[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
"When I consider this carefully, I find not a single property which with certainty separates the waking state from the dream. How can you be certain that your whole life is not a dream?” --- Rene Descartes

Tuesday, June 5th
The ballroom


"She's so big now, you would not believe she was only three." I laugh as we waltz about the dance floor with a fluid grace that only he and I had together. "Oh, I visit her every now and again." Lucien assures me with his easy smile as he turns me. "You certainly have your hands full." I cannot help but laugh. "She turned the house purple, purple! Do you believe it?" "She's your daughter, I would believe anything."

The music ends and we stop to bow and curtsy to one another before applauding the band. "Shall I get us some wine my dear, before that husband of your wakes you up and steals you away?" I smirk at him and swat his arm. "Stop it. He's perfectly nice and you know it. But yes, please." I kiss his cheek and he gives me a wink before head off to find the refreshments.

With a happy sigh, I gather up my skirts and wonder where Kent got to and why on earth he would wake me up when---

Oh.

Look around and the head of long, blonde hair has disappeared. Like it always does once I realize I am dreaming. Where else would I see Lucien but in my dreams? Lucien is now just a memory, a very good one, that I can apparently make walk and talk. At least my subconscious can. Although sometimes I wonder if he's more than just a ghost in my head...

Enough speculation, for now at any rate. There are other's that are still here, that are not just memories. Those I can walk, talk and dance with, and it's more than just a memory of a friend.

"Damien?" I call out, finding a place to sit and wait as the band strikes up again. "Are you busy?" After all, what's the good of being all dressed up with no one to dance with?

Closed
[identity profile] damien-dw.livejournal.com
Wednesday, 24th of September
The Abbey




With one thing and another it takes me a few days to actually get out here. My fear about that little pile of mirror pieces turned out to be justified. It seems like every one of them turned into something like that nightmare that followed me out of my dream. So I sent out a call and only a few of them bothered to show up. Those that did, at least take orders willingly and one of my first such was to tell them to find and bring back any of their siblings that can. I then conjured a big jar with scenes done in the Greek style for them to gather and wait for me in.

Almost as disturbing  is the difficulty I am having in waking up these days. And how I'm always so tired while awake. At first when the pain was fresh this was easy to explain. And I was spending so much of my time asleep and dreaming. And It's not like Dorian would fire me just for not being able to work right now. I did send him a note right after I woke up that first day after the gate closed.  So that's all right, for now.  The salve is working and the pain is pretty much gone, leaving an itch in its place. It still looks bad and may look worse when it starts peeling. but I have beenassured that it should heal up just fine. I'm still a bit worried about my voice but I've been drinking lots of tea with honey when i'm awake so it should hopefully be alright. I hope.

And there was the wake for the doctor. I went because I felt that i should, but I felt so uncomfortable most of the evening. Some of it was guilt, for not stopping Icelus sooner. And some of it was because I hardly knew him. He seemed like a nice guy. And  people in this town really liked him. And he was the only other guy in town with hair anywhere near as long as mine, let along longer, which I think it might have been.

I decided in the end that maybe I should have this discussion outside of the dreamlands as I would rather not have to deal with the nightmares during it. if Nanse-kam wants to see them I can show him later. It's very nice to still  have at least one friend who can enter the dreamlands pretty much at will like I can. ( I still miss Nanshe)


I walk into the abbey  and call out, "Hello?"



[Open to Nanse-Kam]
[identity profile] damien-dw.livejournal.com
Saturday, 20 September
The Dreamlands




Close my eyes and find myself in a dream.  I'm standing at one end of of a vast hall, lined with mirrors.  Step forwards only to be pulled up short by something tightening about my chest and pulling me backwards. Look down and find a thorny vine wrapped about my chest, its end somewhere behind me. I decide that I don't want there to be any thorns digging into me and they all fall to the ground. That feels better. Pull the vines off as if they're a shirt I have decided not to wear and catch a glimpse of movement in the nearest mirror.

It's my reflection and yet it isn't. At least I hope it isn't. My lower face all bumpy with scars, the mouth twisted into a horrible shape. More burns all down my chest and arms, the hands become ruined skeletal claws.  No! That is not me! I will not let it be me. Not here. Here, in my dream, I do not have to put up with it. I toss the handful of vines at the mirror and watch it break into countless pieces. Each one showing me that face, those arms.

The wind comes and sweeps them into a pile which I then cover with  a blanket. Turn away and cover all the mirrors with curtains. Is this an ordinary bad dream or did that bastard get away from us after all? Start  searching the place and eventually decide that he's not here. I would feel him if he were. He's not. I can dimly feel Nanshe but it's not like she's here either. It's more like she's just walked out of the room but I can still smell her perfume.

Feel a bit ridiculous standing in a dark corner of my own dream. blushing and feeling guilty that I didn't get a chance to say a proper goodbye to her before she... did whatever it was that means she's no longer the Lady of Dreams. It felt strange to open my eyes and find the sense of her all around but invisible and oddly not specific. It was as if somehow she was everywhere. And then I woke up completely and it was gone. She was gone. I will miss her. She was the first person I met to truly walk in other people's dreams.

The shadows are getting thicker and some of them are...monstrous. I push them back with my will but it is hard, much harder than it should be. Is there a part of me that wants this? Wants them to reach out and pull me down into the  deep dark pile of them? The thought bothers me. A lot.

I check myself in the mirror and see only my own face looking out from under a thick velvet cloak. Pull the hood off, let it hang down my back. Time to go walking in dreams. I can't- not can't, I could stay here, I  just don't want to. The waking side of town is a mess. Maybe someone should check on how things are in dreams.


[Open] [Closed]
[identity profile] lord-icelus.livejournal.com
Some time, in a place that was and is the abbey, that is in this world and in Dream

She is coming.

I can feel her, that nasty bitch, like a tooth ache or a splinter. She nearly killed me, and I still suffer for it. Partly it was my own fault, for not remembering that silly service gods like her love to throw themselves on their own swords to look after their people. As if we should be in service to them!

I want her to get here. I want to kill her slowly, and lick her bones clean, and then I want to dance as the new king of this little town. A nasty pisspot of a place, it is, but it's better than oblivion, yes. They may not worship me, here, but they'd fear me: and for a god of nightmare, that's really good enough.

She's bringing friends, though. I disliked that last time. And so I conjure up a labyrinth, turning the stone of this abbey into twisting pathways of dead ends and trap doors. She'll lose some along the way. And then I will tear out her heart.

[OPEN]
[identity profile] glass-beddau.livejournal.com
[Wednesday            17th       479Thursday, September 18th (day 480)]
[The Abbey]
[In a late strange time]


The air is cool, and still, and waiting to burn.

The graveyard here is different to what it was a day ago; it's the one I've dreamt of, I think, where and a year and more ago I saw Nanshe come walking from the north; graveyard north, not town north. But the ground seethes like bothered ants, and the grass does not whisper. If I left off on looking, I think it would pull itself free and crawl away.

And I leave off looking, as that is not where we are going.

You feel no especial call to goodness, do you, Glass? No. It's not in me, not rooted; but I have come to hate the other, and what it works, and may be that is a beginning.

The Abbey's stone is weeping, and there are shapes even I cannot see in the shadows. This is not the Shuck's night; this is safety twisted to fear. And we have come.

[Open]
[identity profile] damien-dw.livejournal.com
Wednesday, September 17th, early morning,
Silk road heading towards the bridge

The dreamlands have come to us. At least that's what it looks like. Things are even crazier than they were when everyone's wishes were coming true. It feels like a huge bubble of dreamstuff is expanding out from the center of town.  Or maybe that's just my waking mind trying to make sense of what's going on. I tried the wings again and this time they came. I put them away as soon as I got to the Sacred Whore.  work is the last thing on my mind right now. i'm thinking maybe I should try to find Noma. Or maybe Nanse-kam.  Though last time something happenedwith dreams it was our help that Nanshe needed.

Pull the compass out from my pocket. It's already spinning.  I look at it and then an idea comes to me; since I don't know who I should find and it's made of dreamstuff maybe I should just ask if to find me whoever will be the most help in this situation? Why not? It might be the best way to deal with this.

I fix that idea in my head and the compass spins one more time and then settles pointing out at the bridge. Okay then. Time to go find some help.


[open to Zann]
[identity profile] damien-dw.livejournal.com
Wednesday September 17th, Just after dawn
Damien's apt




Never have I been so glad to wake up.  I look quickly over to John's side of the bed, but he's already gone to work. and i let out a shaky breath. Something is terribly wrong with the dreamlands. It felt something like the dream that had everybody trapped in one big smooshed together dream, but worse. As if maybe some one had managed to burst all  the dream bubbles that kept all the dreams from bleeding into each other and the real world.


I shiver as I slide out of bed and reach for my clothes, something, maybe just the lingering sense of how wrong things felt in the dreamlands, still feels wrong.  It makes me want to hurry up and get into town, to see for myself. Even though i'm not due into work for awhile yet.  Instead I make some coffee and go out on the balcony with it and my smokes.

Normally this would make things better, the coffee and smoke would blow away the last images in my head and I'd only have whatever bruises or cuts i'd gotten in the dreamlands. Instead things feel more dreamlike rather than less.


I remember the way the dreamscape lingered hungry and empty after that big dream. And what happened to Nanshe. I find myself testing whether this is in fact a dream. I will my wings to appear. And feel a shiver at my back but no wings. That hasn't happened before. Before either I was dreaming and could control some of what happened in the dream or I was awake and could not change things by willing them to.

Something is very wrong. I finish my coffee and my cig and grab my coat, preparing to go find out what. At the last minute I also grab the dream compass. Maybe it will come in handy.


[Closed]
[identity profile] glass-beddau.livejournal.com
[Early afternoon of Sunday, June 25 (day 420)]
[The Sacred Whore]


Odd t'be coming here and not looking for Dorian. Mind, if I was looking for Dorian, guess I'd be having poor luck, so I'm not after complaining over strangeness rather than disappointment. Particular not as I've the chance of having open arms and free hands, today. Though if he was about, sure I'd never hear the end of that, either of being about and walking or of not being near my child--

Oh, hell with this, and to the matter at hand. Push open the door and step inside.

"Damien? You about?"

[Open to Damien and Miao]
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Friday, June 25th; late afternoon
The Front porch of The Dormouse


I am dusty and grungy, and more than a little tired.  I should go up and shower, or even lie down for fifteen minutes until Rose wakes up from her nap... but the air is pleasant and the gentle rain is making every thing smell green and fresh.  Alive.  New.  I need that right now.

I suppose it was something that I should have done quite some time ago.  It's not like it was in use.  Not since late January, except for that one day with, with Kent.  Who wasn't.  It never happened.  Not really.  Maybe someday I will believe that. 

Today it struck me that not only was I not using my basement, I was avoiding it.  The space that was mine, the space where I could possibly let a little of myself come bleeding through, I was now almost afraid of it.  With a determined air, I put Rose down for her nap, gave Romana strict instructions NOT to come downstairs, and faced the task ahead.  It was almost overwhelming, the conflict of both good and bad memories flooding my mind's eye; the smell of sweat, blood, lies----

Threw open the basement doors and small windows in spite of the rain.  I needed air,  I needed to let the ghosts out, no matter how sweet the whipers of things that were, and were not.  The sound of the rain and the tang of green, damp air helped clear my head.

Everything was packed away in tea crates.  Nailed shut and stacked against the wall.  The paddled tables moved to the wall as well, and covered.  The benches, the stocks and wall shackles were dismantled quickly, just a little elbow grease and a screwdriver.  The pulley system took the most work, mostly because it involved me teetering on a chair.  The bed linens pulled off to be bleached.  The comforter is still upstairs; that I will still keep.  For now. 

The lions share of the work is done.  I'll need to paint the floor, or at least get some rugs to cover the stains.  There is only one item left downstairs now beside the bed.  That cross will require a bit more to dismantle it, but I have an idea in the back of my head what to do with the stout wood it was created from.  I will need to consult the woodworker or Cain about how to go about it.  I should craft the item myself, but I will need guidance...

With a sigh, I roll my neck to release some tension.  Feel it 'pop', and I sigh.  I would probably feel better if I went and stood out in the rain for a moment; maybe it would wash away my melancholy.  But right now, I nurse my ice tea as I do my aching heart, and remain sitting on the steps.

(Open)
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Friday, June 25th; late afternoon
The Front porch of The Dormouse


I am dusty and grungy, and more than a little tired.  I should go up and shower, or even lie down for fifteen minutes until Rose wakes up from her nap... but the air is pleasant and the gentle rain is making every thing smell green and fresh.  Alive.  New.  I need that right now.

I suppose it was something that I should have done quite some time ago.  It's not like it was in use.  Not since late January, except for that one day with, with Kent.  Who wasn't.  It never happened.  Not really.  Maybe someday I will believe that. 

Today it struck me that not only was I not using my basement, I was avoiding it.  The space that was mine, the space where I could possibly let a little of myself come bleeding through, I was now almost afraid of it.  With a determined air, I put Rose down for her nap, gave Romana strict instructions NOT to come downstairs, and faced the task ahead.  It was almost overwhelming, the conflict of both good and bad memories flooding my mind's eye; the smell of sweat, blood, lies----

Threw open the basement doors and small windows in spite of the rain.  I needed air,  I needed to let the ghosts out, no matter how sweet the whipers of things that were, and were not.  The sound of the rain and the tang of green, damp air helped clear my head.

Everything was packed away in tea crates.  Nailed shut and stacked against the wall.  The paddled tables moved to the wall as well, and covered.  The benches, the stocks and wall shackles were dismantled quickly, just a little elbow grease and a screwdriver.  The pulley system took the most work, mostly because it involved me teetering on a chair.  The bed linens pulled off to be bleached.  The comforter is still upstairs; that I will still keep.  For now. 

The lions share of the work is done.  I'll need to paint the floor, or at least get some rugs to cover the stains.  There is only one item left downstairs now beside the bed.  That cross will require a bit more to dismantle it, but I have an idea in the back of my head what to do with the stout wood it was created from.  I will need to consult the woodworker or Cain about how to go about it.  I should craft the item myself, but I will need guidance...

With a sigh, I roll my neck to release some tension.  Feel it 'pop', and I sigh.  I would probably feel better if I went and stood out in the rain for a moment; maybe it would wash away my melancholy.  But right now, I nurse my ice tea as I do my aching heart, and remain sitting on the steps.

(Open)
[identity profile] damien-dw.livejournal.com
Saturday, the twelfth of June [day three hundred seventy seven]
Late afternoon in the Market



Winter is long gone and summer is here, and it's making me feel a bit restless. Makes me miss the endless days on the road that was my life for the last three years. Never thought I'd actually miss them as I spent far too many of them missing Manhattan. Even the rain this morning couldn't keep me inside and I'm glad I stepped out for a smoke when I did as I caught sight of the all too brief glory of the rainbow.

I didn't want to spend the rest of the day inside missing all that fresh clean air and the people who would surely be at market so as soon as I finished my smoke I got my guitar and soon as it stopped raining I set up in the market at the corner much like I did when I first came to town. Since I can't stop thinking about it, my first song is an old tune that's had many different sets of words matched with it. This time I use the ones I learned from the riverfolk on the boat that brought me here.

One song becomes another and another and before long it is late afternoon. If I want to buy something for dinner I should probably do it soon before everything's  gone. With that thought I pack up and start wandering the stalls.

  [Open]
[identity profile] damien-dw.livejournal.com
Saturday, the twelfth of June [day three hundred seventy seven]
Late afternoon in the Market



Winter is long gone and summer is here, and it's making me feel a bit restless. Makes me miss the endless days on the road that was my life for the last three years. Never thought I'd actually miss them as I spent far too many of them missing Manhattan. Even the rain this morning couldn't keep me inside and I'm glad I stepped out for a smoke when I did as I caught sight of the all too brief glory of the rainbow.

I didn't want to spend the rest of the day inside missing all that fresh clean air and the people who would surely be at market so as soon as I finished my smoke I got my guitar and soon as it stopped raining I set up in the market at the corner much like I did when I first came to town. Since I can't stop thinking about it, my first song is an old tune that's had many different sets of words matched with it. This time I use the ones I learned from the riverfolk on the boat that brought me here.

One song becomes another and another and before long it is late afternoon. If I want to buy something for dinner I should probably do it soon before everything's  gone. With that thought I pack up and start wandering the stalls.

  [Open]
[identity profile] tereixa-zann.livejournal.com
[Early afternoon of Thursday, May 20 (day 354)]
[Out and about at the Miskatonic Café]


I can see. I can see.

I woke up by the Carousel yesterday morning before dawn, my shining girl, my baby, running sweet and bright and singing out into the night, the piping skirl. And I saw all of her, the grandfather's-axe truth that stretches here from the time before the end of time, the machinery and fine gears from when the railways were young and the air was just beginning to sing with crystal and people were reaching out across the seas and skies and the whole world was beginning to be held in the net of our meaning. And she came up through that, went on while all the air and earth around her turned to dust and then to smoke and the things we built grew smaller, finer, and then the air was full of tiny things broken and light pouring out and still she was here, my baby, wood and gears and paint and the calliope tune, on forever and forever and forever through the night, because that is what we do, we make music and shape sound and we give it meaning, we give it all meaning. Even when it grows old, even when it will come to go, the seeing and the making sings through us all and within us...

Oh, within us, every moment, we find the heartbeat of creation.

And yesterday I spent with Mama and Dad and Essa and Sabella and Xay, and Jay and Hux, and Genny, and my Carousel, and the rides stretching up through the sky into a summer sea of heat and the bolts and gears biting deep and steady in and the breeze singing in the strut and stretch of girders, and we built this, we built it all, and I would do it for nothing more than to do it, to please people and to stand in the hot air and the summer night, and all of this how can it be wrong?

And today the air is cooling gently as if the world was taking a deep breath in and a slow breeze was blowing, and down to the Miskatonic, all gilded and green, an undersea dream of pipes and steam and music younger than my Carousel and older than anyone I've met--anyone else, I know, older than anyone who wouldn't panick over being loved. And the road smells of cobble-dust and worn asphalt tar, and the air inside smells of coffee and sugar and bread and eggs, and the jukebox is playing, and if I spin around once before I sit down and I'm laughing, who'd gainsay me? It's such a beautiful day.

[Open]
[identity profile] tereixa-zann.livejournal.com
[Early afternoon of Thursday, May 20 (day 354)]
[Out and about at the Miskatonic Café]


I can see. I can see.

I woke up by the Carousel yesterday morning before dawn, my shining girl, my baby, running sweet and bright and singing out into the night, the piping skirl. And I saw all of her, the grandfather's-axe truth that stretches here from the time before the end of time, the machinery and fine gears from when the railways were young and the air was just beginning to sing with crystal and people were reaching out across the seas and skies and the whole world was beginning to be held in the net of our meaning. And she came up through that, went on while all the air and earth around her turned to dust and then to smoke and the things we built grew smaller, finer, and then the air was full of tiny things broken and light pouring out and still she was here, my baby, wood and gears and paint and the calliope tune, on forever and forever and forever through the night, because that is what we do, we make music and shape sound and we give it meaning, we give it all meaning. Even when it grows old, even when it will come to go, the seeing and the making sings through us all and within us...

Oh, within us, every moment, we find the heartbeat of creation.

And yesterday I spent with Mama and Dad and Essa and Sabella and Xay, and Jay and Hux, and Genny, and my Carousel, and the rides stretching up through the sky into a summer sea of heat and the bolts and gears biting deep and steady in and the breeze singing in the strut and stretch of girders, and we built this, we built it all, and I would do it for nothing more than to do it, to please people and to stand in the hot air and the summer night, and all of this how can it be wrong?

And today the air is cooling gently as if the world was taking a deep breath in and a slow breeze was blowing, and down to the Miskatonic, all gilded and green, an undersea dream of pipes and steam and music younger than my Carousel and older than anyone I've met--anyone else, I know, older than anyone who wouldn't panick over being loved. And the road smells of cobble-dust and worn asphalt tar, and the air inside smells of coffee and sugar and bread and eggs, and the jukebox is playing, and if I spin around once before I sit down and I'm laughing, who'd gainsay me? It's such a beautiful day.

[Open]
[identity profile] valmont-vicomte.livejournal.com
Saturday, May 15th, about 5pm
Valmont and Hermia's apartment and garden


I've never thrown a party for a teenage girl before, but hopefully this will do. Alice doesn't exactly have many friends, and there aren't that many teenagers in town I'd trust to be kind to her and not make fun of her, but she wants a party with people her own age, which makes sense. She doesn't seem very grown up to me, but I know how important it is that she feels grown up, despite everything that's happened to her. So I invited Johnny, Damien and Ri, because they're good kids, and Micah may be a little strange but he's a decent boy, I'm sure of it, and like Alice he could do with some friends. But I wanted Fiona to be able to come too, because she was Alice's first friend who wasn't an adult, so I've started the party in the late afternoon so she can be here for a little while at least. As for the rest of the guest list, they are mine and Hermia's friends, but I trust them to wish Alice many happy returns and to make the party seem busy. Besides, it's a celebration of our family too, I think, not just of Alice's birthday, and so it's right that we have our family friends here too. The thought makes me smile.

It's a dry afternoon, thank goodness, though I've laid out drinks and food on our dining table inside in case of rain. Hermia and I put up bunting and laid out candles along the path in the garden, and it all looks lovely.

[open to party guests]
[identity profile] valmont-vicomte.livejournal.com
Saturday, May 15th, about 5pm
Valmont and Hermia's apartment and garden


I've never thrown a party for a teenage girl before, but hopefully this will do. Alice doesn't exactly have many friends, and there aren't that many teenagers in town I'd trust to be kind to her and not make fun of her, but she wants a party with people her own age, which makes sense. She doesn't seem very grown up to me, but I know how important it is that she feels grown up, despite everything that's happened to her. So I invited Johnny, Damien and Ri, because they're good kids, and Micah may be a little strange but he's a decent boy, I'm sure of it, and like Alice he could do with some friends. But I wanted Fiona to be able to come too, because she was Alice's first friend who wasn't an adult, so I've started the party in the late afternoon so she can be here for a little while at least. As for the rest of the guest list, they are mine and Hermia's friends, but I trust them to wish Alice many happy returns and to make the party seem busy. Besides, it's a celebration of our family too, I think, not just of Alice's birthday, and so it's right that we have our family friends here too. The thought makes me smile.

It's a dry afternoon, thank goodness, though I've laid out drinks and food on our dining table inside in case of rain. Hermia and I put up bunting and laid out candles along the path in the garden, and it all looks lovely.

[open to party guests]
[identity profile] syl-thorn.livejournal.com
Going on midnight and beyond, Thursday, May 6th, day 340
Somewhere in Dream



Th'beach ain't changed much. I see th'tangled net where Tess wuz snared, the deep gouges'n stone'n sand where we dragged th'boat ashore an' launched it again. There's a reekin' stain on th'sand where th'sea serpent puked Polly back up, th'scoured loops on th'sand where't trapped us innit's coils. Onnat day th'sun shone so bright't stung m'eyes. Now'at sun's hidden b'hind dead black clouds 't roil wit' lightnin'.

I went t'bed, feelin' somewhat r'lieved't Nanshe wuz gone, glad t'have m'space's m'own again, but feelin' th'emptiness 'n th'dark too, th'void where'ere'd been soft breathin' 'n 'nother warm body close 'nough t'touch. I ain't been sleepin's well since she left, not that'm 'bout t'admit't. 'ventually I fell 'sleep t'th'sound'f rain 'gainst th'windows.

S'rainin'ere too, rain breakin' th'surface'a th'dark sea, rain spittin' on th'sand. Rain runs down m'face an' inta th'corner of m'mouth. It stings m'eyes 'n tastes of copper. Thunder booms deep'n th'distance, 'n lightning cracks th'waves. This ain't Nanshe's land no more, an' I ain't sure who rules't now. 'r if'n anything duz.


Red rain is coming down, red rain,
Red rain is pouring down, pouring down all over me...



...Jesus, that song again? Last time I heard'at wuz when I danced fer m'knife th'night Silence jumped in m'ritual. But'at time th'song b'came somethin' else, somethin' deep'n drummin', an'I don't think'at's gonna happen'is time. I start t'reach fer th'sealskin 'round m'waist 'fore I 'member't ain't there.


I am standing up at the water's edge in my dream,
I cannot make a single sound as you scream,
It can't be that cold, the ground is still warm to touch,
Hey, we touch,
This place is so quiet, sensing that storm...



Thunder crashes again, an' th'wind whips th'water inta curds 'n froth. White horses rear over th'waves an' drench m'body'n spray. M'skin's streaked wit' red, an' all I c'n smell's salt and death. Power rises wit' th'wind, stingin' th'rain 'gainst m'skin. Th'shark's heart stirs deep'n m'chest, and th'music pulses so hard'n m'head't I feel dizzy.


Just let the red rain splash you,
Let the rain fall on your skin,
I come to you, defenses down,
With the trust of a child.



...'scept I don't. I really bloody don't. The wind rises t'a scream an' th'waves pound th'shore, an'I feel shark's-seal's-razor teeth push'eir way through m'gums. I grin through a mouthful a'blood, an'I can't tell no more whether't's m'own 'r th'sky's. Th'wind catches th'net an't dances 'cross th'sand like a livin' thin'.


And I can't watch anymore,


But I will.


No more denial,


I ain't never denied.


It's so hard to lay down in all of this...


An' I ain't never laid down.


Red rain is coming down,
Red rain is pouring down,
Red rain is coming down all over me,
I'm bathing in red rain...



Th'waves crash 'gainst m'legs, an'I'll meet whatever's comin' wit' silver an' teeth.


[OPEN]
[identity profile] syl-thorn.livejournal.com
Going on midnight and beyond, Thursday, May 6th, day 340
Somewhere in Dream



Th'beach ain't changed much. I see th'tangled net where Tess wuz snared, the deep gouges'n stone'n sand where we dragged th'boat ashore an' launched it again. There's a reekin' stain on th'sand where th'sea serpent puked Polly back up, th'scoured loops on th'sand where't trapped us innit's coils. Onnat day th'sun shone so bright't stung m'eyes. Now'at sun's hidden b'hind dead black clouds 't roil wit' lightnin'.

I went t'bed, feelin' somewhat r'lieved't Nanshe wuz gone, glad t'have m'space's m'own again, but feelin' th'emptiness 'n th'dark too, th'void where'ere'd been soft breathin' 'n 'nother warm body close 'nough t'touch. I ain't been sleepin's well since she left, not that'm 'bout t'admit't. 'ventually I fell 'sleep t'th'sound'f rain 'gainst th'windows.

S'rainin'ere too, rain breakin' th'surface'a th'dark sea, rain spittin' on th'sand. Rain runs down m'face an' inta th'corner of m'mouth. It stings m'eyes 'n tastes of copper. Thunder booms deep'n th'distance, 'n lightning cracks th'waves. This ain't Nanshe's land no more, an' I ain't sure who rules't now. 'r if'n anything duz.


Red rain is coming down, red rain,
Red rain is pouring down, pouring down all over me...



...Jesus, that song again? Last time I heard'at wuz when I danced fer m'knife th'night Silence jumped in m'ritual. But'at time th'song b'came somethin' else, somethin' deep'n drummin', an'I don't think'at's gonna happen'is time. I start t'reach fer th'sealskin 'round m'waist 'fore I 'member't ain't there.


I am standing up at the water's edge in my dream,
I cannot make a single sound as you scream,
It can't be that cold, the ground is still warm to touch,
Hey, we touch,
This place is so quiet, sensing that storm...



Thunder crashes again, an' th'wind whips th'water inta curds 'n froth. White horses rear over th'waves an' drench m'body'n spray. M'skin's streaked wit' red, an' all I c'n smell's salt and death. Power rises wit' th'wind, stingin' th'rain 'gainst m'skin. Th'shark's heart stirs deep'n m'chest, and th'music pulses so hard'n m'head't I feel dizzy.


Just let the red rain splash you,
Let the rain fall on your skin,
I come to you, defenses down,
With the trust of a child.



...'scept I don't. I really bloody don't. The wind rises t'a scream an' th'waves pound th'shore, an'I feel shark's-seal's-razor teeth push'eir way through m'gums. I grin through a mouthful a'blood, an'I can't tell no more whether't's m'own 'r th'sky's. Th'wind catches th'net an't dances 'cross th'sand like a livin' thin'.


And I can't watch anymore,


But I will.


No more denial,


I ain't never denied.


It's so hard to lay down in all of this...


An' I ain't never laid down.


Red rain is coming down,
Red rain is pouring down,
Red rain is coming down all over me,
I'm bathing in red rain...



Th'waves crash 'gainst m'legs, an'I'll meet whatever's comin' wit' silver an' teeth.


[OPEN]
[identity profile] westin-sagert.livejournal.com
[Late evening of Wednesday, April 21 (day 325)]
[Approaching one's goal, or the end of one's rope, in the less reputable part of town]


It was the soup spoon, oddly enough. An accidental jostle of the draining rack while I was washing up after Sunday dinner, and I saw it start to fall and reached out on simple reflex to catch it easily out of the air. And then I stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking at it and turning it slowly between my fingers, which did not tremble or break.

I know--I have known quite well that the dreams are only that, even a shared phantasy is still only smoke and mirrors, but they have affected me quite strongly; I have been haunted by the uncanny clarity of the memory of my hands burning and shattering, and the lost and crumbling words of Bethlehem. And sometimes I will wake in the night and I am unwilling to reach for a light, out of fear that touching something will make my hands fall to pieces. I can certainly keep my home and person presentable, but my movements and grip have become taut and awkward when I pay any attention, as if I feared (so foolishly!) that whatever I was touching would turn to hot brass and sear me to the bone.

But I am well again, I have been since I reached my agreement with Morningstar. I know this, and while I am certainly willing to grant that there are things I do not fully understand, that does not excuse such unthinking and unnecessary avoidance of my calling. A man may accept that he does not possess the sum total of all knowledge without being reduced to a superstitious coward.

I have nothing to fear from dreams.

And it has been months since I worked properly on something.

So I have nerved myself to come out, and come looking for raw material. The streets south of my home are pleasant enough for a short distance, but as you go further and towards the west, a certain dilapidation grows. If I do not find someone, then there will be other nights--perhaps during the weekend, Market always seems to bring in rather a crowd--but I am rather optimistic.

[Open as discussed]
[identity profile] westin-sagert.livejournal.com
[Late evening of Wednesday, April 21 (day 325)]
[Approaching one's goal, or the end of one's rope, in the less reputable part of town]


It was the soup spoon, oddly enough. An accidental jostle of the draining rack while I was washing up after Sunday dinner, and I saw it start to fall and reached out on simple reflex to catch it easily out of the air. And then I stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking at it and turning it slowly between my fingers, which did not tremble or break.

I know--I have known quite well that the dreams are only that, even a shared phantasy is still only smoke and mirrors, but they have affected me quite strongly; I have been haunted by the uncanny clarity of the memory of my hands burning and shattering, and the lost and crumbling words of Bethlehem. And sometimes I will wake in the night and I am unwilling to reach for a light, out of fear that touching something will make my hands fall to pieces. I can certainly keep my home and person presentable, but my movements and grip have become taut and awkward when I pay any attention, as if I feared (so foolishly!) that whatever I was touching would turn to hot brass and sear me to the bone.

But I am well again, I have been since I reached my agreement with Morningstar. I know this, and while I am certainly willing to grant that there are things I do not fully understand, that does not excuse such unthinking and unnecessary avoidance of my calling. A man may accept that he does not possess the sum total of all knowledge without being reduced to a superstitious coward.

I have nothing to fear from dreams.

And it has been months since I worked properly on something.

So I have nerved myself to come out, and come looking for raw material. The streets south of my home are pleasant enough for a short distance, but as you go further and towards the west, a certain dilapidation grows. If I do not find someone, then there will be other nights--perhaps during the weekend, Market always seems to bring in rather a crowd--but I am rather optimistic.

[Open as discussed]

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