(no subject)

[valmont-vicomte.livejournal.com]

Thursday, February 18th, late morning

What a filthy day it is. I turn my collar up against the wind and rain - it is far too blustery to use an umbrella - and fight my way to the cafe. Perhaps I should just have stayed at home, but I like my morning ritual of going for coffee, and besides I have been quite restless since Valentine's Day. I still do not know what quite came over me. I awoke on the 15th with the feeling of having had an embarrassing dream. Is this another of Excolo's oddities? If so, I am quite tired of having my mind meddled with. If a man's heart is not under his own control, what does he have? But perhaps it being caused by something odd in Excolo is better than it being a strange fluke in my own affections. I don't know what to think of it, and so I resolve not to think of it at all.

I have kept thinking of Hermia these past few days, though. She probably thinks I am fussing over her. It's as if I need to keep checking that my feelings are as they were, that the weekend's oddness did not change them. And I am relieved to find that I can say quite honestly that I love her as much as ever. But it troubles me a little, the realisation of how much of myself is now based on her, how I love her. I don't know what kind of man I would be without Hermia, and that worries me just a touch. I have become, I think, a better man because I love her; I don't know if I would be this without her. A man's virtues should, I think, stand alone... But I have never had much moral code of my own, no great sense of the right and wrong of things beside my notion of honour and some particular feelings about the treatment of women and children. Then again, I have never pretended to myself that I am a good man. But I am not a bad one, either, and perhaps that will suffice.

I hang up my coat in the cafe and find myself a seat. I am re-reading Madame Bovary; I have not read it since I was at Versailles. I wonder how I will feel about Rodolphe now.

"Have you your pistols?"

"Why?"

"Why, to defend yourself," replied Emma.

"From your husband? Oh, poor devil!" And Rodolphe finished his sentence with a gesture that said, "I could crush him with a flip of my finger."

She was wonder-stricken at his bravery, although she felt in it a sort of indecency and a naive coarseness that scandalised her.

Rodolphe reflected a good deal on the affair of the pistols. If she had spoken seriously, it was very ridiculous, he thought, even odious; for he had no reason to hate the good Charles, not being what is called devoured by jealousy; and on this subject Emma had taken a great vow that he did not think in the best of taste.

[OPEN] [closed]

(no subject)

[valmont-vicomte.livejournal.com]

Thursday, February 18th, late morning

What a filthy day it is. I turn my collar up against the wind and rain - it is far too blustery to use an umbrella - and fight my way to the cafe. Perhaps I should just have stayed at home, but I like my morning ritual of going for coffee, and besides I have been quite restless since Valentine's Day. I still do not know what quite came over me. I awoke on the 15th with the feeling of having had an embarrassing dream. Is this another of Excolo's oddities? If so, I am quite tired of having my mind meddled with. If a man's heart is not under his own control, what does he have? But perhaps it being caused by something odd in Excolo is better than it being a strange fluke in my own affections. I don't know what to think of it, and so I resolve not to think of it at all.

I have kept thinking of Hermia these past few days, though. She probably thinks I am fussing over her. It's as if I need to keep checking that my feelings are as they were, that the weekend's oddness did not change them. And I am relieved to find that I can say quite honestly that I love her as much as ever. But it troubles me a little, the realisation of how much of myself is now based on her, how I love her. I don't know what kind of man I would be without Hermia, and that worries me just a touch. I have become, I think, a better man because I love her; I don't know if I would be this without her. A man's virtues should, I think, stand alone... But I have never had much moral code of my own, no great sense of the right and wrong of things beside my notion of honour and some particular feelings about the treatment of women and children. Then again, I have never pretended to myself that I am a good man. But I am not a bad one, either, and perhaps that will suffice.

I hang up my coat in the cafe and find myself a seat. I am re-reading Madame Bovary; I have not read it since I was at Versailles. I wonder how I will feel about Rodolphe now.

"Have you your pistols?"

"Why?"

"Why, to defend yourself," replied Emma.

"From your husband? Oh, poor devil!" And Rodolphe finished his sentence with a gesture that said, "I could crush him with a flip of my finger."

She was wonder-stricken at his bravery, although she felt in it a sort of indecency and a naive coarseness that scandalised her.

Rodolphe reflected a good deal on the affair of the pistols. If she had spoken seriously, it was very ridiculous, he thought, even odious; for he had no reason to hate the good Charles, not being what is called devoured by jealousy; and on this subject Emma had taken a great vow that he did not think in the best of taste.

[OPEN] [closed]

Streaks of light on the graveyard walk / Your bright star was crashing

[tezcatl-ipoca.livejournal.com]

Thursday, February 18th
The Carnival

It's been four days.

I went straight to Genny, after. Hardly even noticed the filthy or surprised looks from people on the lot. But her mother had taken her out for a walk, and if I had to wait there I was going to break into pieces, in a way that'd be fucking dangerous for the people around me.

Not going there again.

Dragged myself to my old apartment like some kind of wounded animal, and just curled up around my grief. Still lightly enough in this body and this world that the passing of time got blurred, and when I finally sat up I felt weak and sick. More important things to worry about, though, because Genny.

Feels I've been here so many times, at her door. Knock and there's no answer, so I let myself in.

[Open to Genny]

Streaks of light on the graveyard walk / Your bright star was crashing

[tezcatl-ipoca.livejournal.com]

Thursday, February 18th
The Carnival

It's been four days.

I went straight to Genny, after. Hardly even noticed the filthy or surprised looks from people on the lot. But her mother had taken her out for a walk, and if I had to wait there I was going to break into pieces, in a way that'd be fucking dangerous for the people around me.

Not going there again.

Dragged myself to my old apartment like some kind of wounded animal, and just curled up around my grief. Still lightly enough in this body and this world that the passing of time got blurred, and when I finally sat up I felt weak and sick. More important things to worry about, though, because Genny.

Feels I've been here so many times, at her door. Knock and there's no answer, so I let myself in.

[Open to Genny]

His stories, brilliant as they were, were no longer quite so free and easy.

[al-shairan.livejournal.com]

February 18th, evening

She had been a gloomy boy, in love with death, ... as boys are; and then she had been amorous and florid; and then she had been sprightly and satirical; and sometimes she had tried prose and sometimes she had tried drama. Yet through all these changes she had remained, she reflected, fundamentally the same.
Virginia Woolf, Orlando

After I burned Tezcatlipoca's note, I put off the Brant body and I let myself be as air. But as I unfolded, so did my sorrow; I burned as ozone, sharp tang through me on and on like lightning before it becomes lightning, the possibility of storm. There was no relief from it, and as I rippled out ever further I thought perhaps I would circle the earth and then drown it in one great storm, drown and burn it. But even if I could do it, I found the thought gave me no satisfaction, no relief from this void. There is nothing inside me but this howl, and there is no relief in screaming it. I have remembered everything all too well since I regained what I am, and that last conversation with Tezcatlipoca only confirmed it. I would I could be truly nothing, like the empty body I made, the child Esther, a hollow vessel. I put her on, but it does not soothe me. And so I make a new body, one with no memories, no past, nothing etched into its flesh to make it respond to this or that. No love for pain that I gave the fibres of Kent's body, no sweet corruption curled into the bones like Danika. Tabula rasa, this body is as much as I can make it. Androgynous, but in this case a woman, if such things matter. Tall for a woman but not tall for a man, a body that passes for either in the mannish clothes I give it. This body I will let feel my griefs as it can. Sorrow is better contained in the narrow margins of human flesh, and it will help me bear it. I will get it drunk, and I will let as much of me fall into nothing as I can.

I go to the bar of the tavern and order a glass of whisky, then ask for a tab to be opened. "What name, sir?" says Thomas, then glances at me again and blushes, not sure whether he has made a mistake. I look back at him, half-smiling.

"Caldwell," I say. "My name is Caldwell. Leave the bottle." And I remember another night that started like this, wearing the roadweary bones of Kent and drinking, and Tezcatlipoca's jealousy and mine, and Lilith's face pressed up against me with laughter and malice. I swallow down half the glass, and the warmth of the alcohol blooms brightly in my chest.

It is a start.

[OPEN]

His stories, brilliant as they were, were no longer quite so free and easy.

[al-shairan.livejournal.com]

February 18th, evening

She had been a gloomy boy, in love with death, ... as boys are; and then she had been amorous and florid; and then she had been sprightly and satirical; and sometimes she had tried prose and sometimes she had tried drama. Yet through all these changes she had remained, she reflected, fundamentally the same.
Virginia Woolf, Orlando

After I burned Tezcatlipoca's note, I put off the Brant body and I let myself be as air. But as I unfolded, so did my sorrow; I burned as ozone, sharp tang through me on and on like lightning before it becomes lightning, the possibility of storm. There was no relief from it, and as I rippled out ever further I thought perhaps I would circle the earth and then drown it in one great storm, drown and burn it. But even if I could do it, I found the thought gave me no satisfaction, no relief from this void. There is nothing inside me but this howl, and there is no relief in screaming it. I have remembered everything all too well since I regained what I am, and that last conversation with Tezcatlipoca only confirmed it. I would I could be truly nothing, like the empty body I made, the child Esther, a hollow vessel. I put her on, but it does not soothe me. And so I make a new body, one with no memories, no past, nothing etched into its flesh to make it respond to this or that. No love for pain that I gave the fibres of Kent's body, no sweet corruption curled into the bones like Danika. Tabula rasa, this body is as much as I can make it. Androgynous, but in this case a woman, if such things matter. Tall for a woman but not tall for a man, a body that passes for either in the mannish clothes I give it. This body I will let feel my griefs as it can. Sorrow is better contained in the narrow margins of human flesh, and it will help me bear it. I will get it drunk, and I will let as much of me fall into nothing as I can.

I go to the bar of the tavern and order a glass of whisky, then ask for a tab to be opened. "What name, sir?" says Thomas, then glances at me again and blushes, not sure whether he has made a mistake. I look back at him, half-smiling.

"Caldwell," I say. "My name is Caldwell. Leave the bottle." And I remember another night that started like this, wearing the roadweary bones of Kent and drinking, and Tezcatlipoca's jealousy and mine, and Lilith's face pressed up against me with laughter and malice. I swallow down half the glass, and the warmth of the alcohol blooms brightly in my chest.

It is a start.

[OPEN]

Is it wrong to love a family of ghosts?

[lei-miao-shan.livejournal.com]

[Early afternoon, Thursday, February 18, day 263]
[Follow Me Boy]


It was several days before I was able to work up the courage to do this, and several nights when we were forced to remain closed. As peaceful as Excolo usually is, a security officer is vital for an operation such as ours. And I will not risk my employees' safety by operating without one.

It grieves me, but it is unfair to our clients and unfair to my employees that we remain closed. And so, much though it hurts my heart to do so, to confirm Reed's disgrace so openly, I am forced to do this.

Sophie hangs out the "Help wanted: security" sign that morning, and she also went out to post a notice in the town square. My grief is terrible, but life and business must go on. Hopefully there shall be a response soon.


[OPEN to Jarmyn]

Is it wrong to love a family of ghosts?

[lei-miao-shan.livejournal.com]

[Early afternoon, Thursday, February 18, day 263]
[Follow Me Boy]


It was several days before I was able to work up the courage to do this, and several nights when we were forced to remain closed. As peaceful as Excolo usually is, a security officer is vital for an operation such as ours. And I will not risk my employees' safety by operating without one.

It grieves me, but it is unfair to our clients and unfair to my employees that we remain closed. And so, much though it hurts my heart to do so, to confirm Reed's disgrace so openly, I am forced to do this.

Sophie hangs out the "Help wanted: security" sign that morning, and she also went out to post a notice in the town square. My grief is terrible, but life and business must go on. Hopefully there shall be a response soon.


[OPEN to Jarmyn]