. The "Maverick Muse" part of my name comes from my obsession with writing of course as a source of inspiriation and the unconventional image I try to bring to every field I work in. Plus, I'm a hardcore fan of the Dallas Mavericks, and have a username of "Muse" on one of the music boards I'm at. Will shut up now as have SAT's to study for. 8:00am is an inhumane hour for standardized testing, especially on a Saturday! Am off to pout.

Hmmm, I approve of this new home. Rhapsody Maverick Muse Initiate 66 posts Will the rest of the original Pen be transcribed also?