Loneliness is the first thing which God's eye named not good

Nov. 5th, 2011 01:19 pm
[identity profile] tezcatl-ipoca.livejournal.com
Wednesday, May 26th

I'm so miserable.

I can't stop remembering how things never were. It was confusing enough having some of Micah's memories from before I took his body. But now I have my memories since I got here, and a whole set of memories that never actually happened. And sometimes I feel like I'm remembering things I've never seen, here in town. I dreamed about the carnival the other night, though all I've seen of it is the edge where I met that strange girl.

There's too much in my head, and it hurts.

And everything's wrong with Valmont, too. I want Val back, yes, and Marie, but I also want Valmont to want me. I've thought of going and getting into his bed, before he comes back at night, but what if Hermia came instead? Sometimes I feel like everything would be alright if I could go to sleep curled up against Valmont.

It was a wish, I know that. I've heard people discussing it in the bar. And talking about - things, in town, which grant wishes. Things like this have happened here before. So they could happen again.

It wasn't hard to find out where I should go, though of course everyone was saying not to go there. Humans are cowards, I think. Lots of them want things back how they were during those days, and none of them will do what it takes. But I will.

The walk out here was painful and slow, but that's alright. I have time.

The Tower
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Loneliness is the first thing which God's eye named not good

Nov. 5th, 2011 01:19 pm
[identity profile] tezcatl-ipoca.livejournal.com
Wednesday, May 26th

I'm so miserable.

I can't stop remembering how things never were. It was confusing enough having some of Micah's memories from before I took his body. But now I have my memories since I got here, and a whole set of memories that never actually happened. And sometimes I feel like I'm remembering things I've never seen, here in town. I dreamed about the carnival the other night, though all I've seen of it is the edge where I met that strange girl.

There's too much in my head, and it hurts.

And everything's wrong with Valmont, too. I want Val back, yes, and Marie, but I also want Valmont to want me. I've thought of going and getting into his bed, before he comes back at night, but what if Hermia came instead? Sometimes I feel like everything would be alright if I could go to sleep curled up against Valmont.

It was a wish, I know that. I've heard people discussing it in the bar. And talking about - things, in town, which grant wishes. Things like this have happened here before. So they could happen again.

It wasn't hard to find out where I should go, though of course everyone was saying not to go there. Humans are cowards, I think. Lots of them want things back how they were during those days, and none of them will do what it takes. But I will.

The walk out here was painful and slow, but that's alright. I have time.

The Tower
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The most terrible poverty is loneliness, and the feeling of being unloved.

Oct. 24th, 2011 08:04 pm
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Sunday, May 23rd
The Dormouse, late evening.

I am not sure if I love or hate this time of day.  The day is done, it's quiet, and Rose sleeps peacefully in her cradle.  It's the perfect time to curl up on my window seat with a cup of tea and a book.  Which I have done.  I have the window cracked open, and a slight breeze plays over me.  I am content...

yet not.  For when the night falls, and it is between the time when Rose goes down and I finally succumb to slumber, my mind races.  Every nagging thought, ever doubt, every regret and 'what if' and 'could have been' comes creeping into my mind.

He was never real.  But he was!  How can that be?  How can a person, a real living person be... and then... not? 

It wasn't Him.  I know that much.  It wasn't my hopes that He suddenly changed, or that he would indulge me that much.  Nor do I think he would tell me he loved me, even to make me miserable.  No, whatever happened, Kent Whitman was real.  He lived and breathed and...

and it doesn't matter, for whatever happened; passed.  Then life reverted back.

It shouldn't matter anyway.  So why am I mourning the loss of someone that never was?

This question and quandry just keeps circling round and round my poor brain, and I've found I've given myself a headache.  With a sigh, I set the book I was not really reading aside and sip my tea.  I think I've decided... I hate this time of night.

(Closed, there are brownies, see...)
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The most terrible poverty is loneliness, and the feeling of being unloved.

Oct. 24th, 2011 08:04 pm
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
Sunday, May 23rd
The Dormouse, late evening.

I am not sure if I love or hate this time of day.  The day is done, it's quiet, and Rose sleeps peacefully in her cradle.  It's the perfect time to curl up on my window seat with a cup of tea and a book.  Which I have done.  I have the window cracked open, and a slight breeze plays over me.  I am content...

yet not.  For when the night falls, and it is between the time when Rose goes down and I finally succumb to slumber, my mind races.  Every nagging thought, ever doubt, every regret and 'what if' and 'could have been' comes creeping into my mind.

He was never real.  But he was!  How can that be?  How can a person, a real living person be... and then... not? 

It wasn't Him.  I know that much.  It wasn't my hopes that He suddenly changed, or that he would indulge me that much.  Nor do I think he would tell me he loved me, even to make me miserable.  No, whatever happened, Kent Whitman was real.  He lived and breathed and...

and it doesn't matter, for whatever happened; passed.  Then life reverted back.

It shouldn't matter anyway.  So why am I mourning the loss of someone that never was?

This question and quandry just keeps circling round and round my poor brain, and I've found I've given myself a headache.  With a sigh, I set the book I was not really reading aside and sip my tea.  I think I've decided... I hate this time of night.

(Closed, there are brownies, see...)
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Be careful what you wish for.

Sep. 30th, 2011 12:34 am
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
When the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers.


Early morning of Tuesday, May 18th

A light drizzling rain patters onto the streets of Excolo. A light breeze passes through Uri's short hair, and he whistles a cheerful tune, battered case in hand, folding table under the other arm. At the crossroads of Silk Road and Main Street he unfolds the table and opens the case.

The air is charged, waiting.

"Buy your dreams, sell your nightmares! Money for chokings, stabbings and drownings!"

He falls silent. The air is pregnant; the grey clouds are briefly yellow-tinged. A storm is coming.

She is sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. She is stupid. She buys a trinket, a dream of some sweaty country boy she likes taking her in his arms.

This is not the storm.

"I wish," she says, tucking the bottle in her pocket, knickers already damp from the thought of drinking it, "everyone could have what they wished for, don't you?"

Along the street, a shopkeeper opens her store. The silence of the street is broken, and Uri smiles, touches his wrinkled fingers to her young wrist and says:

"A good wish, young miss."

There will be no lightning, now. Another storm is born.

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Be careful what you wish for.

Sep. 30th, 2011 12:34 am
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
When the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers.


Early morning of Tuesday, May 18th

A light drizzling rain patters onto the streets of Excolo. A light breeze passes through Uri's short hair, and he whistles a cheerful tune, battered case in hand, folding table under the other arm. At the crossroads of Silk Road and Main Street he unfolds the table and opens the case.

The air is charged, waiting.

"Buy your dreams, sell your nightmares! Money for chokings, stabbings and drownings!"

He falls silent. The air is pregnant; the grey clouds are briefly yellow-tinged. A storm is coming.

She is sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. She is stupid. She buys a trinket, a dream of some sweaty country boy she likes taking her in his arms.

This is not the storm.

"I wish," she says, tucking the bottle in her pocket, knickers already damp from the thought of drinking it, "everyone could have what they wished for, don't you?"

Along the street, a shopkeeper opens her store. The silence of the street is broken, and Uri smiles, touches his wrinkled fingers to her young wrist and says:

"A good wish, young miss."

There will be no lightning, now. Another storm is born.

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A dream of life comes to me like a catfish dancin' on the end of my line

Sep. 9th, 2011 11:53 pm
[identity profile] jaeresteade.livejournal.com
Thursday, May 13th
Day 347, early morning
Bank of the Pontarlier


I know better than to expect to get my pick of shifts at the Whitechapel, still being new and all, but I’d just as soon never work a Wednesday night again as long as I live. Last night was slow as pond water, leaving me not much richer and with too much time to think. Think about how much my hand hurts, for one thing, how it might be looking a little pink around the bite, and not a good healing kind of pink, either. And of course that would lead to thinking about the boy Valmont’s helping out, since he did the biting, and how much he reminds me of Tarquin in all the ways but the ones that matter.

Really don’t want to think about Tarquin.

There’s plenty of other stuff in my head to bother me, though, and so closing up and mopping and walking down to the ‘Boy I was cursing Iago Beddau every way I know how. If it weren’t for him, I’d have been headed for Verdi’s bed for some fervent prayer and supplication, and I daresay she would have found some way to make me forget all about my long-gone little brother and the pain in my hand.

But when I go to her to ask her about the story he spun me, it won’t be at two in the morning. Don’t know if that story had anything to do with the truth, but those boys did die. And Verdi could have done for them. And she could do the same to me. Don’t think she would, but she <i>could</i> in a minute if she wanted to, and that thought had me going to bed by myself.

Verite knows she’s welcome here, and she hasn’t come. Hasn’t invited me to stay at the salon again, either. I’ve seen her a few times since I moved out, but it’s never been for more that a few hours at a time. And it’s never been as comfortable as it used to be. We’re friends, I’m sure of that, but whether we’ll ever be more than that again I don’t know. Want it, enough to make my heart hurt more than my hand, but I don’t know how to get it. Do know she has to want it, too.

I didn’t sleep a lot last night.

I’ve always been good at putting things that didn’t need to be in my head out of my mind, but by dawn the only thing I’d managed to work out was that I’d lost that skill pretty thoroughly. I dragged myself out of bed and showered, thinking longingly about coffee but knowing very well how much of my paycheck I handed back Monday morning. All of the money I had to spend on coffee, surely.

Thought I might as well doing something useful as long as I was going to be awake and thinking, so I went down to the river with a fishhook and a ball of string. Thought as I was cutting the pole how strange it seemed to be fishing just to have something to do instead of because there was nothing else to eat. I don’t even know what kind of fish they have around here.

Nothing to do but settle myself on the bank to find out. The first one to bite looks like some kind of perch. Well enough. I get it off the hook and onto my stringer and go looking for another worm.


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A dream of life comes to me like a catfish dancin' on the end of my line

Sep. 9th, 2011 11:53 pm
[identity profile] jaeresteade.livejournal.com
Thursday, May 13th
Day 347, early morning
Bank of the Pontarlier


I know better than to expect to get my pick of shifts at the Whitechapel, still being new and all, but I’d just as soon never work a Wednesday night again as long as I live. Last night was slow as pond water, leaving me not much richer and with too much time to think. Think about how much my hand hurts, for one thing, how it might be looking a little pink around the bite, and not a good healing kind of pink, either. And of course that would lead to thinking about the boy Valmont’s helping out, since he did the biting, and how much he reminds me of Tarquin in all the ways but the ones that matter.

Really don’t want to think about Tarquin.

There’s plenty of other stuff in my head to bother me, though, and so closing up and mopping and walking down to the ‘Boy I was cursing Iago Beddau every way I know how. If it weren’t for him, I’d have been headed for Verdi’s bed for some fervent prayer and supplication, and I daresay she would have found some way to make me forget all about my long-gone little brother and the pain in my hand.

But when I go to her to ask her about the story he spun me, it won’t be at two in the morning. Don’t know if that story had anything to do with the truth, but those boys did die. And Verdi could have done for them. And she could do the same to me. Don’t think she would, but she <i>could</i> in a minute if she wanted to, and that thought had me going to bed by myself.

Verite knows she’s welcome here, and she hasn’t come. Hasn’t invited me to stay at the salon again, either. I’ve seen her a few times since I moved out, but it’s never been for more that a few hours at a time. And it’s never been as comfortable as it used to be. We’re friends, I’m sure of that, but whether we’ll ever be more than that again I don’t know. Want it, enough to make my heart hurt more than my hand, but I don’t know how to get it. Do know she has to want it, too.

I didn’t sleep a lot last night.

I’ve always been good at putting things that didn’t need to be in my head out of my mind, but by dawn the only thing I’d managed to work out was that I’d lost that skill pretty thoroughly. I dragged myself out of bed and showered, thinking longingly about coffee but knowing very well how much of my paycheck I handed back Monday morning. All of the money I had to spend on coffee, surely.

Thought I might as well doing something useful as long as I was going to be awake and thinking, so I went down to the river with a fishhook and a ball of string. Thought as I was cutting the pole how strange it seemed to be fishing just to have something to do instead of because there was nothing else to eat. I don’t even know what kind of fish they have around here.

Nothing to do but settle myself on the bank to find out. The first one to bite looks like some kind of perch. Well enough. I get it off the hook and onto my stringer and go looking for another worm.


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Aug. 31st, 2011 12:43 am
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
Morning of the 10th of May

For certain is death for the born
And certain is birth for the dead;
Therefore over the inevitable Thou shouldst not grieve.


These past days I have been as air, and as air I have let the breeze take me where it will. I have stretched far enough that I have seen day dawn and night descend, the spectrum of white to blue to rose to gold to black, and in stretching myself so thin have given my grief a scraped quality, a membrane all through me instead of a stone, an arrow. Like this the song that Zann played me is very distant, the sigh of a breeze across the surface of a lake, and it can be borne.

And then, a few days since, all through me there was a ripple of something like the sounding of a bell, tinny silver pulled by a tiny thread - no. No. It cannot be.

I do not hope.

I came back to Excolo and there was nothing, and I made myself as stone in the tower and crouched in the dark until this morning, when something pulled at me sharply, just for a moment, something so thin but there, like a hair caught in a throat.

And then it was gone, quite completely. I make myself be flesh so I can go out in the woods where Syl left him, but there is nothing, nothing. Not even an echo. But Night Wind, if there is something of you left I will find it, and then -

That I have not decided. I have two answers, and neither satisfies me. But when did I ever expect satisfaction?

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Aug. 31st, 2011 12:43 am
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
Morning of the 10th of May

For certain is death for the born
And certain is birth for the dead;
Therefore over the inevitable Thou shouldst not grieve.


These past days I have been as air, and as air I have let the breeze take me where it will. I have stretched far enough that I have seen day dawn and night descend, the spectrum of white to blue to rose to gold to black, and in stretching myself so thin have given my grief a scraped quality, a membrane all through me instead of a stone, an arrow. Like this the song that Zann played me is very distant, the sigh of a breeze across the surface of a lake, and it can be borne.

And then, a few days since, all through me there was a ripple of something like the sounding of a bell, tinny silver pulled by a tiny thread - no. No. It cannot be.

I do not hope.

I came back to Excolo and there was nothing, and I made myself as stone in the tower and crouched in the dark until this morning, when something pulled at me sharply, just for a moment, something so thin but there, like a hair caught in a throat.

And then it was gone, quite completely. I make myself be flesh so I can go out in the woods where Syl left him, but there is nothing, nothing. Not even an echo. But Night Wind, if there is something of you left I will find it, and then -

That I have not decided. I have two answers, and neither satisfies me. But when did I ever expect satisfaction?

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Aug. 1st, 2011 11:57 pm
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
“When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them, they show us the state of our decay.”


Monday, 3 May, afternoon
The Carnival

It has been some time since I wore this little child's body, a pretty empty vessel. I find some relief in it, the shell of it like a vase. Its flesh does not tug at me so. Inside the body there is a coolness like clear water. It wears a prairie dress, clearly made at home, and scuffed brown leather shoes with tarnished buckles. Its knees are scraped and its hair tousled. It walks out to the carnival and buys a caramel apple so its face is soon smeared with sugar. It is in all ways a sweet looking thing, and I remember its casual cruelty to the priest Laurence and smile to myself. It skips through the carnival, half-eaten apple in hand, and I look out for those who can be hurt by truths.

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Aug. 1st, 2011 11:57 pm
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
“When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them, they show us the state of our decay.”


Monday, 3 May, afternoon
The Carnival

It has been some time since I wore this little child's body, a pretty empty vessel. I find some relief in it, the shell of it like a vase. Its flesh does not tug at me so. Inside the body there is a coolness like clear water. It wears a prairie dress, clearly made at home, and scuffed brown leather shoes with tarnished buckles. Its knees are scraped and its hair tousled. It walks out to the carnival and buys a caramel apple so its face is soon smeared with sugar. It is in all ways a sweet looking thing, and I remember its casual cruelty to the priest Laurence and smile to myself. It skips through the carnival, half-eaten apple in hand, and I look out for those who can be hurt by truths.

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A little voice inside my head said, "Don't look back, you can never look back."

Jun. 21st, 2011 10:18 pm
[identity profile] syl-thorn.livejournal.com
[Early evening, day 327, Friday, April 27]
[Nearby the tower]


Been thinkin' 'bout what Simon told me fer th'past couple days. Zann wuz m'main concern, but folk told me't Genny'd gone t'see'er, an'I figure't wuz best t'let'em work thin's out ferra bit first. An'n th'meantime, been thinkin' a lot 'bout what'e said 'bout th'Psycho Monster'n me.

Wouldn't gen'rally be hard t'see why'e'd pull somethin' like'at. Know how much'e likes fuckin' wit' folks, an' ain't like's got much love fer me'n mine...'r anybody else. But....

But.

If'n'e jes' wanted t'bed me t'fuck 'round, 'e coulda. 'e got done up azza pretty woman, found me when I wanted a good lay, an' nature took'er course. But I 'member crossin' th'bridge. I 'member'im fallin' on'er knees'n th'rain, weepin' inta'is hands. Givin'im a cig'rette. Now I ain't sayin'e can't be fooled, an'I ain't sayin'e wouldn't lie, but'at sorta stuff wuzn't nec'ssary. I wuz already goin' t'bed wittim. 'e di'n't need t'cry 'n draw me in more. I don't get what'e wuz tryin' t'do.

An'en'ere's th'cig'rette case. I taken't out since Simon'd told me, an've had't wit' me when've been workin', an'I ain't sensed no badness from't. Silver soaks up magic like a bloody sponge, but't ain't got nothin' onnit's far's I c'n see. I found't on m'bloody pillow th'mornin' after, an'I can't see no reason for'im t'ave left't. 'less'ere's somethin' so subtle onnit't I can't see, an'm pretty sure I could. So.

So I finished m'mornin' gath'rin', laid all't I had to out t'dry. I had some lunch, I slung m'bag over m'shoulder, an'I headed north. An' when I got t'th'tower I knocked on th'door.

"Alright you," I says when th'door opens. "Let's talk."


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A little voice inside my head said, "Don't look back, you can never look back."

Jun. 21st, 2011 10:18 pm
[identity profile] syl-thorn.livejournal.com
[Early evening, day 327, Friday, April 27]
[Nearby the tower]


Been thinkin' 'bout what Simon told me fer th'past couple days. Zann wuz m'main concern, but folk told me't Genny'd gone t'see'er, an'I figure't wuz best t'let'em work thin's out ferra bit first. An'n th'meantime, been thinkin' a lot 'bout what'e said 'bout th'Psycho Monster'n me.

Wouldn't gen'rally be hard t'see why'e'd pull somethin' like'at. Know how much'e likes fuckin' wit' folks, an' ain't like's got much love fer me'n mine...'r anybody else. But....

But.

If'n'e jes' wanted t'bed me t'fuck 'round, 'e coulda. 'e got done up azza pretty woman, found me when I wanted a good lay, an' nature took'er course. But I 'member crossin' th'bridge. I 'member'im fallin' on'er knees'n th'rain, weepin' inta'is hands. Givin'im a cig'rette. Now I ain't sayin'e can't be fooled, an'I ain't sayin'e wouldn't lie, but'at sorta stuff wuzn't nec'ssary. I wuz already goin' t'bed wittim. 'e di'n't need t'cry 'n draw me in more. I don't get what'e wuz tryin' t'do.

An'en'ere's th'cig'rette case. I taken't out since Simon'd told me, an've had't wit' me when've been workin', an'I ain't sensed no badness from't. Silver soaks up magic like a bloody sponge, but't ain't got nothin' onnit's far's I c'n see. I found't on m'bloody pillow th'mornin' after, an'I can't see no reason for'im t'ave left't. 'less'ere's somethin' so subtle onnit't I can't see, an'm pretty sure I could. So.

So I finished m'mornin' gath'rin', laid all't I had to out t'dry. I had some lunch, I slung m'bag over m'shoulder, an'I headed north. An' when I got t'th'tower I knocked on th'door.

"Alright you," I says when th'door opens. "Let's talk."


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I think the lovilest time of the year is the Spring, I do! Don't you? 'Course you do!

May. 30th, 2011 06:14 pm
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
The Market, late morning
Saturday, April 17

Another Saturday dawns bright and lovely.  I suppose I should be working in my own shoppe, but Romana is there, and has proven herself more than capable of running it.  I suppose we should sit down and discuss the direction her employment will take soon, for she was only meant to be temporary part time help at best...

but today she can remain acting hostess.  Today Rose and I are out at the market again, mingling amongst the townsfolk and taking in the sights and smells.  Today I am in a good mood, with music in my mind and on my lips.  Spot a lovely paste brooch, in greens and blues, and pick that up for my own pleasure.  A tea pot with violets, and a baby's dress in pale mint.  Rose is awake and alert, taking in more than many would give her credit for. 

I weave in and out of the stalls, with no particular schedule to keep or plan to my day.  During the day, it is easy to let the hours flow by, to be busy or not.  During the day, it's easier... I just wish the nights weren't so lonely, or that I minded it as much as I do.  It's better, I know it is...
but the pillow still holds his scent, after all this time.  Even with washing it and airing it out, he's still there with me, even though he's not.

I sigh and shake my head, chiding myself for my melancholy.  Today is too sunny and pleasant for such lonely longings.  I have music in my head, the sun in my hair, and my daughter at my chest.   I switch my shopping bag from one hand to the next and drop a kiss on Rose's head, and continue my search for nothing inparticular.

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I think the lovilest time of the year is the Spring, I do! Don't you? 'Course you do!

May. 30th, 2011 06:14 pm
[identity profile] mistresswanda.livejournal.com
The Market, late morning
Saturday, April 17

Another Saturday dawns bright and lovely.  I suppose I should be working in my own shoppe, but Romana is there, and has proven herself more than capable of running it.  I suppose we should sit down and discuss the direction her employment will take soon, for she was only meant to be temporary part time help at best...

but today she can remain acting hostess.  Today Rose and I are out at the market again, mingling amongst the townsfolk and taking in the sights and smells.  Today I am in a good mood, with music in my mind and on my lips.  Spot a lovely paste brooch, in greens and blues, and pick that up for my own pleasure.  A tea pot with violets, and a baby's dress in pale mint.  Rose is awake and alert, taking in more than many would give her credit for. 

I weave in and out of the stalls, with no particular schedule to keep or plan to my day.  During the day, it is easy to let the hours flow by, to be busy or not.  During the day, it's easier... I just wish the nights weren't so lonely, or that I minded it as much as I do.  It's better, I know it is...
but the pillow still holds his scent, after all this time.  Even with washing it and airing it out, he's still there with me, even though he's not.

I sigh and shake my head, chiding myself for my melancholy.  Today is too sunny and pleasant for such lonely longings.  I have music in my head, the sun in my hair, and my daughter at my chest.   I switch my shopping bag from one hand to the next and drop a kiss on Rose's head, and continue my search for nothing inparticular.

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I was Thursday's child.

May. 23rd, 2011 06:24 pm
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution.
- Vladimir Nabokov

Wednesday's child is full of woe;
Thursday's child has far to go.
- Proverb


Friday afternoon, the Miskatonic cafe

The hours have slipped away like sand through fingers (am I a falcon), and in the great space of myself I watch things tumble outward and outward, ripples without end (a storm). Without flesh I hear the notes more clearly (a great song), a more perfect echoing as I unfold. I can hear it resonate within me, and it is too much. I put on a body, one I have not worn before, because it gives some relief, to keep cramped and still in a small place, even to be caught up in the minutiae of bodily experience, the pumping grossness of vein and bowel. There's an elegance to this body that I like, clean lines of it, its dark skin and long limbs stepping out of the desert and folded into bright cloth, hair wrapped with a scarf. I take it into the daylight, watching the shadow move across the greening grass near the tower and then the sunbright asphalt of the town, and I sit in the cafe with its fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, hot and black, steam rising. I will endure all things I must.

[CLOSED]
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I was Thursday's child.

May. 23rd, 2011 06:24 pm
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution.
- Vladimir Nabokov

Wednesday's child is full of woe;
Thursday's child has far to go.
- Proverb


Friday afternoon, the Miskatonic cafe

The hours have slipped away like sand through fingers (am I a falcon), and in the great space of myself I watch things tumble outward and outward, ripples without end (a storm). Without flesh I hear the notes more clearly (a great song), a more perfect echoing as I unfold. I can hear it resonate within me, and it is too much. I put on a body, one I have not worn before, because it gives some relief, to keep cramped and still in a small place, even to be caught up in the minutiae of bodily experience, the pumping grossness of vein and bowel. There's an elegance to this body that I like, clean lines of it, its dark skin and long limbs stepping out of the desert and folded into bright cloth, hair wrapped with a scarf. I take it into the daylight, watching the shadow move across the greening grass near the tower and then the sunbright asphalt of the town, and I sit in the cafe with its fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, hot and black, steam rising. I will endure all things I must.

[CLOSED]
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Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle.

May. 22nd, 2011 01:52 am
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
It's possible I'm moving through the hard veins
of heavy mountains, like the ore does, alone;
I'm already so deep inside, I see no end in sight,
and no distance: everything is getting near
and everything getting near is turning to stone.

I still can't see very far yet into suffering,—
so this vast darkness makes me small;
are you the one: make yourself powerful, break in:
so that your whole being may happen to me,
and to you may happen, my whole cry.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

I watched with glee
While your kings and queens
Fought for ten decades
For the gods they made.
I shouted out:
'Who killed the Kennedys?'
When after all
It was you and me...

- Jagger/Richards


Thursday evening through to the following dawn, the Tower

I cannot stop hearing it, that song, echo of it in everything. I thought I had shut it out, I thought -

Even when Tezcatlipoca made me forget my Fall it was not like this. I could remember the sound of it. I thought I remembered it. And then Zann played her song, and it was not perfect, it was human, what she did, but it was enough. I hear the bell sounding inside me, and I cannot make it stop.

It was the sound of what is before, and what is, and what is always. It is the sound of what I hate. It is -

Me. I cannot deny it now, what is still in me, what I thought I had carved out. Perhaps I had. But in the hollow places that were left there is now space to echo, and the notes of the song resound like a cry in a great cave, like a bird riding a storm.

I have been a great liar, these many years, but I had not realised I was lying to myself. The size of it shakes me, what I have not let myself know. Did it begin with Tez? I think it was in me before, but he was like water through a crack in porcelain.

I said: I cannot. But would not that be weaker? I chose not. I made the choice to Fall, and I made the choice not to do many things, after that. It was not incapacity, it was choice.

But if this is something I still have to choose -

It hurts. Oh, it hurts.

I take out the bloodstained dress Tanwen wore, such a long-little time ago, because there is nothing else left.

"ٲنَا ٱحِبُّك" I say at last, and for a moment I feel the tower tremble.

And now I must choose not to again. I must. I will.

In the chamber, shadows lengthen toward dawn.

[closed]
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Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle.

May. 22nd, 2011 01:52 am
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
It's possible I'm moving through the hard veins
of heavy mountains, like the ore does, alone;
I'm already so deep inside, I see no end in sight,
and no distance: everything is getting near
and everything getting near is turning to stone.

I still can't see very far yet into suffering,—
so this vast darkness makes me small;
are you the one: make yourself powerful, break in:
so that your whole being may happen to me,
and to you may happen, my whole cry.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

I watched with glee
While your kings and queens
Fought for ten decades
For the gods they made.
I shouted out:
'Who killed the Kennedys?'
When after all
It was you and me...

- Jagger/Richards


Thursday evening through to the following dawn, the Tower

I cannot stop hearing it, that song, echo of it in everything. I thought I had shut it out, I thought -

Even when Tezcatlipoca made me forget my Fall it was not like this. I could remember the sound of it. I thought I remembered it. And then Zann played her song, and it was not perfect, it was human, what she did, but it was enough. I hear the bell sounding inside me, and I cannot make it stop.

It was the sound of what is before, and what is, and what is always. It is the sound of what I hate. It is -

Me. I cannot deny it now, what is still in me, what I thought I had carved out. Perhaps I had. But in the hollow places that were left there is now space to echo, and the notes of the song resound like a cry in a great cave, like a bird riding a storm.

I have been a great liar, these many years, but I had not realised I was lying to myself. The size of it shakes me, what I have not let myself know. Did it begin with Tez? I think it was in me before, but he was like water through a crack in porcelain.

I said: I cannot. But would not that be weaker? I chose not. I made the choice to Fall, and I made the choice not to do many things, after that. It was not incapacity, it was choice.

But if this is something I still have to choose -

It hurts. Oh, it hurts.

I take out the bloodstained dress Tanwen wore, such a long-little time ago, because there is nothing else left.

"ٲنَا ٱحِبُّك" I say at last, and for a moment I feel the tower tremble.

And now I must choose not to again. I must. I will.

In the chamber, shadows lengthen toward dawn.

[closed]
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