And Now It Is Saturday
Jun. 23rd, 2007 09:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tanarillI don't know what this means to you.
Yesterday (Friday) I did very little in an artistic way. Notice the new layout. I may change the "Asylum" Theme later, but the colors, they stay.
Today I got up all early to go to Shul (synagogue, only I have never been able to understand why gentiles call it that, because it's called either Shul if you're orthodox or conservative and Temple if you're not) and actually spend most of the time in the main sanctuary praying. This is opposed to the library, where I usually hang out. I generally avoid the sanctuary like the plague. Because.
Jewish prayers are a lot like Catholic Mass. There are set prayers, in a set order, and they haven't changed for hundreds of years. All the prayers are recited in Hebrew, too. The end result is that services here=services in Israel=services in Botswanaland=services in China=services in Antarctica, and if you find yourself in a part of the world with a Shul, you already know the prayers.
What this also means: prayers are long, boring, and because of an obscure line of text, recited twice. All of it. Once silently, although how they expect us to finish in the given time I am not sure, and then again out loud by the cantor. Services start at around eight and finish about noon. My family generally doesn't get there till 10:15, an it's painful even then. I like small minyans better. If you have ten or fifteen people, everything works and you can blow through the prayers. If you have more than fifty, you must go at the speed of the slowest, deafest old man. Who is slow.
Then there was seven layer cake, which made up for it. Yes, it's that good.
After coming home, I took a nap. Because sleep=yummy.
Now, onto the Thing I wrote.
Title: Pineapple
Rating: G
Warnings: Slash. Slashity slashity slash.
“ . . . There is a pineapple on your hat,” said James. “Why is there a pineapple on your hat?”
“Because a watermelon wouldn’t fit,” replied Keith, sashaying across the room. James swallowed. In addition to a hat that, yes, featured a pineapple as a major stylistic element, Keith was wearing: one bright yellow shirt printed with various tropical flowers; one black corset-like thing, laced up over the yellow shirt; fourteen bracelets, distributed unevenly between his arms; nine anklets, two on his left legs; one armband, placed so that it counterbalanced the tattoo on his right arm; and one cyan-blue flower-print skirt that did the opposite of match the shirt.
“I just know I’m going to regret asking,” said James slowly, “but why are you wearing that?”
“So that you can take it off,” said Keith happily. He knew all of James’ perversions.
“Oh.” And before Keith could say anything else, James pulled him forward, hard, for a kiss.
There will be more. There's this porn I can only write in short segments that I'm trying to write, DaHTA (Lancer is being uncooperative) and probably Mayim, since the girl will not leave me alone.
Right, food.
Yesterday (Friday) I did very little in an artistic way. Notice the new layout. I may change the "Asylum" Theme later, but the colors, they stay.
Today I got up all early to go to Shul (synagogue, only I have never been able to understand why gentiles call it that, because it's called either Shul if you're orthodox or conservative and Temple if you're not) and actually spend most of the time in the main sanctuary praying. This is opposed to the library, where I usually hang out. I generally avoid the sanctuary like the plague. Because.
Jewish prayers are a lot like Catholic Mass. There are set prayers, in a set order, and they haven't changed for hundreds of years. All the prayers are recited in Hebrew, too. The end result is that services here=services in Israel=services in Botswanaland=services in China=services in Antarctica, and if you find yourself in a part of the world with a Shul, you already know the prayers.
What this also means: prayers are long, boring, and because of an obscure line of text, recited twice. All of it. Once silently, although how they expect us to finish in the given time I am not sure, and then again out loud by the cantor. Services start at around eight and finish about noon. My family generally doesn't get there till 10:15, an it's painful even then. I like small minyans better. If you have ten or fifteen people, everything works and you can blow through the prayers. If you have more than fifty, you must go at the speed of the slowest, deafest old man. Who is slow.
Then there was seven layer cake, which made up for it. Yes, it's that good.
After coming home, I took a nap. Because sleep=yummy.
Now, onto the Thing I wrote.
Title: Pineapple
Rating: G
Warnings: Slash. Slashity slashity slash.
“ . . . There is a pineapple on your hat,” said James. “Why is there a pineapple on your hat?”
“Because a watermelon wouldn’t fit,” replied Keith, sashaying across the room. James swallowed. In addition to a hat that, yes, featured a pineapple as a major stylistic element, Keith was wearing: one bright yellow shirt printed with various tropical flowers; one black corset-like thing, laced up over the yellow shirt; fourteen bracelets, distributed unevenly between his arms; nine anklets, two on his left legs; one armband, placed so that it counterbalanced the tattoo on his right arm; and one cyan-blue flower-print skirt that did the opposite of match the shirt.
“I just know I’m going to regret asking,” said James slowly, “but why are you wearing that?”
“So that you can take it off,” said Keith happily. He knew all of James’ perversions.
“Oh.” And before Keith could say anything else, James pulled him forward, hard, for a kiss.
There will be more. There's this porn I can only write in short segments that I'm trying to write, DaHTA (Lancer is being uncooperative) and probably Mayim, since the girl will not leave me alone.
Right, food.
