Professor Paisley in the Drawing Room at Dawn, Madam Greensward with a Joystick in the Solarium.

This is a spin-off thought from months ago. What are the real world names of everyone here? There was a meme regarding the idea sometime last year, but my flist seems to have exploded since then. There’s approximately two hundred people who drop in here and I can’t claim to know more than two thirds. That an anonymous someone has gifted me with Pro account status for a few months only adds to the smoldering curiosity that threatens to singe my dancing with little cinders of dissatisfaction. I can’t figure things out without clues.

ray donley

He brushed the hair from her face, sad, lost. Not the way he wanted to reunite, he thought. It was his invention that brought him here, his oddball basement contraption that blew out the power. She was suffocating in her highrise palace bloc. He found her wrapped in laser etched plastic, her eyes filling with blood. Corporate kicks for money. He fought for her, to reach her here. Her lovers hung at the door, otherworldly, black make-up smeared that he hates so much. It’s not as important now. Nothing ever is entirely what it seems. He brings a cup to her lips, hoping she will drink. Back home at the trailer park, the dismal rows of blank christ-shrine houses, his dog stands up and growls at the door. She blinks, unable to focus on what he’s handing her. “I thought I used to mean something to you,” he says. “You did, but now I know better. I saw how I was trapped with you, how I would never reach out unless I left.” He looks down to the coverlet. “That hurts, Simenne, that’s nasty.” She puts the cup down on the bedside table. “I’m glad you’re here. What did you do to my security? I can hear people screaming.”

He’s tall, tanned lean leather. A brush haired man with an inventive personality, fairy tales fall from his fingers. “No one’s hurt, they just think they are.” “You’re a wicked man, dearest. A nasty, wicked man. When does it wear off?” “When I click this button.” He thumbs something, a thick plastic square, and the ragged screaming stops. He smiles finally as someone swears, inventive and loudly. “Your name is always associated with the best of things.” She laughs. She’s the devils daughter. A slender girl with thick braids of long hair that cable down the bed to lose themselves in the crumpled sheets. He watched her grow up, her parents marketing her DNA traits by the time she hit fifteen. Her smile on billboards in every big city square. He was her story-teller, her connection to myth and history and modern networking. The dog is barking loudly now, drowning out the sound of the neighbors television.

“Tell them to leave” he says, and she does.

we’re all somebody’s whore, let’s make sure we’re somebody’s pimp as well

 Mark your calendars: January 27th is Rabbit Hole Day

From :

A few months ago, I had a dream in which LiveJournal and everyone on it went completely nuts for a day. The entire world had turned upside-down and inside-out and nobody was their normal self anymore. And it was such a good read, that I think it should happen for real.

January 27th is the birthday of Lewis Carrol, author of ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. Alice fell down a rabbit hole into a place where everything had changed and none of the rules could be counted on to apply anymore. I say, let’s do the same: January 27th, 2005 should be the First Annual LiveJournal Rabbit Hole Day. When you post on that Thursday, instead of the normal daily life and work and news and politics, write about the strange new world you have found yourself in for the day, with its strange new life and work and news and politics. Are your pets talking back at you now? Has your child suddenly grown to full adulthood? Does everyone at work think you’re someone else now? Did Bush step down from the White House to become a pro-circuit tap-dancer? Did Zoroastrian missionaries show up on your doorstep with literature in 3-D? Have you been placed under house arrest by bizarre insectoid women wielding clubs made of lunchmeat?

Let’s have a day where nobody’s life makes sense anymore, where any random LJ you click on will bring you some strange new tale. Let’s all fall down the Rabbit Hole for 24 hours and see what’s there. It will be beautiful.


I hope I sleep before tomorrow

Alastair’s in bed and I’m doing what I usually do. I write that sentence, over again with another name, in front of the computer, alone in the dark. I want to go lie with him, enfold myself in warm blankets and unconscious boy arm, but I’m caught in this again. Writing because there’s nothing better to do, letting my fingers walk across keys because it’s three a.m. and even my flist is asleep. Outside is too cold for walking and the ocean too tempting a target for all the angst I never seemed to muster. I cried last night. I didn’t think and he tossed me off, leaving me a mindless ball of sorrow. We talked of relationships today and the echo of a hundred boys spoke through his lips. “I hope you meet someone who makes you happy.” He talked of us together in the past tense and I wonder if I’ll be coming back again. If he’d caught me before, I would have thought love was enough, but now I’m foolish enough to think I know better. I can hear him awake now, listening to me type. He likely won’t remember come the morning. Knock on wood that I can create in him some happiness.

I can barely believe it takes me so little to fall back into a nocturne pattern. Just one, “don’t wait up”, just one novel half interesting enough to stave off lying in darkness with a body next to me that I don’t quite feel comfortable with right now. I will when I’m tired, when I’m not feeling as if my belly is trying to dissolve me in terror of never having food again. Bloody thing. It will have to wait until tomorrow, when I foray off again, bringing the rice from our chinese food with me. If I eat it now, what will I have tomorrow, asks the mind. I don’t care, says the belly, you need to feed me now. Silly how the logistics of such situations seem not to impact the lower functions. Obviously we’re going to have to work on that a bit. Programmed bits of DNA to over-ride the lizard and the chimp. Base the base and drum the bass, thrum patterns in flesh with a transfer file built of bone. Both Josh and Warren posted something that particularly caught my eye; jewelry sculpted from living bone. They intend to create wedding rings from the bone tissue of each partner. I suspect that if they would let me play, I would. Pity I don’t have such a person. The old ways melding with the new almost gives them re-mixed meaning, but not quite and perhaps not enough. Too little too late for the walk down the aisle.

We reformatted the laptop this evening and now the interface seems clunky and outdated, the pre-sets giving the tactile awareness of an Apple II. I wasn’t prepared for the sheer unscalable tweaking that we need to placate the thing into maneuverability again. I’m not touching it much myself, it not being my machine to torment, but I’m trying to fix some of the more obviously painful changes.

There’s a storm outside with lightning and thunder thrown by angels. I must go to watch.