[MEME] :: ❝what if it's all true?
Taken specifically from penrosing because I knew I was going to TL;DR. WORDS, they are my kryptonite. ;;
Lets Play, Darling;
001. Leave me a comment saying, " D a r l i n g "
002. I will respond by asking you ANY five questions of a very intimate and creepily personal nature. Or not so creepy/personal [possibly].
003. You WILL update your LJ with the answers to the questions.
004. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the post.
005. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
from penrosing;
001. Who is the most dangerous person Eames knows (barring any lofty opinions of herself)?
She would probably never say herself, just as a note. And... this question is very hard for her to answer. She wants to say that no one person is dangerous unless you allow them to be. If Brigadier General H. M. Wells were still alive, she would say she gave him the power to be dangerous, but that if she hadn’t opened herself up that way, he would have just been another man with a lot of possibility.
If pushed, she would probably say Yusuf is the most dangerous person to her wellbeing. He has enough information on her than he could very well turn her upside down, not to mention she trusts him as her chemist and he could very easily kill her or sell her out or fry her system without even meaning to. He has a lot of responsibility and information that she trusts him to not abuse. He knows about Bigs and knows that someone sold her out to her government, but she doesn’t speak of Savid with... anyone, really. He knows what she likes and they have, in all likelihood, slept together at least once. He is a very stable figure in her life when she can’t depend on herself in that regard; someone who loves her but hasn’t fallen in love with her or wanted her to do the same. He’s taught her more than she wants to admit about being safe with dreamshare and is the person she can always trust to be at home if she needs somewhere to lie low. All of these things combine to make him a dangerous person to her because he could destroy her with less than a few chemicals- probably with less than a few words.
002. Does Eames have a projection of Mal? Of Arthur? If so, what are they like and how do they interact with one another?
Her projection of Arthur never changes. Even when she tries to convince him to wear something else, he always declines, preferring his dress shirt and slacks, complete with tie and cufflinks and his severe hairstyle. When Eames stumbles upon him in her dreams, she always finds he feels too sharp. Mal on the other hand, changes seemingly at will; sometimes in the middle of a conversation and sometimes not for several dreams in a row. Her projection has no defined age, flipping from her longhaired early twenties to her lovely mid-thirties, ripe with James and bright eyed with knowledge, stopping everywhere in between.
In her dreams, Arthur cannot touch Mal. He thinks too much, waits too long, and Mal is always a step away, an inch too far. By the time he makes up his mind Mal has already found something different to set him to thinking about. This is not to say that Mal cannot touch Arthur. In Eames’ head, Mal is terribly affectionate with Arthur, holding him, touching him, petting his hair and twining their arms together as they walk.
Together, her projections interact as she saw them in life. Arthur looking for all the world like he’s the luckiest man alive to just be standing next to her and Mallorie looking elsewhere, a soft smile on her face because she knows something everyone else doesn’t. Sometimes Eames thinks her projection of Arthur is in love with her projection of Mal and that they must have a life in her head, continuing their stroll or moving right along with their conversation once Eames stops spying on them and returns topside. But the Arthur in her head can’t initiate contact, can never make his mind up fast enough to tell her he would like something more, and the Mallorie in her mind is always more interested in the middle distance.
003. Everyone has lines they won't cross, no matter how far beyond the pale they may be. What are Eames'?
In reality:
In a dream:
004. What is Eames' most prized physical possession?
Though Eames has a totem, she keeps it on her as more of an afterthought. A way to soothe those around her into believing that everyone is operating on a level playing field. Though the story that accompanies her totem is one that could, by all means, place it up there as a prized possession, she wouldn’t risk her life for it.
In Rome, there is a small bank with a very secure reputation for keeping safety deposit boxes out of sight and in the right hands. Eames would deny any knowledge of its existence and question what use a thief has for a safety deposit box unless she was taking things from it. But if Eames ever lost her totem and found herself disconcertingly off-balance, one would find a discrete trip to Sicurezza di Roma on her books. and find herself in the lobby of this bank, reciting a number and several other personal facts that allow her to pull a little black box from the wall. Of the several items in the box, the entirety of which she couldn't sell for more than a hundred Euros, there is a thin sleeve of six bronze calligraphy nibs and a soft leather notebook. If the attendant were to ever peek, try to catch a glimpse into said notebook, he or she would see words, sometimes the same word, copied over and over in different styles and sizes; a child's handwriting, nonsense really.
I am seven years old and this is my pen.
I am seven years old and this is my pen.
I am seven years old and this is my pen.
I am seven years old and this is my pen.
I am seven years old and this is my pen.
Just the scribbles of a little girl, figuring out that the shape of the words at the front of the book didn’t need to match the ones in the back.
005. Arthur goes to his gallery when he dreams. Where does Eames go and why?
For all that Eames claims inability, she can hold a dreamspace together. When she falls asleep, head pillowed on her arms and in soft cotton, she dreams just like everyone else.
She dreams of the ocean, as she once knew it. Clear and rippled as blown glass, the sun streaking white through the cusps of the waves, the ocean floor visible for miles out. Only from afar, a trick of depth and the angle of light, does the ocean begin to turn blue, bleeding into a horizon that reminds her of the separation of here and there. The sand beneath her feet is warm from the sun, white as bone and pocked with the testament of life, footsteps in every direction. Boats bob on the surface, bleached white and so far out that they’re little more than white dots on the endless expanse of blue; the only way Eames remembers the distinction of here and there.
She dreams of heat, and white cotton brushing over her skin in a caress; one she discards to better feel the sweet kiss of the sun’s rays on her shoulders. There is little intention in the action, just desire to do. Bare feet buried in the sand, her skin singing with the rustle of a breeze through the palms-- a sound she had never known, but has come to understand never changes. The sweet sigh of a moment held in time, played over and over until the wet stick of sand to her feet and the sharp smell of the ocean are more perfect than they ever could have been.
She dreams of the Philippines and knows that somewhere on this beach, there is a small house constructed on a raised platform of stone and fragile wood, held together by a substantial amount of dreams. The walk there would be sprinkled with flora, bright enough on the endless hues of green to make one reconsider their understood definition of color. Crooked steps smoothed flat by the ocean and the door that doesn’t close as much as it swings one way or the other.
She dreams of the things she’s had, the inside of the house an amalgam of furniture that might has no right being there. The bright purple jumper her first best friend gave her in primary, to be brave. That beige chaise, a relic of her early twenties, when such a thing was important to own. Those heavy, arabesque curtains- the exact pair she once made love behind- that used to hang in a bedroom in India, but now are nothing more than burnt fibers, long since returned to the Earth. Every drawer, filled with love letters that read as MI6 dossiers on people convicted of aggrandized crimes. A pair of pearls sitting on the bedside table, perfectly formed and the only gift Eames has ever truly felt thankful to receive. An inexplicable bottle of scotch, old enough to sterilize a wound, tucked away in the back of a cupboard- two crystal tumblers stacked next to it, even though Eames can’t imagine herself drinking the stuff.
She dreams of freedom and the first place she could ever truly say she understood the meaning of the word. Of living without shame or remorse, lying naked in the sun because she is alive and announces it with the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. Of living without words for a while, only as idle as the waves lapping at her toes and comfortably at peace with the idea that her fingers might someday lose the ability to steal hundreds of thousands of Euros in a few simple keystrokes.
This place in her dreams is real, but not how she dreams of it.
In her memories (what she draws from every time she dreams) she is able to remember it as it was. Beautiful, but with its flaws. But in these dreams, she never remembers those flaws. How her delicate English skin was burnt a vicious pink, or how the sand became an uncomfortable accoutrement on every part of her body. She never finds the snake curled in the bathtub, or the bones of a fish washed up on shore, sharp and startlingly corroded. She never remembers how she got there or why, with every breath, she feels important and alive and free.
She never remembers Savid.
BONUS: DON'T YOU GET HE'S TOTALLY IN LOVE WITH YOU?
OH. OOPS. I GUESS WE DIDNT NOTICE. IF THATS THE CASE, LETS GO GET HITCHED BIG BOY 8)
Lets Play, Darling;
001. Leave me a comment saying, " D a r l i n g "
002. I will respond by asking you ANY five questions of a very intimate and creepily personal nature. Or not so creepy/personal [possibly].
003. You WILL update your LJ with the answers to the questions.
004. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the post.
005. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
from penrosing;
001. Who is the most dangerous person Eames knows (barring any lofty opinions of herself)?
She would probably never say herself, just as a note. And... this question is very hard for her to answer. She wants to say that no one person is dangerous unless you allow them to be. If Brigadier General H. M. Wells were still alive, she would say she gave him the power to be dangerous, but that if she hadn’t opened herself up that way, he would have just been another man with a lot of possibility.
If pushed, she would probably say Yusuf is the most dangerous person to her wellbeing. He has enough information on her than he could very well turn her upside down, not to mention she trusts him as her chemist and he could very easily kill her or sell her out or fry her system without even meaning to. He has a lot of responsibility and information that she trusts him to not abuse. He knows about Bigs and knows that someone sold her out to her government, but she doesn’t speak of Savid with... anyone, really. He knows what she likes and they have, in all likelihood, slept together at least once. He is a very stable figure in her life when she can’t depend on herself in that regard; someone who loves her but hasn’t fallen in love with her or wanted her to do the same. He’s taught her more than she wants to admit about being safe with dreamshare and is the person she can always trust to be at home if she needs somewhere to lie low. All of these things combine to make him a dangerous person to her because he could destroy her with less than a few chemicals- probably with less than a few words.
002. Does Eames have a projection of Mal? Of Arthur? If so, what are they like and how do they interact with one another?
Her projection of Arthur never changes. Even when she tries to convince him to wear something else, he always declines, preferring his dress shirt and slacks, complete with tie and cufflinks and his severe hairstyle. When Eames stumbles upon him in her dreams, she always finds he feels too sharp. Mal on the other hand, changes seemingly at will; sometimes in the middle of a conversation and sometimes not for several dreams in a row. Her projection has no defined age, flipping from her longhaired early twenties to her lovely mid-thirties, ripe with James and bright eyed with knowledge, stopping everywhere in between.
In her dreams, Arthur cannot touch Mal. He thinks too much, waits too long, and Mal is always a step away, an inch too far. By the time he makes up his mind Mal has already found something different to set him to thinking about. This is not to say that Mal cannot touch Arthur. In Eames’ head, Mal is terribly affectionate with Arthur, holding him, touching him, petting his hair and twining their arms together as they walk.
Together, her projections interact as she saw them in life. Arthur looking for all the world like he’s the luckiest man alive to just be standing next to her and Mallorie looking elsewhere, a soft smile on her face because she knows something everyone else doesn’t. Sometimes Eames thinks her projection of Arthur is in love with her projection of Mal and that they must have a life in her head, continuing their stroll or moving right along with their conversation once Eames stops spying on them and returns topside. But the Arthur in her head can’t initiate contact, can never make his mind up fast enough to tell her he would like something more, and the Mallorie in her mind is always more interested in the middle distance.
003. Everyone has lines they won't cross, no matter how far beyond the pale they may be. What are Eames'?
In reality:
- she won’t accept a job that works on children, even if it’s for a good cause, like, to try and remove a mental block from a trauma- she just won’t do it.
- she won’t force someone to work with her or to do something she thinks is right- if she thinks its right and someone else doesn’t, she respects that and she’ll find someone else to work with.
- she won’t accept outright prejudice- Eames realizes she can be elitist and any number of -ists, but if she can manage to not be an asshole about it she thinks everyone else can; not getting killed is the goal here, not who’s government did what or who sleeps with whom.
- she won’t steal money from people who don’t have the means to get it back and sometimes this applies to things- but you’d best hope she doesn’t really want it.
In a dream:
- she won’t rape someone. If she can’t get the information willingly, she’ll steal it, she’ll put more time into finding out how to get it, but she will not force herself on anyone in any form. Topside, she’ll use her sexuality to her advantage, but down here, where people are essentially at their most vulnerable- she will not mistreat them in such a way.
- she won’t steal blindly for anyone. She doesn’t think she’s in a place to make moral judgments on what people decide to do to each other, but she won’t steal for someone who is going to make other people suffer.
- she won’t steal for any government- she is purely in the public sector.
004. What is Eames' most prized physical possession?
Though Eames has a totem, she keeps it on her as more of an afterthought. A way to soothe those around her into believing that everyone is operating on a level playing field. Though the story that accompanies her totem is one that could, by all means, place it up there as a prized possession, she wouldn’t risk her life for it.
In Rome, there is a small bank with a very secure reputation for keeping safety deposit boxes out of sight and in the right hands. Eames would deny any knowledge of its existence and question what use a thief has for a safety deposit box unless she was taking things from it. But if Eames ever lost her totem and found herself disconcertingly off-balance, one would find a discrete trip to Sicurezza di Roma on her books. and find herself in the lobby of this bank, reciting a number and several other personal facts that allow her to pull a little black box from the wall. Of the several items in the box, the entirety of which she couldn't sell for more than a hundred Euros, there is a thin sleeve of six bronze calligraphy nibs and a soft leather notebook. If the attendant were to ever peek, try to catch a glimpse into said notebook, he or she would see words, sometimes the same word, copied over and over in different styles and sizes; a child's handwriting, nonsense really.
I am seven years old and this is my pen.
I am seven years old and this is my pen.
I am seven years old and this is my pen.
I am seven years old and this is my pen.
I am seven years old and this is my pen.
Just the scribbles of a little girl, figuring out that the shape of the words at the front of the book didn’t need to match the ones in the back.
005. Arthur goes to his gallery when he dreams. Where does Eames go and why?
For all that Eames claims inability, she can hold a dreamspace together. When she falls asleep, head pillowed on her arms and in soft cotton, she dreams just like everyone else.
She dreams of the ocean, as she once knew it. Clear and rippled as blown glass, the sun streaking white through the cusps of the waves, the ocean floor visible for miles out. Only from afar, a trick of depth and the angle of light, does the ocean begin to turn blue, bleeding into a horizon that reminds her of the separation of here and there. The sand beneath her feet is warm from the sun, white as bone and pocked with the testament of life, footsteps in every direction. Boats bob on the surface, bleached white and so far out that they’re little more than white dots on the endless expanse of blue; the only way Eames remembers the distinction of here and there.
She dreams of heat, and white cotton brushing over her skin in a caress; one she discards to better feel the sweet kiss of the sun’s rays on her shoulders. There is little intention in the action, just desire to do. Bare feet buried in the sand, her skin singing with the rustle of a breeze through the palms-- a sound she had never known, but has come to understand never changes. The sweet sigh of a moment held in time, played over and over until the wet stick of sand to her feet and the sharp smell of the ocean are more perfect than they ever could have been.
She dreams of the Philippines and knows that somewhere on this beach, there is a small house constructed on a raised platform of stone and fragile wood, held together by a substantial amount of dreams. The walk there would be sprinkled with flora, bright enough on the endless hues of green to make one reconsider their understood definition of color. Crooked steps smoothed flat by the ocean and the door that doesn’t close as much as it swings one way or the other.
She dreams of the things she’s had, the inside of the house an amalgam of furniture that might has no right being there. The bright purple jumper her first best friend gave her in primary, to be brave. That beige chaise, a relic of her early twenties, when such a thing was important to own. Those heavy, arabesque curtains- the exact pair she once made love behind- that used to hang in a bedroom in India, but now are nothing more than burnt fibers, long since returned to the Earth. Every drawer, filled with love letters that read as MI6 dossiers on people convicted of aggrandized crimes. A pair of pearls sitting on the bedside table, perfectly formed and the only gift Eames has ever truly felt thankful to receive. An inexplicable bottle of scotch, old enough to sterilize a wound, tucked away in the back of a cupboard- two crystal tumblers stacked next to it, even though Eames can’t imagine herself drinking the stuff.
She dreams of freedom and the first place she could ever truly say she understood the meaning of the word. Of living without shame or remorse, lying naked in the sun because she is alive and announces it with the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. Of living without words for a while, only as idle as the waves lapping at her toes and comfortably at peace with the idea that her fingers might someday lose the ability to steal hundreds of thousands of Euros in a few simple keystrokes.
This place in her dreams is real, but not how she dreams of it.
In her memories (what she draws from every time she dreams) she is able to remember it as it was. Beautiful, but with its flaws. But in these dreams, she never remembers those flaws. How her delicate English skin was burnt a vicious pink, or how the sand became an uncomfortable accoutrement on every part of her body. She never finds the snake curled in the bathtub, or the bones of a fish washed up on shore, sharp and startlingly corroded. She never remembers how she got there or why, with every breath, she feels important and alive and free.
She never remembers Savid.
BONUS: DON'T YOU GET HE'S TOTALLY IN LOVE WITH YOU?
OH. OOPS. I GUESS WE DIDNT NOTICE. IF THATS THE CASE, LETS GO GET HITCHED BIG BOY 8)