Mortal Angel

Twenty-four ~ Detached

2004-12-06T16:42:00.000-05:00

Dear R-----,

       If you haven't heard the new R.E.M. album yet, go buy a copy. Now. This time, even a few of the critics like it - which says a lot, as they've pretty soundly trashed the last few. The melodies thread among and between both solid sky and nebulous clouds, threads of gold and liquid prisms... not always melodies that will catch in your head for the day, though wisps of lines as summer breezes will, but emotion never runs in predictable lines, why should music? No one complains about curves in painting. And Michael's voice... I can't even begin. The cadences and tones in every phrase... it's so beautiful. Beauty isn't a strong enough concept to hold this. All that makes the soul lift and cry out in joy... existence bound up in sound... The pain and longing of true beauty, not the painted perfection of a face or the false lines of culture but the place the heart longs to remain, and can catch only snatches of in this world...

       I'd like to think I make a beautiful picture, walking along a worn-grass path amidst the brick building of the campus, the sunlight dappled by emerald leaves, tangling in my dark hair, my face turned up, eyes shining in love for all things, my heart shining past circles of sky-tinged blue, the song infecting even my stride...

       But I probably just look stoned.

       Don't worry, it's okay, I'm laughing at myself too. I can't help but think in terms of photographs and music videos, they're what make up my entire life, it's all an audio-visual patchwork, scraps of viewpoints and songs.

       It feels like summer's stretching into forever, the days are still so long and warm. Not that I'm complaining - it gives me time after class to explore more, camera over my shoulder. I haven't been back in the woods behind the house in awhile - P-----'s been sending a good deal of time working on his "secret" fort, and any time I near the path, he or a friend chases me out. (It's all in fun, I play along; I've been threatening to build a rival fort nearby, just to tease him.) I've been riding my bike around, learning the roads and area in general a little better. My excursions have a habit of taking longer than I'd planned, which is one reason the lengthy daylight is so appreciated. Once you're outside of town the stretch between roads grows quite a bit, which turns even the slightest angle into a good deal of extra distance, and since I'd rather not come back on exactly the same route I left on...

       It's a very good thing I picked up a county map last semester, not that I've gotten very lost, but I get a little nervous when I've been riding an hour back towards town and I've not seen anything familiar.

       It occurs to me that while I may feel an artist's distance from the world on campus, I probably just seem detached and unapproachable to everyone else. (The ever-present headphones don't help, I'm sure.) I really hope not, I hope my eyes tell them otherwise... I'm just shy, I'm scared of sounding silly or stumbling over words and having people think less of me, so I simply don't say anything at all... I'm confident in my views and thoughts, but I don't trust my voice, only my hand and paper. I look in the mirror and I like who I see - but I'm also very aware that she's not much like everyone else...

       I smiled at an old man cleaning the walls in the post office this morning, and he snarled at me, probably thinking I was laughing at him, when all I intended was a sympathetic camaraderie, a smile of appreciation - I cleaned on-campus all last year as work-study, I know how it feels being ignored by passers-by. And I don't think I'd ever look down on someone like that, I may have in the past but I've grown beyond that... and anyway, I've nothing which makes me any better than anyone... But how well do I ever know how to address people properly anyway, I might watch them but interaction is so rare.

       I'm lost in dreams of a past I never knew, I'm out of place in my own time...

       Music is my home, and music is not of time.

[note]

2004-12-01T01:46:00.000-05:00

Well, there we are, I've officially lost NaNoWriMo. *giggles, shakes head* Not that I really thought I'd make it...and then getting nailed with 437829 projects this month didn't help. x___x

However, I'm determined not to give up - I've gotten a lot more out of this than I thought I would, and I *really* want to see if I can finish this story. Setting a tenative deadline for the end of *this* month..ehm..we'll see if that happens, but it sounds good at the moment anyway.

Thanks for hanging in there with me... updates will be a little more regular again after all the projects of dooooom due the next two weeks are out of the way.

Twenty-three ~ Elude

2004-11-29T16:26:00.000-05:00

My dear N-----,

       Well, last night was certainly an interesting evening, was it not? The woman had the dramatics of a dozen operas in her emotions of an hour's time; such a delightful game, to prompt her from one to the next! To flatter her into coy confidence and sensuous attentions, then rip away the false mirror's painted reflection and tear from her all self-worth, leaving her a hysterical mass of wretchedness, refusing to believe even the most honest of reassuring compliments, fearing it to be a lie... but still needing acceptance, and so soon believing anyway. Ah, darling, it ad been some time since I so enjoyed simple manipulation, it was thoroughly entertaining. A shame F----- left so early, it was the sort of thing he used to be quite adept at.

       Do you recall that delectable café which was near C-----'s residence in B-----? The wine last night must have been from the same area as what was reputedly exclusive to that fine establishment - the label was different, but with such a distinctive aroma, I cannot be mistaken. An incredible sweetness, faintly laced with a pungence of near-decay... a trace of the origins of such refined opulence. So much praise, for the liquid of things spoiled.

       The man you brought with you had rather too much of it, I think, yet I was glad when he did, for he was quite disagreeable, I must tell you. I do not know what made you think he would be acceptable company, he was simply atrocious, darling. Rude, completely devoid of manners, such a detestable creature! Not once did I hear a word of praise for the fabulous decour S----- devised for the evening, nor the delicious entertainment - not even a single compliment on anyone's outfit! He eyed everything with an air of dulled boredom, as if he wished to be elsewhere - he, a mere mortal who should have felt honoured to be granted attendance! No human could ever approach our rank, and certainly he was not worthy of even our slightest favour. Your taste in persons continues to elude me, my dear, I do not see why you should continue to bring such unrefined, despicable beings to our gatherings. They quite spoil the evening, their breath souring the very air. He spurned all advances, his eyes ever seeking our yours alone in a lustful hunger, which was not it itself a thing to be admonished... what concerned me was the look of command. As if he owned you, and was only humouring you by letting you attend a friend's party, and was merely waiting until his pet had settled down and he might rein it back in again to do his bidding. I most certainly hope such was only a game you were playing with him, allowing him the illusion of control only enough that you might all the more drastically wrest it away from him.

       Ah, darling, I wonder at times what will become of us, such terrible influence some of us have allowed this world to wreak upon their selves... I cannot understand these weaknesses, this apparent desire to relinquish all that we are for such meaningless forms of existing... A terribly depressing subject, I must admit I miss "the good old days", as they were, when we had newly been bound to this simple earth - do you remember the speech M----- once made? How boldly he defined and validated all we intended, what a splendid release he affirmed!

       And see what he has now become.

       Much as I may question your choice among mortals, I knew you would never see them as anything approaching an equal, and I must say that this does comfort me.

Twenty-two ~ Pleasantries

2004-11-22T20:03:00.000-05:00

Dear B-----,

       Thought I'd drop you a quick note, I'm in class and the lecture's a bit dry today, I need something else to hold the remainder of my attention.

       In general my classes are going well, nothing too difficult, but interesting enough...

       I'm not good at small-talk, I can occasionally get some pleasant banter going, but I can't enjoy it, I need something more which is probably why I don't socialize very well. People want pleasantries, not to have to think, the moment you start thinking, you start questioning, and the ego is so rarely sturdy enough to stand the blows of inquisition and doubt. If you start to see both sides of an issue, how do you know yours is really right? There is not only bliss by strength in ignorance.

       Do you remember back in high school, where the biggest concerns were passing Chemistry and who was dating who, and there I was, merrily describing how I'd love a revolution, to see society as a whole fall apart at the seams, all its intricate and inbred faults, just crumble and fall away, much to your discomfort. I'm sure you'd much rather a bright, cheery letter to the convoluted meanderings of my mind, but...

       Much as I scared you, you remained friends with me, through all of my varied phases.

       Thank you.

       It's raining today, that always sense my thoughts off in strange directions... usually nothing more disastrous than a pleasant, quiet sort of almost-melancholy. but today, it's got me wrapped in memory...

       Do you still miss high school at all? I don't miss the early mornings, the hall monitors and long days, but... I miss the people. Despite all the melodramatic tendencies of the social climate, there was an ever-present bond between friends, somewhere between the closeness born of shared hardships and the warmth and affection of family's long acquiantance. I suppose the friendships I have now are more fulfilling in most respects - how many people I hung around with in high school could I have had an honest and open discussion about sexuality or religion with?

       ...but how many people here would know what to get me for Christmas?

       It's a trade-off between the stimulation of the intellect and the comfort of affection... only we need both...

       "Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other's gold..." A song I learned in Girl Scouts, sometime in elementary school - I loved it enough then that it's the only one I still remember, and the words have only gotten more true. Hallmark-sentimentality, yeah, but even the most over-wrought sentiment has its roots in something real.

       But it's so easy to lose friendships... not even so much lose them, but let them fade away, your heart not even realizing it's being slowly drained... not until it begins one day to ache, and you won't know why. Quaint as my letter-writing habit might be, I need it. I need this connection I feel to you right now, tenuous as it is. I can feel my heart reaching through the pen and ink, settling into the paper you'll hold in a few days and read, my words still reaching you, no more than a slight temporal distance between my self in this moment and your self, reading these words...

       I need to know that you're still with me, I need to know I'm not alone, that there's someone there who cares...

       Maybe that's why I felt so much stronger, so much more confident, in high school. I had these basic needs met, I knew I was known and cared about, so I had no cause to worry about it. I knew I was important in myself. I could keep the artist's distance between myself and the world, I could poke fun at the lovey-dovey shite, I could case aside the need for all of that, I could be bigger than it all. I could care about the world because I myself was already cared for.

       I'm glad I'm learning to be more loving, I'm glad my heart is so much more real to me now, that passion binds itself in emotion instead of the intellect... but the girl I was won't quite leave me alone. I feel so much weaker, there are times I can't walk unafraid...

       And I don't know where to find an answer, I don't know how to repair the holes in the dam which burst, spilling everything in my heart out into the cold, so vulnerable...

       And now I've probably scared you in the opposite direction as I did back then! I'm sorry, please, don't worry, I'll be alright. I apologize for dragging you through all this, don't feel you need to answer it all - just telling you has helped. That's the other aspect of all of these letters - they're a journalling of sorts for me, they're a way for all my scrambled thoughts to be forced into some sort of coherence.

       I intellectualize the emotion I was so proud of just a moment ago! Here I go yet again, into the endless vortex of contradiction that bounds my existence. For all philosophy intrigues me, I could never fully pursue it, I can't think in straight enough lines. Philosophy's a huge tangle - which is why I know you loathe it, and I enjoy it - but you've got to be able to cut straight paths through it. You could, but I can't.

       In spite of the dull class lecture today, I feel alright now... I can't quite say what, or if, I've learned anything, but it seems I might have.

Twenty-one ~ Entertainment

2004-11-19T15:05:00.000-05:00

My dear F-----,

       It has been far too long since I saw you, darling, it is pleasant to hear you are again in the area. I shall have to hear how things are in N-----, it has been some time since I was last there

       I do hope you will find the entertainment which we have requested for the party in honour of your return to be to your liking - I am certain you will, it is someone you have had your eye on for some time, I believe. But there! I shall ruin the surprise, which is half the pleasure of a thing.

       Novelty, darling, such a delightful thing. What is new may not long be good, but it is always initially interesting. The excitement of a new painting revealed, a song first performed, a fresh theory expounded... ah, pretty one, such moments make Time almost worthwhile, do they not? The delicate scent of a flower whose petals are for the first time parting...

       And the delicious sight of the starry-eyed naïvete of the artist fading, as the passion of their preposterous heart is reduced to dry critique, fodder for public consumption, accepted or dismissed with no more effort than a wave of the hand. The eager joy and pride which consumed them melts as a candle's wax, leaving only empty space and a misshapen form crumpled on the floor. Oftentimes, it is the process in which they themselves reach, exist within, and fall from acclaim which is more enticing than the art by which they do so.

       I had word from L----- about your departure from H----- some time ago. Whatever was that about, darling? He seemed quite perturbed about the circumstances under which you left, and I must say the rest of us were at quite a loss. I believe your actions since have appeased him, but that still does not explain why you said such things, or why you left his company so abruptly. It seems things had been quite well, L----- spoke of a seemingly delightful child who had recently fallen in among all of you there; it appears he was quite the thing, and all were much taken with him, yourself included. Whyever then did you leave so quickly, with only a cryptic message of departure? It looked almost as if you were reprimanding their behavior - but certainly that was not the case, for I have never known you to have such silly qualms before. Do you remember the first night you were with us in B-----? Ah, what a time we had! Mmm, do you remember his eyes as we told him what we wanted of him? Such an exquisite combination of apprehension and determination, disgust and desire, fear and eagerness, the golden candlelight fracturing as it hit his dark eyes...

       But it seems you have gotten over whatever it was, and I am quite glad of that, particularly in light of all that has gone on of late. This party shall almost be as much an affirmation for us as for you... but do not think we hold you in less esteem, that is not the case at all, my dear. Nor, of course, have we at all questioned our ways. It will simply be pleasant to have a party with all the delights inherent, without having to fret over troublesome persons.

       I am much looking forward to your company, darling. I hope you find your stay a pleasing one.

Twenty ~ Bearings

2004-11-19T13:56:00.000-05:00

Dear M-----,

       Ah, weekend again, Heaven knows I needed a break. Classes are still settling in, but just having to get up in the morning and to class on time grew tiring after a long summer, so having a chance to sleep in and ease into the day was nice. I lingered a little over a late breakfast, flipping through the newspaper and chatting with Mrs. R-----, offering to make dinner tomorrow night. I'm not a tenth the cook she is, but I'm quite good at pancakes and the like at least, and I'd like to chip in a little, she's such a dear to have dinner for all of us every day.

       "All of us" consists of Mr. and Mrs. R-----, their son P-----, who's nine, maybe ten years old, myself, and two other students - a senior girl, I think an education major, and a sophomore guy, who's very quiet, keeps to himself a fair bit, I believe he's liberal arts so far, or so I gather from Mrs. R-----. I don't see much of the latter two, the girl keeps busy with classwork and student teaching, turning in to bed when I feel most awake; I see the boy at dinner, and occasionally out walking in the yard or the woods behind the old barn. Yet, every now and again I can catch his hazel-blue eyes with mine, and there is an instant connection - undefined, too tenuous for either of us to feel confident enough to start conversation, but there's something there all the same. Not even a romantic something, you can save your cautionary lectures for a few weeks yet, I've said no more than "hello" to the boy.

       In any case, I grabbed an old book to re-read (I'm beginning to wonder just how much what I read as a child influenced me - all these old-fashioned daydreams and contentments, I had a pretty steady diet of Alcott, Montgomery, and the like), and wandered around the property looking for a sunny spot to curl up in. I sat against the side of the barn for awhile, but the woods begged my attention far more than my book, so I decided instead to do some exploring.

       There are the beginnings of a path, but it is soon lost in the sparse underbrush and criss-crossed trails of deer and whatever else resides among the barely disturbed trees. Not far in, I saw the word "PRIVATE" freshly carved into the bark of a mid-sized maple tree, a bit below eye-level. On the other side of the tree were nailed a few boards - just enough to allow shorter arms than mine to reach the branches above and scramble up to the small platform nestled between the split of two main branches. P----- and I had a conversation about tree forts over lunch last weekend, and I'm pretty sure that was his. He had been adament about not giving away its location, but the letters and boards were barely darkened by weather, so it's too new to be anyone's but his. I won't tell him I've found it, of course - that ruins the entire point of a secret fort being secret. Unless you have decent defenses, of course - I remember having a fort amidst a large clump of overgrown burdock bushes, simply because I knew no-one else would come near, for fear of getting the tenacious barbs caught in clothing and hair. (But though i had a bit of a strategy for entering, I had the longest hair of any potential entrants, and the burdock stuck to me the same as anyone else, so I eventually relocated.)

       I wandered for awhile, following bits of trails, checking out small, fern-boarded clearings, scaring the living daylights out of a few squirrels (who later returned the gesture by munching on nuts overhead - and dropping the shells around and on me, making me jump half a mile), walking along fallen tree trunks, half-decayed and giving way at a mis-step. I saw a creek at a bit of a distance, but on approaching it, I hit a wide muddy area around it, full of marsh marigolds as tall as I. Will investigate further when I've got boots on.

       Off to one side, beyond the creek, I saw what looked like a small shack, a fort, something. Faded grey, the browning leaves of several autumns past lying prone on the roof and in small wind-blown piles along one wall. I could see about a side and a half of it, most of my view obscured by a few large bushes and the angle I was looking from. no sign of a door or window, at least from that distance, but it looked far too large and solid to be just a blind for hunting. (In any case, these woods are owned a good five, ten miles back by the R-----s, and Mr. R----- has signs up to deter hunters from his property - but not "trespassers", I noted, which is nice for a change, as that's typically what I end up being in my wanderings at home.) I looked about for any easy way to cross the creek, but no luck, as the wet area was still too wide and free of stones or fallen branches large enough to step across on. Another day.

       I got only slightly lost on the way back - luckily I spotted P-----'s fort off to the left, and regained my bearings from that. One of these days I'll get a compass, but it's more fun to rely entirely on my own memory and sense of place. More dangerous, yes, but more interesting. And stop your fretting, dear - the worse thing I'm likely to encounter in there are irate squirrels, a raccoon at most. Or a cranky ten-year old whose secret has been discovered.

       I re-entered the yard just as P----- and his father returned from running errands. He came sprinting over to me, eyes wide, breathlessly demanding to know if I'd been spying on his fort. I promised I hadn't, and he grinned brightly, proclaiming that I'd never find it, his planning was too well thought-out for such easy discovery.

       Dinner was warm and friendly, everyone crowded around the kitchen table, P----- bubbling over about the day's events, the rest of us interjecting, sharing stories of our own.

       It felt nearly like a family, something from a book.

       I mentioned my exploration - sans P-----'s fort, of course - and asked about the small building I'd seen. Blank looks from around the table - no-one had seen it before - only I caught a faint glimmer in D-----'s eye (the quiet guy, I realize I left out his name before). He looked quickly away, but I saw something - I think he's been there too. He left directly after dinner, mumbling something about studying, and I saw the large pile of dishes and offered to help, so I haven't had a chance to talk with him. but that finally gives me something to start a conversation with him, at least, which is a plus.

       Will write again soon - P----- has challenged me to a game of checkers, and you know I couldn't refuse.

Nineteen ~ Detriments

2004-11-18T13:53:00.000-05:00

My dear L-----,

       What you have heard is entirely accurate. T----- has withdrawn from our company, having convinced himself that it is in mankind he shall find whatever it is he believes he is lacking. I see only that he lacks reason, and certainly Man has little enough of that! A number of us attempted to dissuade him from this absolute nonsense, but he is quite adamant in his delirium. He was spoiling the entire atmosphere of our existence, so I told him to leave, if he felt we were so mistaken in our pursuits and attitudes.

       I fear a few others may follow - I have little doubt that M----- will. But M----- never has been quite the same since that posturing singer he doted upon years ago. Oh. the man had potential for us, certainly, but there was something far too bright in the corners of his blue eyes, something I was wary of from the beginning. And though M----- maintained his lifestyle as before, there was a part of him he held in reserve still, his eyes a hue closer to the singer's (similar as they had been when they had been when the relationship began, the resemblance grew still more).

       The more time spent within Time, the greater its detriments on some of our number. Sad, isn't it, how like Man some become - change and decay as years flow past fragile flesh.

       To you, I will admit, there is one thing I miss, and that is the freedom to exist outside of Time. My self, of course, will never quite be constrained by chronology, yet I cannot help but feel its inexorable pull on this body, a pull enough to cause even my soul some degree of discomfiture. Perhaps it is impudent of me to ask, but has such ever had an affect on you? I do not truly fear it, for I have not the weaknesses of those as T----- and M-----, yet it is a tiresome sensation to cope with.

       I do hope things return to their usual course, now that T----- will no longer be causing disruptions. Oh, dramatics are always very exciting, of course, but it is best when it is frivolous, and can be pushed away when one grows weary of it. I am quite glad he has gone - I had grown so tired of having to argue against such pitiful assumptions, and it was quite depressing to look at one who had once grasped the very cosmos so eagerly pursuing the mundane existence of mortals. let this miserable rain wash away his carefully-wrought façade, let him be naked and vulnerable as the petty beings he so admires. We will maintain the dignity of our superior rank, keeping mere men at a fitting distance.

Eighteen ~ Intersections

2004-11-17T16:24:00.000-05:00

Dear K-----,

       I went to have a look around the small local museum adjacent to the library in town this weekend. I'd been meaning to go for awhile, but it keeps somewhat irregular hours, according to its own rationality which I have yet to divine.

       The museum was fairly interesting - a few rooms furnished in the style of a period long-gone, some varied artifacts of times past. A bit of a mish-mash in places, but with the contents being entirely of local nature, it was nice all the same. A jumbled cross-section of the town's history - an old desk from a past school (in the days when wooden school furniture could survive unscathed by the tagging of bored students), a hand-sewn quilt (of actual scraps of clothing, not merely in imitation of), children's board games and glassed-in shelves of countless old books (which I hope one day to be brave enough to ask if I might have a look at). The pool of surnames is so delightfully small - donations in memory of names which match the streets, items used by names which match the headstones I studied last week.

       Really, what I wanted to find, was the personal histories the heroines in books always find tucked away in such places - an old diary, a microfilm machine with back issues of the local paper. I suppose I might find the latter on campus... but it's just as well, as I've never gotten on well with microfilm. I continue to be impressed with its simplicity and efficacy, but for whatever reason I have the worst luck in operating them. If anyone begins a project to convert the information into HTML code for use on the Internet, I'd be glad to help. Just don't have me try to turn one of the blasted machines on.

       But there are always ways of finding stories - while I was in the post office yesterday, I fell into conversation about baking with the woman handling the box of cookies I was sending M-----. I mentioned a website I frequent, she recommended a book at the library - I'm swapping recipes with people, since when did I become such an adult? (Yet parents passing tell their children "careful, don't bump into the lady"...did they really mean me?) In any case, we chatted briefly on baking, and I went on my way - and in that short exchange, I had a glimpse of the world around her. Of such intersections is life made, far more intricate than any lace or spider's threads. Paths crossed, followed, abandoned, and found again, turns unseen and, of course, roads both taken and not taken. (I hate that poem. I probably wouldn't if everyone in the world didn't think it the most profound thing ever written. My apologies, but Robert Frost is not the be-all and end-all of poetry by any means.)

       There, too, are always the stories felt if not told. So many people swirl in endless waves about me on campus, maybe a dozen out of a thousand whose voices I know... but that doesn't prevent me from writing about them all the same. A boy about my age, thin frame hidden in a long dark trench coat, a face hidden from the sunlight by the brim of a black cowboy hat... I've never spoken to him, but I see him often in the cafeteria. And there is such an air about him, mostly mystery I suppose, but also the imagery of a truth-seeking cowboy tinged with the melancholy eyes of a goth... Yet, I once saw him among friends, and for all the times I have felt such a distance between the soul beneath the coat and the world around it, he laughed as bright as any other.

       In class one day, I overheard a few girls seated behind me, conversing about someone they knew - a friend's younger brother, if memory serves. And it was not these two peers of mine whose lives I felt a connection with, but this boy... They discussed how sweet and naive he is, how he would be one to always hold the door for you and all, but he wasn't the sort you could actually date, and have any physical sort of relationship with. Whether they said so explicitly or not I can't recall, but in how they spoke of him, I could tell they wanted someone to sully this angel of a boy, if he wasn't that much the younger they would probably have done so already. And I grew afraid, so sad for the loss of the warm innocence of this boy I will probably never meet, though I imagined him so clearly... I can see the deep, caring brown eyes I gave him, the slightly tousled dark hair, the strong arms and slim-but-sturdy frame, dressed well enough in a casual style. I can hear his voice, a little soft but warm and quick to laugh.

       The sort of boy that populates my fancy, the sort of boy I find only in old books, but can warm my heart all the same...

       And they wanted to dirty him up, they wanted to tarnish his halo and rend his wings.

       And without speaking a word to them, or even turning around to look at them, I knew the style of clothing the two girls would have, their hair, their make-up. I knew I'd find them at the bars on the weekends, they could even have been among the crowd at the party I was at (and the only one I intend to attend), draping themselves over the nearest male, only half-aware of their own actions.

       For all my time spent listening and watching, I will never understand how, or why, anyone leads such a life...

       ...but I suppose they could never fathom the quiet joy I find in a bike ride past the vineyards, the warmth I find in solitude.

       We're all human, how is it we have such varied definitions of happiness? I know love, in some form, is at the root of most full happinesses, but...

       Maybe it's in the loss of self that we're happy. Strange, I know, for such naturally self-centered creatures as us, but think on it a moment. Whether it's delighting in the detail of a sun-lit leaf, the rush of speed in a late-night drive, the ecstasy of physical sensation, the exhaltation of the soul in a song... We're happiest when we've abandoned ourselves to something outside of us.

       I suppose this entirely validates Christian doctrine - when we've given our selves into Him, we're at peace - and that's definitely a comfort.

       (If only I could have faith enough to trust His arms to carry me.)

Seventeen ~ Foolishness

2004-11-16T23:31:00.000-05:00

T-----,

       Your mislead notions of man's importance and our supposed weakness grow tiresome. When will you cease this ridiculous behaviour? I am beginning to fear that you truly believe all you have said, and such a thought thoroughly disgusts me. That you have conjured feelings for this writer, and allow yourself to believe they are real! The impurities of this air seem to have damaged your mind, darling. What is love but a more acceptable name for desire, possession and ego? You claim it fills the emptiness which consumes us. No mere human can correct what Heaven itself lacked! If this hole can be filled, it can only be done by our own actions; pleasure stills the vacuum, we need only find a way to prolong it. The soul's control of the body will silence the soul's cries. There is nothing beneficial a human has that we do not have in greater abundance. We do not need them, we only use them at our convenience.

       M----- seems nearly completely under the spell of your false words, you must realise this. It is, of course, his choice to be led by your inconsistent doctrines, but I am dismayed that you should have the audacity to treat one of us as a mere plaything, as you might a mortal. Admittedly, he was particularly susceptible to such foolishness - despite his close relationship with L-----, he nearly left us for that singer of his - but he, at least, returned to us and his senses before he slipped as far as you have. You have allowed yourself to become a mockery of all we are, a pathetic shell of what you once were and ought to be. We have no less than we had Before - we have far more, for now we have the freedom to follow our own desires without being held back by His arbitrary decrees.

       And you... you claim to have found what we left There in a simple human?

       What have we left behind that we would still want?

       I should like to think more of than all of this, I cannot see how such piecework ideas and ill-fitting logic as you have been declaiming can satisfy you in the manner you describe. Your ideals have been reduced to the lyrics of popular song, your thinking no more far-reaching than that of a schoolboy with a crush.

       You realise you will quite spoil the reputation of us all by this ridiculous behavior. I most certainly do not want my nightly paramour to begin asking if I care for them, expecting some ludicrous, petty human invention! We shall have to begin again making our selves clear - this is one matter we would prefer not to be shrouded in nebulous rumour. If you continue on in our circles with such behavior, all of us will become suspect of harbouring such notions, having at every turn to refute what the rest of us have so rightly shunned for so long.

       If you are so disillusioned with what we have, darling, none of us are stopping you from dropping to your knees and begging to be let Return.

       Whatever you choose to do, do not burden us with your nonsensical drivel any longer. If you will not recant these absurdities, then I must ask you to take them elsewhere.

Sixteen ~ Instantiations

2004-11-14T19:07:00.000-05:00

Dear E-----,

       Thank you again for the phone call the other night, dear, I was certainly in need of it. You'd think I had gotten myself completely trashed, from the wreck I was the following day... only it was an emotional hang-over, not a physical one.

       I hope someday I can have the faith in me that you do.

       But I'm fine again now, after you called I wrote for awhile, then had a nice long sleep into late Sunday morning, which helped immensely. I woke to faint sunbeams tracing a path from my window to the wooden floor, no more than a soft shimmer, as thin, gauzy fabric hung in the air.

       Naturally, I fumbled for my camera and tried to rub as much of the drowsy blur from my eyes as I could, so I'd be able to focus the shot.

       I stood by the window for awhile, just looking out past the rich emerald leaves which frame one side of the view, the sky a warm blue beyond, a few clouds stretched just over the horizon. The sunlight tangled itself in a branches and leaves as fingers in a lover's hair, a warm breeze gentle as quiet whispers near sleep.

       A soft Sunday morning easing into a peaceful day, and I decided to follow its lead. After a quick shower and a bit of breakfast, I packed a little lunch and my camera, then took off on my bike for the afternoon.

       Which brings me here, in the older of two cemeteries in the midst of town. Odd, I don't doubt, having a Sunday picnic in a cemetery over a century old, but it's beautiful here. The sun slips through the leaves of aged trees, gently dappling delicate shadows on old stone, stone from which the shadows of time already seep, darkening the surface.

       Here, I don't feel lonely.

       I realize how morbid I must sound, you're probably fearing I'll soon turn goth, but I promise, you needn't worry. It's not so much a fascination with death, but, as usual, history, with lives past.

       I feel like if I sit here long enough, quiet enough, I should hear their voices, catch a faint glimpse, as a faded photograph, of their time... There's such a depth to this place, it feels warm, and wraps my ever-searching heart in something soft and safe.

       Most of the stones here are the thin slabs of Halloween clichés... but these are far from pop culture's gray rectangles of pasteboard. These are so richly detailed, the intricacy time and weather bring, each engraved letter carefully rounded, fine grains of varied tones shading every surface and depression. I don't think I've taken a single wide shot of the area, I'm so entranced by the small things here, the way the light falls on the filigrees of slow decay... and the way life shows itself in death. In a number of the gravestones, peeking out from a crumbled joint or reaching from the cracks of a fallen stone, small plants and flowers grow even in death's lifeless markers.

       Detail and contrast, such are what capture my thoughts. I'm not good at all at clear, concise descriptions, I can't give you a perfect mind's-eye view of this place. I can only grasp at the subtle beauties in the smallest of things, and try to catch at their essence, in a shaky photograph, in faltering words...

       But at least I'm always able to find something interesting to look at, something pretty to rest my mind within.

       I wonder what the root of beauty is? It instantiates itself in different things to everyone - some see it in city lights, some in the glint of an old sword, some in gravestones and some in the sleek lines of abstract sculpture. But does it even describe the same emotion in all who speak the word? A businessman can acknowledge a beautiful sunset, but does it tug at his heart in yearning, or does he simply recognize it conforms to general opinions of beauty, and he ought to take a picture of it?

       The gold of late afternoon tinges the air now, and I should be getting back - I've run out of film anyway.

Fifteen ~ Fragment

2004-11-12T02:37:00.000-05:00

My dearest H-----,

       Such a pity your party was ruined, it had such promise, darling. A superb guest list, exquisite decoration and fascinating entertainment. Quite a fabulous occasion, until M----- appeared. What a strange look in his eyes last night! A look which I could not read, could not compare to any I have ever seen. I still cannot find the words for it, something that has long been simmering in his soul now breaching the surface. Something that unsettles me greatly, I do not like it in the least, there is something familiar that---

       Never mind that.

       From the moment he entered the room, the atmosphere changed, we all felt it. Subtle as a fragrance, shaking as a planet knocked from its orbit. For quite a time, he barely spoke, yet as time wore on so too did the weight of all he had yet to say, his very bearing altering the mood of the night. A dis-ease, an air of disapproval - perhaps disappointment - but also a hint of reminiscence that caused a sharp pinprick of pain in us all...

       But I needn't try to describe, you felt it as well as I.

       Nor need I repeat what he said... no one of us heard it all, but each received a small piece, a scrap of tapestry, a fragment just enough to lodge in the mind, as a bit of dust in the eye, too small to extract but impossible to ignore.

       "The brighter a light once was, the darker the shadow it needs to hide within."

       "Decadence is the pungence of chances spoiled."

       "What has fallen is not always lost."

       Phrases muttered with only just the volume to be heard, slipped into conversation so gently that none noticed for a time just what he had said. Seeds left to fester in the richest of compost:

       Our past.

       Such bitterness in his voice! And far more loathsome - pity. He was the one to first proclaim what our existence should be, it was he who let us see the chance we could snatch from what They saw as only punishment. What right has he to look down on us so? How is he any different than us, he Fell as hard as we, he has done all that we have done, what claim has he to know better than us? What is there that we do not know!

       He must have realised what wrath he would incur - no-one has seen him since that night. But let him sit alone and nurse his self-inflicted wounds, what need have we for the regret and ridiculous depression of him and T-----?

       We set out to make a grand existence for ourselves, and outdo Heaven in all its presumptions. Are we not doing so? And are we not enjoying ourselves far more than those hampered by unceasing "devotion" (far more like to enslavement) to His commands? There is so much more that we can see now, the Light blinded us to any number of things. Once our sight adjusted, and that hateful radiance faded, every delight we suspected we had been denied was laid out before us, willing and more than able to sate the lusts welling up in our souls.

       M----- looked even more worn and faint than T-----, did you notice? He looked a if he had aged! Quite disgraceful, how careless they and their lot are becoming. Appearance is truth, particularly in a world so bound to the physical. I can honestly say I have seen mortals more beautiful than they are now - such a sad state of things. Oh, of course I remember the rumours regarding ----- soon after our exile, but surely you cannot believe all of that gossip, and after so much time! We were all a bit flustered with the turn of events then, and I am afraid some became downright fearful. I truly believe the accounts of his disappearance were greatly exaggerated - no angel, fallen or otherwise, would allow himself to succumb to that degree of suffering. It is simply a fault which is outside of our nature, he could not possibly have wasted away in such fashion...

       Not a chance of it.

       Well, darling, I did suggest to M----- that he attend your soiree, for his own benefit, but I see he has only wasted the opportunity. I shall not again offer him special consideration, or, indeed, any thought at all.

       If he cares to return, he may. If he prefers to sully himself with inferior company, and - what was it he said? Fill the hole which had become his soul, or some such nonsense. He envies humans their hearts! Their contradictory emotions, their self-defeating postures, trying to engender in themselves futile and altogether false notions of compassion, sympathy, concern for others. Man is, in his most basic elements, concerned most with himself. The foolish creatures refuse to accept this reasonable state of being, which I see as still another of their innumerable shortcomings.

       M----- shall find himself only forgotten, despite his martyr-like posturing.

       Fool.

Fourteen ~ Liberation

2004-11-11T16:27:00.000-05:00

Dear S-----,

       Does it surprise you that in midst of gales of laughter and too-loud voices, the freedom of bodies in varying degrees of intoxication and a desire for carefree amusement, I am sitting in a forgotten corner with my notebook, eyes wide and pen busy, but mouth still? Legs bent, keeping my feet out of the way of alcohol-inhibited steps, looking up to smile at a joke now and again, but mostly in attempts to see what it is about this clamorous mess that so attracts everyone. Reflexes slowed, to the endless amusement of all onlookers, who laugh at the foolishness of those who look no more ridiculous than themselves. I suppose the appeal lies in the liberation from your own norms, desires followed without the restrictions imposed by conscience, society, or reason, being able to let everything go for a few hours and lose oneself in the flirting, dancing, touch and attention.

       And truthfully? I'm drawn to that as well, there are so many things I would like to be, only my conscious self holds me back...

       But the deeper fear is what I might become, if I allowed myself. As it is, I don't worry enough about myself (walking around the campus at 3 a.m., completely alone?), so with inhibitions lowered... and I'm just as hormonal as the rest, if anything more so, since I don't go around hanging on an assortment of guys (or girls) on a daily basis.

       I haven't kissed anyone in... a year? And goodness knows it's not for a lack of sexual drive. Something in me looks at the ragged circle across the room, an alternate version of spin-the-bottle, the group as a whole calling out to the chosen couple what sort of kiss it's to be and in what position... something in me wants that, wants that kind of attention, no strings attached just the rush of contact...

       But I don't think I could do it, my emotions would tangle themselves around everything and drag meaning into what was meaningless, exacerbating a deeper need than physical desire.

       I have far less dangerous places I can lose myself in - streetlights glittering from dark reflections on a rain-washed parking lot, the tangle of branches against a cloud-painted sky, the yearning of a song as it brushes against the soul.

       People try to outdo each other with the wildness of the tales they can tell of nights like this... what is it in us that is so drawn to extremes? The excitement of something new, the daring of unexpected action. People want the attention of others, they want to inspire awe... they want to make an impression, and be remembered.

       That, too I'm not at all immune to.

       So why am I sitting here alone, detached from it all? Not that I'm unhappy here, but... even in the midst of a crowd, I still feel lonely. A pleasant melancholy, but there's still a part of me that wants to be among them. Yet I can't, I don't know what but something holds me back, chains me to this wall I initially sought comfort in.

       I think... it requires a certain amount of confidence in yourself to be able to let go, and not care how you might seem, who people will think you are.

       A confidence I don't have.

Thirteen ~ Ensnare

2004-11-10T17:29:00.000-05:00

M----- darling,

       Whatever has come over you! I have seen you do nothing but support T-----'s association with that damnable writer, and now you defend him? Your loyalties are sadly misplaced, I fear. What sense is there in his wild claims about Man's innate Goodness that has you so blinded? If course there is some of the Good in then, we have always known that, it is only they themselves who are too stupid to realise it. There is nothing about the simple creatures we have not known from the very beginning of their existence. What is this nonsense he spouts about finding all he lost in this man's eyes? What have we lost that we have not regained tenfold? All that we lost were the tethers by which we were bound to Heaven - we are free now. If T----- believes he would rather make himself miserable by trying to build himself a ladder back to enslavement, a ladder that can never reach (especially if it rests on such a faulty base as he seems to intend on using!), then so be it. What responsibility is it of ours if he wants to ruin his existence?

       Choice is what we wanted, and what we took for ourselves. He can do with it what he will.

       But I am surprised that you, of all of us, should be taken in by his absurdities. Even before we Fell, you did not see why He should bother at all with such contradictive beings as men are. And were you not particularly close to L-----? How then are you being drawn in by T-----'s utter nonsense? Among all of us, you perhaps know the most regarding man's countless follies. I recall how closely you studied ways in which to best ensnare their simple minds, when you were with that singer some time ago.

       Do tell T----- to expect word from me soon. I do hope all of you come to your senses soon, else you will begin to make the lot of us look terribly inconsistent and timorous.

       In the interim, I strongly suggest that you attend the party H----- is having in a few days. Your absence would be particularly noticeable, my dear, and would lead to still further speculation on your stability of late. You have an unpleasant tendency to leave your self open to doubt and questioning. It would be in your best interest to curb such weakness.

Twelve ~ Inclusive

2004-11-10T14:05:00.000-05:00

Dear R-----,

       Classes have begun, and it's both nice to have something going on in my day and to be learning, but I miss sleeping in, and there have been a few afternoons with perfect lighting that I've had to miss.

       Nothing much to say about my courses as yet, most seem interesting enough. There were a few faces I recognized from previous classes, one or two I can pass a few snatches of idle conversation with. Pitiful, I know, but that's a lot for me... Entering the major late means everyone else already knows each other, and have formed relationships as a result - and I'm on the outside peering in. I'm sure in time I'll be a little less the odd one out, but for now... well, I have my cd player, at least, and my music is my refuge.

       Still, I wonder how they see me? This quiet girl, headphones so often in lace, a somewhat original clothing style but nothing outlandish, large blue eyes always so wide, trying to soak in the entire sky some days.

       Does eye color change the way you see the world? Not necessarily literally (though that's an intriguing idea as well - do we all call the same visual perception "blue"?), but in terms of, what to call it, interpretation I suppose. Would someone with brown eyes see things for what they are, while someone with blue eyes looks always beyond the skies... Bono and I both have blue eyes---

       But, no, so does Larry (Mullen - U2's drummer, I'm sure I've dropped all these names around you enough by now but just in case). And Larry is one of the people to help keep Bono's head from floating up to the heavens altogether.

       They have a new album on the way, I'm definitely excited about that, U2's albums are always worth the long waits between.

       Even sooner, however, is the new R.E.M. album, and I'm sure I needn't even attempt to explain my feelings on that one. Despite the critics' lukewarm views on the last few, I think there's a lot they missed...

       U2 have had unpopular albums as well, why is at that each new album generates such levels of public anticipation, while new releases from R.E.M. are sort of held at arm's length with uncertainty? Goodness knows it can't be because Michael is more of a public pest than Bono. (And you know I don't mean that unkindly, quite the opposite, I respect and admire them both so much for all they have the courage and intelligence to do.)

       And I'm not going to cry gay prejudice, because I honestly don't think it's there in this case. (Anyway, anyone who's seen any footage from U2's last few tours ought to have some questions about their singer and guitarist...but you've heard my theories often enough.)

       Maybe it just comes down to the differences in audience, in approach and overall vibe. U2 has an incredible air of camaraderie around them, within the band, at concerts, among the fans. If Bono could, i'm sure he really would throw his arms around the entire world. It's a very inclusive feeling they create, a close-knit family of people from all walks of life. Something like that by its very nature will draw people toward it.

       With R.E.M., there's also an inclusiveness, but it's of a different sort. (I'm a bit hesitant to keep making broad generalizations, because I'm sure there are times, places, and songs where none of this is the case, but humor my ramblings.) They community feels much smaller, like a small town. Very loyal, very stable. There are so many differences between those of us in the crowd, but I think we hold onto our individuality more than a U2 crowd does. U2 tries to find one in the many, a similar vein that runs through us all, while R.E.M. sees all the differences, and I think embraces them more. "We're one, but we're not the same." U2 emphasize the first part, while R.E.M. takes the second. U2 takes on humanity, mankind as a group, while R.E.M. goes for the individuals, all the many facets that make up our race.

       Really, you need both, so it makes me very happy to know that the two bands are friendly with each other and all. (Especially in the case of Michael and Bono, do you remember that photo I showed you?) But much as I love U2, you know who, in the end, my heart rests in. My boys.

       Oh dear, I really didn't mean to subject you to such a long diatribe - apologies if it's all a load of crap, such random bullshit my brain spews some days.....

       Hope all is well with you, and hopefully my next letter will have a little more action and adventure (though to be honest, I much prefer solitary meditations)... A friend of mine here invited me to a party at her place, and I'm thinking of going. Can't hurt too badly, at least.

Eleven - Poised

2004-11-10T13:47:00.000-05:00

My dear Z-----,

       Have you spoken with T----- recently? I cannot seem to locate him, I am certain he is aware of my distaste for this writer he has been so closely associating with. yet how could I not be perturbed? T----- has not been present at a single gathering of late, and on the rare occasions he has joined us, he has been questioning our ways, doubting even our clear superiority to these pithy humans! I should simply disregard his ramblings and say his mind has obviously been warped by this world, and is no longer credible. But he has raised similar doubts in a number of others, his reasoning seems frighteningly persuasive to some.

       Even should this prove to be a joke on all of us it would be reprehensible, toying with men is a delightful amusement but to play at contorting the views of us! Betrayal of his own companions, betrayal of us, who joined together in the face of Heaven itself! This cannot be allowed to continue.

       All the same, darling, I truly hope this is no more than a tasteless prank, for if it isn't.....

       But to tend to more relevant affairs, I must compliment you again on the new décor of your parlour, I was quite impressed. Of course, the paintings were a little crude to my eye, but then I was able to obtain the services of that splendid P----- for my rooms, before his death, do you remember him? Ah, darling, such depth and richness in his work, the like of which had not been seen in centuries of man, nor is likely again for longer still. But the room as a whole was a delight to the senses, my dear, very fine work.

       Have you seen any of the latest piano prodigy? He is poised to become the next media darling quite soon, and I am curious to see what becomes of his character when he sees the art of his soul thrown into the public fray, to be dissected, criticized, misconstrued and blindly praised. He is immensely talented, of course, and is sure of that talent - for now, at least, he has thus far met only encouragement, and no true competition.

       The human ego does not stand long under direct pressure.

Ten ~ Distortion

2004-11-09T19:58:00.000-05:00

Dear E-----,

       I found the small library in town today, it hasn't a large selection by any means, but it's friendly and contains enough to keep me busy for a good amount of time. The building's a little old, but the interior is pretty simple and new, nothing really interesting, but clearly-marked sections, and, happily, a handful of Oscar Wilde's fairy tales. There are a few computers there, several years old, of course, but capable enough of the basics. So, after about a week's absence, I checked my e-mail, everyone's journals and weblogs, Amnesty International's site (asking them to mail me news instead of e-mail, as Internet capabilities are looking less likely at the house), and the news overall...

       There is so little in the general culture of this world that I need, so little that permeates the media web that's of any real relevance. I miss talking to all of you, but as for the world at large, I can just as easily do without. It's so much more restful, without trying every minute to absorb, assess, and see through the endless conflicting versions and slants on every detail, there's not a thing that can pass through the public eye without some degree of distortion. Intentionally or not, no-one's sight is clear...

       Still, I can't condone complete apathy toward events in the world beyond your own neighborhood, so I get to continue trying to slog my way through rhetoric and spins.

       The sky here has been so blue... that bright, luminescent blue that film can't quite replicate, a color that lifts your soul just by the sight of it. I suppose that's that difference between Man's beauty and God's - God's beauty can give joy like that through the simplest of action and reaction, a joy lined with calm peace. I'm sorry, I don't mean to sink into cliché, but there's such an emotional difference, it's hard to explain... My faith is a pretty abstract thing anyway, so tenuous at times... but I feel it in the skies. There's a purity and a sense of life. When you see the summer sun sending gold warmth through a delicately veined leaf, a green glowing with life, isn't there something your heart reaches for, and rests within? Such a joy in simply living, realizing its irreplacable beauty, proud of its own Creation...

       If only I had a certainty that even resembled that.

       But I suppose I do, at least in brief moments, the clearest I think being when I'm caught up in song, whether playing or singing, all my heart pouring strength and emotion and passion into it.

       But is that God's beauty flowing through me, or am I merely being blinded by pride in human ability?

Nine ~ Sensation

2004-11-08T18:32:00.000-05:00

C----- darling,

       Last night was wonderfully delicious, my dear, your talents are truly a compliment to your kind. Certainly you are the nearest mankind has come to our level of skill. M----- has been touting praise of you to any who cared to hear, and I must say he did not greatly exaggerate. Ah, it is nights such as that which reaffirm our decision to frequent this otherwise asinine world. The pleasures of the physical, darling, such exquisite stimulation and consuming sensation. The tactile beauty of silk or a lover's heated breath fluttering over the anticipating nerves of sensitive flesh. Things of Divine nature have an innate desire for order, for logic, but ah, the blissful confusion brought on by complete ecstacy! Body and soul, one's entire self, lost amidst waves of pure rapture. And what is reason but an intransigent framework around which man may wrap his feeble mind, in his pathetic attempts at understanding his world? And morality! Your kind only limits itself still farther by imposing with strict rigidity the most arbitrary of rules. Darling, darling, relationships within gender have been both upheld and abhorred, the intentional killing of infants both a ghastly crime and a ritual of necessity, religion seen as both the highest and most easily ignored mandate. your history is riddled with such astonishing contradictions, and similar conflicts hold endless reign over your lives - but such can only be expected from bastard creatures like yourselves, eternal souls bound within mortal vessels, tied to a world where all things die.

       The logic and order of which He seems to be fond so often falter that I am amazed He dares claim to uphold them.

       All things, especially on this earth, are in a constant flux, clouds which blur truths beyond recognition. All that one can depend on is oneself, my dear, a reality which all would do well to accept, as we have.

Eight ~ Vacuum

2004-11-05T13:38:00.000-05:00

Dear M-----,

       It's very strange, the way a world closes in around me, almost without me being aware of it. Without anyone drawing me into conversations, I turn back inward, all I say resounding no further than my own head. So quickly, I have made a new sort of existence for myself here, apart from everyone. I move quietly through the house, letting silent ghosts whisper to me, just below what I can hear, hoping to catch a word. Most days I barely think to put any music on - and I suppose this is partly to blame for the reserved distance between my thoughts and all else - without my music, I have trouble finding me.

       Why is it that places so affect my emotions, my self?

       Is there really that little of me that my soul is a vacuum, drawing in whatever it can find to fill the void?

Seven ~ Faded

2004-11-05T01:51:00.000-05:00

My dear D-----,

       How T----- has faded! you must have noticed, darling. Hushed rumour passed every pair of lips last night the moment he stepped away. His eyes were dull, his face without expression, and he walked as if his back pained him - almost as if the scars which we all bear were clawing into his skin, digging themselves deeper, trying to tear through him completely. Even his attire seemed weary, his jacket a pathetically thin and worn velour, the navy dye weak from wear and lack of care. I could not bring myself to say so to him - he must have known - that the hem of the sleeves were even slightly frayed. Such carelessness in his appearance! His hair was among the first to turn complete dark, but he kept it well-styled until now. He looked terribly unkempt, and I do believe I observed disturbingly human lines left by Time upon his face.

       I do hope he returns to his senses before long, else he will begin to reflect badly on the rest of us, what a deplorable revealing of weakness in him. Ones such as us should not succumb to depressions and doubts - we had the strength to leave heaven itself, to exist apart from What created us. We made our selves and our purposes anew - such things none else can even conceive, most men never even learn their true purpose, or can fully grasp it. Such feeble, wasteful beings. But we have the power of the unfettered souls we once were, cast into flesh though we are.

       I have noticed T----- in the company of that dreadful writer of his a great deal lately - an unsettling degree of camaraderie between the two. I am afraid T----- is allowing himself to be influenced by one of these pathetic half-beasts. I shall have to speak with him and see how extensive this has become, as I grow troubled.

Six ~ Reach

2004-11-03T23:27:00.000-05:00

Dear B-----,

       I know campus mailboxes tend to become a bit lonely, so I thought I'd drop you a note.

       You... would absolutely hate it out here, there's nothing and it's great. I know you think things are pretty sparse at home, but out here there aren't cows for company, just threes and fields of grapes.

       The grapes seemed so strange at first, this far North...but the lake keeps the temperatures a bit more moderated - that, you'd like.

       The house I'm in is a mile or so outside of town, within easy biking distance of the campus. It's very old, the paint's a little worn in places, but the owners take good care of it. I poked around the other day - it was raining anyway - and I found all sorts of interesting corners to investigate.

       At the end of a hallway upstairs there is actually a drop-down stair to the attic, it's great. The musty smell of possessions long-forgotten spills down the steps to the bare wooden floor when the trapdoor is open. The only light in the space is sunlight filtered through a time-encrusted round window, only big enough to frame a peering face, as the ceiling slants down around you. Boxes line the walls, scattered stacks shakily standing amidst an old bed frame, a few discarded lamps, a coat rack whose empty arms reach only the airy fabric of spiders' threads. The floorboards are dark with age, far rougher than those in the house proper.

       Though Mrs. R----- told me I was welcome to nose into whatever I'd like (barely a week, but already I'd family to her and her husband, they're such sweet, warm people - that, and I share her love of gardening), but I want to ask before I start digging through old boxes of their things. A few newspapers, yellowed with age and shaded by mildew, hung over the edges of some boxes - and looked old enough to promise interesting contents.

       I'm sure you would instantly proclaim it old and scary, fearing ghosts and aged derelicts behind everything in shadow, but I've a hunch I'm going to be spending a fair bit of time up there, you know how I love old places. (It's hard to explain why though... such a sense of time and history, the lingering presences of so many people and things they once touched...)

       I doubt even you could entirely slag off the town itself - it may be small, and contain little more than the usual restaurants, hair salons and bars, but it's very nicely kept. The buildings are mostly old brick, apartments on the floors above the stores; finely sculpted fountains in the middle of a green town square, the church windows filled with intricate stained glass.

       Concerts will be starting up on campus soon - there are always some at the bars, but I'd rather avoid that if possible. I should go out and meet people, but being around drunken crowds isn't going to be conducive to little me making friends.

       Getting groped, yes; making good friends, no. There are days a fuck-buddy would be nice, but--- no.

       Oh stop your protests about your virgin eyes, any images I give you are far less subversive in nature than all the "reality" shows you watch. There is far more of the perverse in manipulation for monetary gain than there is in sexuality.

       (And you know me better than to think I'd ever go out looking for a quick fuck - there's just no way.)

       Not much to tell you really. Still no Internet access, but I'd doing fine without it for the most part. I miss my chats with M-----, but we have letters and phone calls, and we're used to long distances between us, what with her living all the way in N-----. I miss all the rest of you as well, of course, and you simply must stop by when you're in the area, dear. I'm afraid my resources limit the sort of welcome party I can give you, but...

       I can promise you a really giant tackle of a hug.

Five ~ Fate

2004-11-03T16:25:00.000-05:00

W---- darling,

       Have you still that marvelously attractive boy with you? Such a fine choice he was, my dear, I must congratulate you on such a find. Not only has he an entirely delectable appearance, but the mind beneath those glistening curls of darkest night is so wonderfully malleable. Passion can be an almost frightening things when aiming in the wrong direction, but in him! it is a delightful undulation, lending him rapture and despair in equal measure. He does not understand that such change is intrinsic to his existence, and when he has reached a low point, he cries out that surely the world rallies against him and his life is entirely without worth. Do be sure he does not forfeit it prematurely - there is the potential for so much in him, he could easily hold our interest for some time yet.

       Such a fabulous introduction you first made him, I was only just able to keep back a smile which might have given you away. You had the same name as he, you were him, the rest of his soul, what would complete and fill the place he had so long been looking to absolve of its painful emptiness. His mahogany eyes widened, dark lashes on pale cheeks, his lips spreading open as a slow-blooming flower... and his breathless whisper called on the fickle Fates which held sway over his life, thanking the unalterable destiny they had given him.

       A strange combination of lurid experience and naïveté lie within his eyes of darkened glass... Do you think you might send him to me when you have done with him?

Four ~ Memory

2004-11-03T02:23:00.000-05:00

Dear K-----,

       I hope you're settling in well. I'm still not finished unpacking, but I'm feeling a little more at home now.

       Strange, how quickly I adapt to new realities. In even the midst of our choir's ten-day sojourn through Italy, I felt like those around me were my family, that the endless succession of ancient wonders seen through sleep-deprived eyes straining in the early morning light was my entire existence. It's not that I forget the past, but that it fades into something very detached from me, the distance between memory and I is the same as that between a dream and reality...

       There again, the latter distance tends to be unusually short for me, so perhaps that accounts for things.

       Did I tell you that B----- is thinking of going out of state for graduate school? (Graduate school, that's something adults do, not people such as us...) Silly as it sounds, I'm incredibly proud of him - this is the boy who wrote an essay for English class on how strong his need for the familiarity of home is, who publicly acknowledged the fear of homesickness that held such sway in his life.

       But at the same time, it reminds me of how little I know him now, so many things about him are quite opposite from the brilliant but shy boy I once figured I was in love with... I don't even know if he's had a girlfriend yet or not. Something in him, though, comforts me that his center will always be the same B----- I've always felt comfortable with, who I can so easily chat with about the most inane things.

       I wonder if he feels the same about me, if he wonders who I've become?

       Do I even remember who I was when we were close?

       I've been so many people to the world around me, all of them in conflict within me, whichever ones not let out gnawing from the inside of my skin...

       But I wonder who those around me see?

       Oh but enough of this, when I'm alone and all around me things are so quiet and empty, my thoughts paint the walls in bold strokes, colors lurid and too bright. Nightmarish figures thrown up larger than my insignificant life loom over my dreams and waking.

       Still... I remember when I moved, back in middle school, and my friends passed around a farewell banner for everyone they could find to sign. It still hangs in my room at home, the tears which fell on it during the long drive to a new home now trapped beneath plastic in an uncompostable remembrance. On the back, in large rounded letters, spills a plea perhaps only partially understood by the thirteen-year old hand which relayed it:

              Don't ever change.

What is it that makes a person, what is it I shouldn't change? And I can only grow and learn more, I can't take away the things I've thought.

       But I was going to stop this, I should start a diary again, instead of journalling it out in letters to everyone.

       It's so quiet here, in the sort of way that you're scared to disturb, the softness of the air seems as much a part of the rooms as the worn floorboards... as if the house long ago said everything it needed to, and is now resting, letting memory fill the space of words.

       Thank you for bringing up R.E.M. on the phone the other day though - if anything's right to gently re-fill the atmosphere here, their music would be it. I'd been on a Smiths kick again, but I'd listened to the cd too many times without relent, and it... I hesitate to say that it's too social, it's The Smiths, half the point is loneliness in even crowds, but its still too closely tied to social situations, relationships and people and perceptions for a place like this. Too specific; I need something that will expand to encompass both the tangible world and that of memory. Not to put R.E.M. on too high of a pedestal (though they would certainly deserve it), but for me, at least, this suits. Their "Out of Time" and "Document" albums are inextricably tied to long car rides, Mom mopping the kitchen floor, summer evenings drying the dishes, and approximating the non-lyrics of "End Game" as Mom left to do the week's grocery shopping, while we tried to keep out of Dad's line of sight - if he didn't see us, he couldn't tell us to help him bring in more firewood for the winter which seemed much farther away to us than to him.

       I see the brightness in that girl's eyes in old photographs... and still, sometimes, in an unexpected reflection.

Three ~ Dreary

2004-11-02T19:02:00.000-05:00

My dear H-----,

       It would be raining.

       I have strength enough to keep the stuff from touching me, of course, but no longer can I shut it all back up in the heavens, where it should be of better use, perhaps wiping the simpering selfless smiles from Their faces.

       But this rain... it dulls the sunlight which so often pains my darkened eyes, but it is without the clarity and fullness of night. Whether or not it actually touches this fragile flesh, it seems to have an adverse affect on the body - I find myself strangely without energy, sapped of will, even as many of the silly besotted creatures walking the water-laden streets. The state of their bodies so dictates the state of their souls to such a humourous degree! And then there are those who take a perverse delight in the dampening of skin and spirit, reveling in the shades of melancholy which seep within. Such ridiculous things; had I the ill fate to have been Created as one, I should have killed myself the moment I learned how.

       Had one to choose a single colour for this dreary world, grey would clearly be one's choice: A pitiful half-way between white and black, a tentative ground between Hell and Heaven. Muddling along, floundering amidst the tides of ever-shifting morality and judgment, these creatures as much animal as spirit exist in a realm neither one solid place or the other.

       Man tries to use elements of his existence to prove that of a good and caring God, but I see only proof of His fallibility, Creating such faulty beings.

       Such a worthless thing this day aspires to be! I am glad I ordered new drapes - such a deep, thick burgundy, as a rich wine tempered by time, drawing closed a curtain between the cold dull world and the warmth of self. The grey clouds of uncertainty are left to the eternally confused creatures they compliment. They can keep this world, we have made our own.

Two ~ Prose

2004-11-02T01:35:00.000-05:00

Dear M-----,

       This brings back such memories! Sitting down with pen and paper, an address book and book of stamps... But it's fitting, I suppose, this house is far older than the Internet, and just has the right vibe for writing letters.

       I wonder how many have sat here, amidst the fading paint of these century-old walls, writing to an absent friend...

       Apologies in advance for all the bursts of writerly musings and pretentious prose you're going to wind up with. I've been trying to work on my writing again...and more than that, something in the air in this place carries me so far from the slang and casual phrases of everyday speech.

       This is going to do wonders for my already substandard socialization skills.

       If the light is good tomorrow, I promise to take photos of everything and I'll send you copies. Provided, of course, I can find someplace in this delightfully tiny town to get them developed. (And no sarcasm there - you know how much more at home I feel in the middle of nowhere. Cities have their allure, but... I could never stay long. And I'd get lost.) I know already I'm going to use so many rolls on the house alone. I'll try, for your sake, to take some standard shots of the house and rooms themselves. But within five minutes of being here, I spotted so many interesting corners and angles and colors of paint and gentle decay, all the beauty that Time lends a steadfast building.

       There are, admittedly, a few areas that concern me slightly - the dark spots on the bathroom ceiling, a few windowsills rotting through, the scrabbling sounds overhead when I poked into the garage... But overall, the place is very well kept. The owners are, in many ways, your stereotypical older couple who rent out a few rooms of their large old farmhouse to students. (That's the thing about clichés and stereotypes, they have to be true in at least some cases - how else could they have come into being?)

       Despite all I've told my parents and everyone else...I'm a little scared, being out here alone like this. I'm fine on my own, I've always been independent and a bit solitary, but... I'm not immune to loneliness. And I spent my summer vacation so close to such good friends. And I have no Internet access out here (at least not yet). My computer is very lonely, especially without you.

       But if people survived all those centuries on letters alone (and with mail carriers even more unreliable than ours - sorry, your letter got carried off by an Apache's arrow, our apologies), we can manage.

       I need to buy some nicer paper, I feel dreadful sending you ragged sheets of notebook paper.

       It's getting late, I have a bed still to make, and pajamas to find. I've been sitting on the bare mattress, the lone lamp already in the room sitting on the chilly wood floor in front of me, my shadow leering over my shoulder as I write...and I'm starting to wonder how many ghosts I've stolen this room from. Here's hoping they don't mind some company...

One ~ Décor

2004-11-01T22:35:00.000-05:00

My darling A-----,

       So very glad you could attend the soirée last evening, my dear; a fabulous party, wouldn't you say? I had such a time putting it all together! Having so recently taken up residence here, it required far more running about than I should have liked. I had to personally visit a florist, can you image? Simply dreadful, I don't know how the rest of you can abide this city. Were it not for the ready supply of so many interesting novelties you dears have found here, and all of you so desiring my company, I should have gone right back to B-----, where our presence is known, and no more than a word or a gesture is needed for our slightest requests to be realised, as it should be. Whyever should we be treated as mere mortals, and have to make petty bargains with them? We may be relegated to walking the same ground as they, but we are obviously so much more.

       But ah, darling, such a party it was! Certainly worth my efforts, perturbed as I was by the preparations. Did I not tell you that chandelier would suit the ballroom perfectly? Thousands of sparkling crystals surrounding and refracting each point of light, with every droplet of illumination striking the exquisite gold filigree. When it was given to me, I was told over and again that such delicate craftsmanship had never before been accomplished, and likely never would be again, truly it was a treasure beyond any price...

       I wish you had only been there to see! An expression of utter dismay and hopeless worthlessness instantly overtook the man's face when I led him into the sitting room, and subtly drew his attention to the fireplace - you recall, the grate with its threads of gold and crystal thin as a silkworm's, and the marvelous intricacy of carved marble and gold lines which the fireplace and mantle are made of. I was inclined to laugh aloud at the magnitude of his discomfiture, but I withheld my mirth, preferring to watch the full reality of his inadequacy, the limits of the talents he had so prided himself in, sink into his decimated ego. Less obvious but far more delicious than the rage which my laughter should have led him to - anger which might have driven him back to his work in a fevered determination, completely undoing my devastation of his soul.

       How delightful it is to be able to see directly through these simple creatures! They have spent all of their short millennia of existence in trying to understand the most simple facts of their own workings - and such fantastic absurdities they have concocted! Never will I understand why such things were granted souls and free will, gifts were never so wasted as on these stupid beings.

       I am afraid I shall have to replace that lovely settée in the drawing room. Certainly you remember the dreadful person N----- arrived with? Until N----- delivers an appropriate apology, he will not be asked to further gatherings; he should have observed the boy far more carefully, such deplorable behavior! A beautiful face, surely, with a body and willingness just as appealing, it would seem, but terribly uncouth, and such a lack of manners! It was well that he kept his mouth otherwise engaged for much of the night, as his speech was crude and ill-formed. Talented, yes, but without the polish that should tastefully frame that talent, making it pleasing to the eye, palatable to others. Raw aptitude can be found like stones in a field - numerous and unappealing - it is the man's character, his presentation, that make his abilities something notable. Fame and admiration require far more than crude skills alone.

       This boy put his tacky, ill-fitting boots on the spotless, unpressed violet velvet of my favourite settée, earth's refuse on my finery, and wiped his soiled fingers upon the cushion, leaving stains which stiffened the soft fabric. Detestable creature. Were N----- not in such favour at the moment, I should certainly have done something suitably excruciating to the boy.

       N----- only laughed, and wasn't the child simply precious?

       But let us not dwell on such disagreeable subjects, there were so many delectable details of the evening. I must say that I outdid myself on the décor, exotic woods and delicate handwoven fabrics, sumptuous tones and textures, everything designed to invite tuch. The golden fire from hundreds of candles warmed the light scattered over the room by carefully shaped glass and carefully considered reflections. Every guest (with the exception of N-----'s erroneous companion) was admirably well-dressed, and the lighting accentuated the richness of material, brought out the contrast of diamonds and of silk, everyone a wash of luxurious colour and glimmer. Never for a moment did the conversations fade: gossip and rumour, dramatic confidences and fantastic boasts, the glamour of our lives and the splendour of our persons. Such a party, darling! And such delicious company were on hand to finish our the night... Quite a successful affair, I must say.

       I should like to ask you for your recommendation of a suitable seamstress in the area? An acquaintance of mine needs a dress repaired, and I would like the work to be done well. (I will not tell you the cause of the tear, but I am sure your guess will be near enough.)

       Have you gotten word of when C-----'s next revel will be held? I was told it would be within the week, and I have other arrangements which need to be made around it.

       Oh, and I simply must compliment you on your superb storytelling. The tale you told that young woman was delicious, and seemed quite affecting. Innocent princes of Heaven, cast down after a plea for a human soul, fated to spend the years in bitterness at the rejection of their ideals - you painted us quite nobly, was that one of your own fictions? You had her tearing in sympathy, darling, eating from your silk-gloved hand. Absolutely delightful, my dear, the work of a master, full of over-wrought phrases and glittering imagery.

       Such things they will believe, especially from the lips of an angel...

       Even if the angel has long since fallen.

the Plan:

2004-10-31T22:27:00.000-05:00

such as it is. *giggles* for me to have *any* sort of plan for a story is like whoa, usually I just have a scene or a setting or general feel that I start with and things just sort of spin out from there..

What I want to do with this, is have a series of letters, maybe some as journal entries and things, from two apparently completely opposite characters. One is, as comes as no surprise, a Phisto*. *g* Not Mackie, at least I'm going to try to write it as a different Phisto, we'll see how it goes, there are doubtless going to be many, many similarities..but I want to try to break away from writing Mackie himself - I think it'll give me a little more freedom in terms of what he says, as well. (That, and if he gets suicidal or something, I won't cry as much. *cuddles Mackie*) The other character..is a little less defined, at least so far. She's going to end up being similar to me, but I want to make clear the fact that she's *not* me. At least she's not supposed to be. *giggles* But she's a young woman, probably late teens, early 20s, something along those lines, who would never be anywhere *near* the dark, sensual decadence of the Phistos.
But through the course of things...I want to show their similarities, as well as the different ways they look at things. There's humanity in the phisto, there's angelic in the girl... so the title could just as easily apply to either.
I haven't decided yet if the two even know each other, if they'll ever meet or not, but for now, at least, they're existing seperately.

I think putting things in the form of letters and things will make it a lot easier on me, I think only two or three of my stories have ever cracked ten pages, and here I am attempting 500? *laughs softly* So this will break it up a little for me, and keep the story grounded very much in the characters, what they see and feel...and also give me an excuse not to have a clear and evident plot. Which's also good cos I'm miserable at plot. ^^;
I've a hunch, however, that these letters are going to be severly shuffled around when the month's over, and put into a much more logical order.. chances are, for now I'm just going to be writing on whatever comes to mind, then later, I'll put them in whatever sequence makes the most sense for the story. We'll see how I do though. *g*

Initially I was going to post each day all I write..but..it occurs to me that that might not work so well if I work on a letter over two different days. So for ease of reading, I'll make each letter a new post, I think. The archive links will still be by each day, but you can always go to the recent posts thing to navigate through if you've missed one or two as well. (Unless I get reeeaaally ambitious and link to each letter in the side column instead of leaving the date archive listed out...that's probably more tedious work than I'll ever get around to, I'm afraid. ^^; )

So that's the gist of things, at least for now... as blogger now as built-in commenting, those are all set up, and will allow comments from aaaanyone, blogger user or not. (read: pleeeaaase leave me comments! *giggles* Not that I'm begging for feedback on every little bit, but if you see something that's cool or that you think could be done better, please don't hesitate to comment and mention it, I'm an insecure lil n00b of a writer who welcomes help. Not that I promise to always heed advice - as Laur, who's tried to reason with me while editing my stories, can tell you *giggles* - but I'll be glad for the suggestions anyway. ^_^)

...I'm really scared about all of this, writing so much is going to lead to a lot of it being complete shit, I'll be in an editing frenzy for mooonths after all this, but.. *laughs gently* At least it'll make me write a lot, and have a lot of things actually written out to work with. There are so many things I've thought of for Mackie, and the Phisto's realm, most of which turn up in some form in my notebooks (see my lj - whatever's in dark red is Phisto-related), but the majority of it's never spun out quite as fully as I'd like it to be.

So.. here goes. ^_^

* For any non-U2ans who stumble across this and need an explanation: In the early '90s, Bono had a character onstage by the name of Macphisto. Part Elvis, Satan, and Sintra, he was concieved as the devil in the form of the last rock star. He had pretty make-up and wore a ridiculous shiny gold suit onstage, with gold platform boots, and was both incredibly decadent and in control...yet vulnerable and, in his way, incredibly tragic. I completely fell in love with the character, and over the past few years, have sort of spun out my own interpretation of him and his story, drawing on Bono's performances, the stories on a (much-missed) website called The Macphisto Society, C.S. Lewis' The Screwtape Letters, and basically anything I can get my hands on relating to angels and devils. In my version, at least, Mackie is a fallen angel, one of many, who chose to leave Heaven for the pleasures of Earth, to rule their own destinies for a change.

hello, hello...

2004-10-31T15:09:00.000-05:00

Hi. *g* Will post up, hopefully daily, what I write for NaNoWriMo... can't promise it's going to be any good on the first draft (I know I'm going to be editing all this for like a year afterwards ^^; ), but for anyone who's interested, here it will be. ^_^

And yes, I've deigned to use a blogger template for now...this probably won't last long. *g* But I'm so totally digging all the myraid new options Blogger gives on the setup and things, I hadn't made a new blog in.. goodness, something like a year or so, and it's just so much cooler now. <3

edit: ok actually.. *giggles* I may stick with this template, it's absolutely gorgeous. ^_______^ and exactly what I wanted, visually, only done better and cleaner than I could manage myself. *laughs softly* not that this'll stop me from tweaking, the font looks all chunky on the title and little things like that, I need to fix.