I’m outside, trying not to look down the road too intently. There’s cars sweeping past, but only your headlights will crest the hill. I’m happy because I know you’re there in the dark behind the wheel. This is going to be the last time I wait for you, same as last time. It’s raining a little and I like how the lights scythe through the water, creating the illusion of something solid. You took me by surprise last time with the roses. A perfect movie moment and I hated you. You gave your life to that church, how could I respect that? You and your holiness. Glowing hands after dark, letting me see what my flesh felt like under your hands. The tracers were sexy, visible trails from your tongue, but I didn’t want you as a Saint. I wanted you as Mine, not theirs, every whisper and caress. I cried when it was time to drive the nails in.
Day: October 17, 2004
I don’t protest, I just think it’s a bit wierd
When I grow up, I want to be the God Of War. That, and maybe pretty.
Which brings me to a question. It was brought to my attention today that a few people have apparently been using me as a desktop. Just for brevity, might I know if anyone here is also doing that?
east then west, it’s hard to turn
The candy is gone. Dark is softly closing in at four:thirty in the afternoon. My obsession needs to kiss me, needs to draw out my tongue. The rain has hid the sky, it looks grubby out, the sky painted gray-white by children with dirty hands.
I protest.
Today I can’t really stop hitting Send/Recieve. Hopeless, but there are no greater fools than those who work with children. I want to start work on my costume. Finally an idea that thrills me a little. The sort of thing that’s hovered in my brain since I was little. Ray has my sewing patterns. Hopefully I’ll get them off of him tomorrow. Then I’ll find out what I’ve got to play with.
Donations of fabric, however unlikely, are welcome.
The horses were tired, their brown coats flecked with foam. That’s how it goes, doesn’t it? Always flecked with foam in the stories and their hooves have to spark against the cobblestones and the carriage has to clatter. The coachman flanked by lanterns which sway wildly. At the convenient corner, one will smash to the ground, spreading flame. This is our opening scene, the same one we’ve seen many times beofre. The house will catch a litte, then roar up the walls of the house. We won’t see that part directly, but we’ll hear a child crying and see flame through the windows. If we’re lucky, a shot of the smoke will fade to black.
Music sting. A tiny flying cello humming past on graphite wings. I swat for it and miss. It gets me later on my knee. I scratch until it’s a sticky scab, but my leg won’t stop singing. Damn metaphor.
what has turned on here?
There’s been something wrong with me the last few days. It’s like the Strange Machine project downloaded too much information into my head. I can’t interact with the world without it spinning off into a thousand stories. Descriptives clinking up from the ring on my hand touching my water glass, the susurration murmur of the restaurant conversation drilling into me, seeking attention. Narratives spiralling off the most simple of things. I bite into my free-range beef burger and multi-plex layers of mad-cow, Briton, and end of the world shotgun scenarios unfold wetly like butterfly wings. Chemicals dripping from the udders of not quite cows. Something has snapped inside me. “I’ve never understood why girls date Boys With Cars, but Boys With Motorcycles I understand completely.” I wake up beneath an off-white ceiling, the window a blinded rectangle of dimly glowing light. I’m only one cigarette away from crumpling. Daddy said to marry someone richer than you are. The stars are spinning, the world is yawing off course, lean away from the turns, not into them. Momentum approaching torture. I stopped by a hideous house-party last night where everyone there was a caricature of a real person and it was like anthropology. I wanted to take notes.
No one should have this much ego conflict. Climb aboard, the train’s leaving the station. It’s not quite a problem, but I think I might be slightly broken. Like there’s a crack my thoughts are leaking through, dissolving me in acid fairy-tales.
Bill’s been calling lately. He’s been reading here, he sent me a letter. Three in the morning, surreal to sit reading it in darkness with Gavin leaving in the morning and Strange Machine going up in an hour. I’ve talked him into getting together Tuesday evening. We’re going to go over the B&W’s from eons ago and he’s going to bring me some dishes. I miss him quite a lot, the person underneath, I mean. However it goes, it will be interesting.