(no subject)

[steampunkvic.livejournal.com]

(Thursday October 23rd)
(Phoenix Dreamworks repair shop)

I sigh to myself and wonder why I so impulsively gallivanted off to the Carnival yesterday, and I wonder if Zann got my message. I hope not too many people stopped by while I was closed. "I'll stay here and open today" I promise myself, turning the sign to OPEN. I carry on working on my coffee-cooling warning device, occasionally looking up to see if anyone looks like they're going to come in.

[open][closed]

(no subject)

[steampunkvic.livejournal.com]

(Thursday October 23rd)
(Phoenix Dreamworks repair shop)

I sigh to myself and wonder why I so impulsively gallivanted off to the Carnival yesterday, and I wonder if Zann got my message. I hope not too many people stopped by while I was closed. "I'll stay here and open today" I promise myself, turning the sign to OPEN. I carry on working on my coffee-cooling warning device, occasionally looking up to see if anyone looks like they're going to come in.

[open][closed]

Sink into dream; these enchanted depths / The realm of muted wisdom

[simon-klavec.livejournal.com]

Slowly descend; trust ignites the darkness
And bliss is this drowning moment.

Day 144, Thursday October 23rd
Earliest morning
Another place

I feel his blade sweep down and there's something there, just close enough to touch and just enough like me I reach out and... I'm in another place.

I reach up and the scar's there. Long and thin on my cheek, getting ragged as I reach the bone. Bumpy above my eye, where the blade or the horn dug into bone. It's quiet here. Green sward. A barrow mound, with a monument. Can't see what's written, here. Just a pillar in the distance. Walk towards it, and I'm there. Low mound of earth, covered in grass. Dolmen archway for an entrance, framed in unhewn stone. The monument rises behind it. Don't have the words for its form. It bears the name of everything ever loved. Ah. Know every name, there. It is a long list.

The ground slopes before the barrow entrance, and I walk down. There's a pool in a hollow before the barrow deep and dark, ringed with stones. Look down.

Reflection stares back. It's me. The hood of my robe is thrown over my brow, and I push it back. Look young. No, ageless. Slim and strong, masculine and womanly. It's almost strange, for a moment. But it is me. The shade of my wings darkens the reflection then. Look up. There's sunlight, but clouds are moving. Coming. Somewhere there is a storm. There are many deaths, and something in the thought makes me raise my gaze. Smile. "Hello, Hope," I say kindly. Lay the scythe - no, hammer - down, and walk around the pool. In the distance cities burn, but here it is quiet.

[Open to Hope]
[Closed]

Sink into dream; these enchanted depths / The realm of muted wisdom

[simon-klavec.livejournal.com]

Slowly descend; trust ignites the darkness
And bliss is this drowning moment.

Day 144, Thursday October 23rd
Earliest morning
Another place

I feel his blade sweep down and there's something there, just close enough to touch and just enough like me I reach out and... I'm in another place.

I reach up and the scar's there. Long and thin on my cheek, getting ragged as I reach the bone. Bumpy above my eye, where the blade or the horn dug into bone. It's quiet here. Green sward. A barrow mound, with a monument. Can't see what's written, here. Just a pillar in the distance. Walk towards it, and I'm there. Low mound of earth, covered in grass. Dolmen archway for an entrance, framed in unhewn stone. The monument rises behind it. Don't have the words for its form. It bears the name of everything ever loved. Ah. Know every name, there. It is a long list.

The ground slopes before the barrow entrance, and I walk down. There's a pool in a hollow before the barrow deep and dark, ringed with stones. Look down.

Reflection stares back. It's me. The hood of my robe is thrown over my brow, and I push it back. Look young. No, ageless. Slim and strong, masculine and womanly. It's almost strange, for a moment. But it is me. The shade of my wings darkens the reflection then. Look up. There's sunlight, but clouds are moving. Coming. Somewhere there is a storm. There are many deaths, and something in the thought makes me raise my gaze. Smile. "Hello, Hope," I say kindly. Lay the scythe - no, hammer - down, and walk around the pool. In the distance cities burn, but here it is quiet.

[Open to Hope]
[Closed]

Part One: They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps

[tezcatl-ipoca.livejournal.com]

Thursday, October 23rd
Tez's room
After dark

Four days since I moved here - not long enough for my purpose. Could've done it at the Diabolique, maybe, if I was still there, at least back on the living lot. Need a place that's closed to random strangers, for my purposes.

Set up...an altar, I suppose you'd call it, on the shelf over the half-blocked fireplace. Hard to think of it like that, and it's strange doing it for myself. Should maybe have got Genny to help out, but - well. Tell myself it's because she's done too much for me lately, but there's always the memory of that dream just behind. So I find what I need myself.

Genny's painting glowering down, black and bloody red. An approximation of the tlaquimilolli bundle from my shrines long ago, folded cloth around an obsidian mirror. If it's only a piece of glass sprayed to shiny blackness, it's only fitting to my fallen state. One of the old posters for my show, from back before Genny did the signs: battered and curled around the edges, hauled out of the back of my truck, but with all the energy of all those years built up behind it. Thirty-odd years people looked at that stage and saw Tezcatl, Master of the Smoking Mirror, worker of miracles and magic. Could use that energy and that belief behind me now.

It gives me again that strange sense of being reflected back at myself, again and again. Slow build of it in the room, electric charge and smell of rain on hot stone at night.

Spent as much time as I can making this place mine. Fixed a lock to the door, swearing and sawing. Had more experience picking them than fitting them, if truth be told, but I get it done, and the little bit of my blood that the process claimed can only help, though my finger stings like a bitch. Fitted a latch on the window, too, but it's more than ironmongery that this'll need.

Swept and scrubbed the place until my hands were raw, driving out any old shadows of inhabitants past. I've marked under and over the door and window and fireplace with blood and spit and piss, animal marking of territory: keep away!. I've tapped the vein in my wrist, delicate with a small knife, and felt my self sink into the wood and plaster of the place as the floorboards wick up the dark stain of it. Sharp smell of burning hair, the smoke carrying into every crack. Mine, mine, mine, home and temple.

It would be uncomfortable, now, for any human with a degree of sensitivity to enter; quite possibly worse for a god. And I think that casual thieves or the merely curious will be quite firmly deterred from wandering in. I can feel my own presence heavy in the air and structure of the place, thick like jungle air. But it's not enough, not enough. I know what more I have to do.

[Closed]

Part One: They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps

[tezcatl-ipoca.livejournal.com]

Thursday, October 23rd
Tez's room
After dark

Four days since I moved here - not long enough for my purpose. Could've done it at the Diabolique, maybe, if I was still there, at least back on the living lot. Need a place that's closed to random strangers, for my purposes.

Set up...an altar, I suppose you'd call it, on the shelf over the half-blocked fireplace. Hard to think of it like that, and it's strange doing it for myself. Should maybe have got Genny to help out, but - well. Tell myself it's because she's done too much for me lately, but there's always the memory of that dream just behind. So I find what I need myself.

Genny's painting glowering down, black and bloody red. An approximation of the tlaquimilolli bundle from my shrines long ago, folded cloth around an obsidian mirror. If it's only a piece of glass sprayed to shiny blackness, it's only fitting to my fallen state. One of the old posters for my show, from back before Genny did the signs: battered and curled around the edges, hauled out of the back of my truck, but with all the energy of all those years built up behind it. Thirty-odd years people looked at that stage and saw Tezcatl, Master of the Smoking Mirror, worker of miracles and magic. Could use that energy and that belief behind me now.

It gives me again that strange sense of being reflected back at myself, again and again. Slow build of it in the room, electric charge and smell of rain on hot stone at night.

Spent as much time as I can making this place mine. Fixed a lock to the door, swearing and sawing. Had more experience picking them than fitting them, if truth be told, but I get it done, and the little bit of my blood that the process claimed can only help, though my finger stings like a bitch. Fitted a latch on the window, too, but it's more than ironmongery that this'll need.

Swept and scrubbed the place until my hands were raw, driving out any old shadows of inhabitants past. I've marked under and over the door and window and fireplace with blood and spit and piss, animal marking of territory: keep away!. I've tapped the vein in my wrist, delicate with a small knife, and felt my self sink into the wood and plaster of the place as the floorboards wick up the dark stain of it. Sharp smell of burning hair, the smoke carrying into every crack. Mine, mine, mine, home and temple.

It would be uncomfortable, now, for any human with a degree of sensitivity to enter; quite possibly worse for a god. And I think that casual thieves or the merely curious will be quite firmly deterred from wandering in. I can feel my own presence heavy in the air and structure of the place, thick like jungle air. But it's not enough, not enough. I know what more I have to do.

[Closed]