Luther in a privy
Crosswords have been solved there
Rodin was no fool...
The worst of having been encouraged to memorize poetry by the nuns is that anything that rhymes tends to stick with me whether I will or no. What I was going to say is, inspiration used to come to me in the bath or lying on my back listening to music on the headphones. Inspiration has not come back with my bathtub- maybe I need to be in Japan- and my walkman has been unsatisfactory for over a year now, which means no lying on back with music delivered direct to brain. (Yes, a walkman, not a portable CD player because I want my own compilation tapes and my computer doesn't make CDs. Besides the fact that the music I want comes from LPs anyway.)
However there's always March. There are two classic March experiences- three, actually, but the third doesn't concern us here.
One is the bright blinding sun in a cold blue sky, which is what it was doing Sunday. Everything seems possible on such unreal and insulated days. One reason last year was so uninspired fic-wise was that we had no winter to speak of, just an endless too-warm segue into spring, a nasty season in TO and one that stops my creativity dead. I am a cold weather writer. This last February was the coldest in 28 years and I wrote two stories, an output unknown since 2003.
The other one, a mite chancy these days, is that I go into heat in March. Both together lead to a thin film of erotesis overlying the world, so that on certain sunny days, invariably while I'm thinking about something else, I get a sudden vision of a profoundly erotic universe. Erotic, not sexual. The physical side I can access any time, but the emotional loci- the places where the real oomph is- only come to me occasionally.
Thus Sunday, playing solitaire and listening to music here at the computer, I was suddenly awash in 100 Demons sensu-sexuality. This kind of thing is like remembering dreams- look too directly and the whole thing vanishes. (Music-induced visions and lyric-suggested resonances are notoriously fragile.) It involved Aoarashi and Kai and Akama. It involved Kai coming across Aoarashi and Akama playing go on the verandah. It involved the end of a conversation where Akama was insisting that Aoarashi hadn't been corporeal long enough, and certainly hadn't been hanging around humans long enough, to understand how they operate. I knew there was a level of authorial irony in that remark because whatever the particular emotional nexus at work, Akama partook of it too. It had something to do with Kagyuu's adversary and Kagyuu's shikigami and Kagyuu's son all looking for something that was possibly not there. It did involve an especially splendid idea of my own deduced from Kai's past. Because it was a sunny afternoon in March here the action involved overwhelming physicality if not actual sex, because my mind still balks at the technical problems posed by that weird activity of ours and people who don't do it normally. And because it was a passing vision set to music I've no idea what the essence of the story's centre was; it may all have been as illusory as inspiration on half a bottle of wine is.
I want to write March-inspired 100 Demons smut. If I were a Chinese fan, or a Japanese one too if the Japanese do, I'd just write it and never mind what the characters are like in the series. Alas, I am neither of those things. Maybe I need to buy a new walkman, supposing they still make the things.