Chapter Twenty-One
It becomes obvious that I am not the only one in a spiral of self-destruction about half way through my second week with Annabelle. I come home to find her lying in my bed with bloody arms and an empty bottle of vodka. The razor she used is still sticking out of her skin. I try not to panic, but it is hard seeing her arms slit to ribbons and a bloody straight razor still planted in her flesh. She has so little flesh as it is. She begs me not to call 911, promises to never do it again and we bandage her up.
Once we have cleaned her up with rubbing alcohol and cloth bandages, she kisses me. The next thing I know we are back in my bed, blood and all. I never understand how we get to this point.
One night, I wake up and see her sitting on the windowsill, the window open and a cigarette in her mouth. She takes a slow drag and just stares.
"Bellie, what are you doing?" I ask, sleepily.
"Thinking about jumping." she says, nonchalantly.
"Jumping where?" I ask, sitting up slowly.
"Into the wide open blue of the sky. I'm so tired of it all." She takes another drag off of her cigarette before flicking the butt out the window.
I get up and go to her, holding her in the waning moonlight. She never looks at me, always staring into the night sky.
"Come back to bed, love." I say, softly. I gently pull her away from the window. "Come back to bed."
She comes off of the windowsill and obediently lies down. She lets me pull the covers over her and tuck her in, before ensconcing myself as well. She lets me hold her tightly, she doesn't resist, but she isn't there. Not mentally. She is thinking. Always far away from me, no matter how hard I try to keep her near.
I wonder sometimes if she is thinking of her dead son, the one she gave birth to when she was still a child herself. She hasn't spoken of it since that day in the kitchen. She never speaks of herself. She never seems to want more from me than my body and my incessant rambling. For the first time, in a long time, I want more than just sex from someone. I want to be able to talk with her on more than just which positions we've tried or me just talking to fill the silence. I realize I'm falling in love with a broken porcelain doll. Against my will and she doesn't even notice.
We are sitting on the floor, playing chess on the coffee table. Snuggles is curled up on the couch watching our battle of wits. She moves slowly, decidedly. I move too quickly and without thought. She laughs, easily and without pain, when she wins. I don't see her happy like this often, her eyes sparkling like diamonds. I smile and reset the board.
When she loses, she is furious and she wipes all the pieces off the board in a fit. The cat, frightened by her erratic behaviour, leaps off the couch and runs off. She throws the board on the floor and storms out of the apartment. I follow her, not even bothering to put on shoes.
"It's just a game, Bellie! What the hell are you doing?" I shout, slamming the door behind me and tripping down the stairs after her.
"It's never just a game!" She shouts over her shoulder. She keeps walking, barefoot and trying to light her cigarette.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I cry, trying to catch up. She pulls up short, abruptly stopping, and staring at me, her eyes wide in fear and anguish.
"My mind is slipping." she says, a tear rolling down her face and blue smoke drifting up and away from her mouth.
"Honey, come back inside. Your mind isn't slipping. Its just a game. A game, honey. We don't have to play anymore if you don't want to." I finally reach her and wrap my arms around her shoulders. She is trembling, even though it isn't cold, and her cigarette dangles from her fingers. She allows me to lead her back to the apartment, but we don't talk for the rest of the day.
She drifts in and out of this world only she sees. I watch her light another cigarette, but she quickly puts it out again. She hates smoking, she says. Its a dirty habit that she can't quite get rid of. She's not even sure why she started it in the first place. Then she looks off into the distance, a horizon only she knows.
I know this isn't going to end well, but I want it to work. I want to help her, though I can't even help myself. I care about her, enough to try harder than I ever did with Jahan or Adam or even David.
"I love you." I blurt, one day after we have finished having sex. She smiles at me, a wistful glance at my face, and lights a cigarette.
"I will love you too." she says, quietly, and takes a drag of smoke. We don't talk about it again.
We go to the theatre often. We sit through three different versions of the same Shakespeare play, just for the hell of it. We never eat at our apartments. We always go out to eat. We never talk on the phone or really talk at all for that matter. Sometimes she screams in her sleep and I can't wake her. All I can do is hold her closely, rocking her gently. What happened to her?
We are almost complete strangers even after a month and a half of dating.
"My son was named Sebastian Alexandre. A rather austere name for a malformed and deceased infant. It almost sounds as if he was a prince in some beautiful European country long ago. I suppose that is what I wanted for him. Of course, what does a thirteen year old child know about babies?"
I blink, once, twice. She hasn't spoken of her son since that first day in the kitchen, it feels so long ago now. I don't press her to speak further. She is staring through space. It is as if I don't exist and she is merely speaking to the air or herself. She comes out of it after a moment, a sad smile spreading across her face.
"Do you want to talk about him? Or anything in particular?" I say, a little hesitantly.
"No. Yes. Someday, maybe." She smiles that sad smile again, kisses me and lights another cigarette. She sits with her arms resting on her knees, smoking. Her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, her lavender tank top and white boy shorts hiding nothing. I know that we won't speak further about Sebastian. She may never speak of him again for all I know.
Some days she is fine. We make love, we slow dance in the kitchen, we go out to the movies and read bad webcomics. We cook, but we never eat what we make, and play with the cat. We play scrabble. Sometimes she knits while I play air cello to a Metallica cover. On these days she practically lives at my place and I don't care. We hold hands everywhere we go and its a sweeter romance than I've ever had.
On her bad days I usually can't get a hold of her. She locks herself up in her apartment. I worry because she won't answer her phone. If she does come over, she is withdrawn. We have sex, but it is frenzied. Like she is trying to exorcise a demon with every orgasm. If she even has an orgasm. Half the time she dissolves into tears before we can finish and I hold her, shaking and sobbing.
Her nightmares start to come every night. On nights that she has these nightmares, if she wakes up from screaming, she will curl up in the bathtub until I am able to coax her back to bed. Once back in bed she tries to seduce me. This never works. As soon as I begin to give in she will break down and begin to cry again.
I try to encourage her to get counseling. But I feel hypocritical doing so. I am not as self-destructive, but I could probably use a therapist myself.
We have been together three months now. Her spiral dipping deeper and deeper below a range I can handle. I don't know her, I can't figure her out. I try and all I do is make things worse. We stop having sex after one incident where she began screaming as if I was raping her. This seems to help for a while, but then she begins pushing for it.
I come home from the book store late. I don't even think about why the door is locked when I find I have to unlock it. When I come in, I set my bag on the couch and kick off my shoes. Annabelle and Snuggles are nowhere to be found.
"Bellie?" I call. "I'm home, honey. Where are you?"
I pull off my shirt, depositing it in the washer as I pass it. Maybe Annabelle had a moment and decided to leave? Sometimes I come home and she is gone. Often she has returned to her place to water her plants or to just get away. I usually don't question it. Its just that everything is eerily quiet and I am still unnerved by the lack of cat and girlfriend.
"Annabelle? Are you here babe?"
I hear a slight scratching noise coming from the bathroom and a distressed meowing. I open the door and Snuggles rushes out. When I look over I see that Annabelle has hung herself in the shower. I hesitate only a moment before I am struggling to lift her while trying to loosen the noose around her pale throat. I can't get her down. I panic and try to find a pair of scissors or anything that I can use to cut the rope. I eventually get her down and begin CPR. I don't get any response. I call 911 and continue trying CPR. All to no avail really.
The paramedics arrive and they take her in a body bag, pronounced dead at the scene.
I sit, slumped in the bathtub, staring at the frayed pieces of rope. The EMTs ask if I am okay, they take my blood pressure and try to coax me out of the tub. The police try to be kind as they ask me questions. I am catatonic. I can't think, let alone speak. They ask if I noticed a suicide note somewhere. They ask if they need to escort me to the hospital. Is there someone they can call?
They find a note. All it says is "You're pretty damn good as you are."
Once I have assured them that I am fine, once I have gone down to the station to answer questions, once I have come home to my empty apartment, I find more notes. There are notes tucked into my pajama drawer. The majority of them say "I love you. I'm sorry." There is a longer one, folded in half with a small red heart on it. In her spidery handwriting is my name.
"You said you loved me once," it says. "I said I would love you. And I do. More than I suppose I was willing to admit. I can't continue. So many times I think of jumping from the tallest building and all my, so-called, beauty being splashed against the pavement like copious amounts of red paint. I can't live without Sebastian. I can't live without that poor deformed infant that never saw the sunshine. I can't live with how he was conceived. Don't cry for me. Don't worry. Don't change. You're pretty damn good as you are. I love you. I'm sorry."
Against her wishes, I cry. I cry for this girl that I never got a real chance to know. A young woman that I was slowly falling in love with. A young woman that took her life for reasons that I will never fully understand.
When no family comes to claim her, I dip way into my savings to give her a proper funeral. My mother and Brad help me pay and plan it, not knowing all the details. They don't ask me any questions, out of respect I think. A few people come, no one that I know. She is buried in a small cemetery just outside of town with no real ceremony. The funeral home reverend says a few words regarding shepherds and the valley of Death. He speaks of not being afraid. He speaks of the arms of God wrapping about her to cradle her close.
Once everyone is gone, and I am left standing by her freshly filled grave, I collapse. I cry like I've never cried before. Not as I cried at my father's funeral or my grandparents'. Not when David left me. Not when Liam practically raped me. Not when I ruined everything with Jahan. I cry because I have let her down. I couldn't save her, no matter how I might've tried. I can't save myself, why would I ever think I could save her?
I'm not sure how long I kneel by her grave, wishing I could've done more than I did. A hand suddenly, gently, rests on my shoulder. I look up and into the eyes of my Korean gentleman. Jae, I think.
"Do you need a ride home?" he asks. He doesn't try to flirt and he doesn't smile. He is wearing a three piece suit and a vivid tie. I don't even wonder why he is there. Though part of me suspects that I should wonder how he always shows up when I need him most.
"Yes." I say, wiping away a few stray tears and holding the rest in. He helps me stand up, I wipe off the dirt and grass from my knees. He puts an arm around my shoulders as he leads me to his car.
We don't talk during the car ride back to my apartment. I don't even ask how he knows where I live. I just stare out the window, watching the scenery blur and blend like fruit in a blender. Some of the blurring is from tears. Every once in a while, Jae will reach out and pat my knee. I don't look at him, I can't look at him.
When we get to my apartment, he walks me to the door. I unlock the door and stare into the emptiness. I can't cross the threshold. I am afraid that I will find Annabelle dead in my shower. Or her ghost wandering about the house, smoking her cigarettes. In fact, I haven't spent the night here since she died. I have stayed mostly with Mom and Noah, twice with Clark, once with Anna and once with Kevin. Snuggles isn't even here to welcome me. After I was steady enough to drive I took him with me to my mother's. He is probably busy catching a plump mouse or bird now that he is able to frolic outside.
"What's wrong?" asks Jae, gently placing a hand on the small of my back.
"I can't go in." I say, still staring straight ahead. "What if she is in there? What if her ghost is wandering in her tank top and boy shorts, smoking those fancy French cigarettes she loves so much? What if her final thoughts are written out in my pajamas? What if she blue in the bathtub? I can't face her."
I pull the door closed and re-lock it. I turn to Jae and drop the key in his hand. His hand closes on it, briefly, before slipping it into his trouser pocket. He holds his hand out to me and I take it. I allow him to lead me back down the stairs and back to his car. When we get to his car I stop so that he stops as well, turning to look at me. I kiss him, impetuously. This is how I've learned to deal with my problems. With sex and a new boy/girlfriend. With alcohol and random strangers who become lovers who become nothing.
I try to undo his trouser button, but he stops me. He doesn't shove me off, instead trying to gently disentangle me. I resist and kiss him harder. He has no recourse but to push me away.
"This isn't going to help." he says, quietly, as I collapse against him. "Sex isn't a magic medicine you can use to cure every ailment."
"What does it matter?" I ask, getting mascara and snot on his black jacket. "Nothing matters now. I just need it. I'm a whore, after all."
He grabs my shoulders and pushes me back so that I am looking into his eyes.
"You are not a whore. You are confused and lost. You can't keep doing this to yourself. When are you going to realize you can't keep doing this?"
"When I'm dead, like the young woman I buried today." I shake him off and begin walking toward a bus stop. He follows me, like I knew he would. He hasn't figured out that I am not worth the saving yet. He will.
"Will you just listen, for just a moment?" he calls. I stop and turn to face him.
"What do you want to say?"
"Talk to me. Let me in, for just a moment. What can it hurt if you reveal something of yourself to a stranger?"
"There is nothing to talk about."
"There is so much to talk about, you are just in denial." I watch him clench and un-clench his fists. I wonder, momentarily, if he wants to hit me.
"I can't." I leave him standing there. I don't look back, but get on the bus and stare out the window, crying for a dead girl.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Leonard Nimoy FTW
The following video is riotously funny and once again Leonard Nimoy has proved why he is one of my favorite people of all time. ^_^
Lazy Song by Bruno Mars. Video starring Leonard Nimoy in his pj's.
Lazy Song by Bruno Mars. Video starring Leonard Nimoy in his pj's.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Zero Gravity
I believe I have blogged about Kerli before... At least, I think I have. Yes? Who knows! Anywho, I'm going to now!
Kerli is a singer from Estonia. As she points out in one of her songs "Nobody knows where its at," which is unfortunately rather true. Anyone out there ever heard of Estonia before now? No? Okay, brief, but necessary, geography lesson to commence in 3... 2... 1...
Estonia is located in the Baltic region of Northern Europe. Yep, its a European country. So whatever you were thinking it was before, wipe it out and try again. Finland is north of it and Sweden lies just across the Baltic from it. So now you know where it is.
Anyway, beside the point, Kerli is pretty cool. She has a very interesting vocal style as well as fashion style... I read a lot (A LOT) of comments about how she is like Lady Gaga in this particular video. I disagree, because she isn't nearly Lady Gaga outrageous. Plus I like her music a lot more than Gaga's. No offense, of course. I like Mother Monster as much as the next idiot, but I hate her videos. She isn't real in them. At all. Not even a little bit. She is just shock value. Which wears off after a while.
Once again, beside the point. I love the sound of this song and am meh about the video itself. I love being on an odyssey with Kerli, weightless in Zero Gravity.
If you find that you enjoyed this song, you should also check out "Love is Dead."
Kerli is a singer from Estonia. As she points out in one of her songs "Nobody knows where its at," which is unfortunately rather true. Anyone out there ever heard of Estonia before now? No? Okay, brief, but necessary, geography lesson to commence in 3... 2... 1...
Estonia is located in the Baltic region of Northern Europe. Yep, its a European country. So whatever you were thinking it was before, wipe it out and try again. Finland is north of it and Sweden lies just across the Baltic from it. So now you know where it is.
Anyway, beside the point, Kerli is pretty cool. She has a very interesting vocal style as well as fashion style... I read a lot (A LOT) of comments about how she is like Lady Gaga in this particular video. I disagree, because she isn't nearly Lady Gaga outrageous. Plus I like her music a lot more than Gaga's. No offense, of course. I like Mother Monster as much as the next idiot, but I hate her videos. She isn't real in them. At all. Not even a little bit. She is just shock value. Which wears off after a while.
Once again, beside the point. I love the sound of this song and am meh about the video itself. I love being on an odyssey with Kerli, weightless in Zero Gravity.
If you find that you enjoyed this song, you should also check out "Love is Dead."
Exploration and a Waltz
I was reading through some of the "Blogs of Note" on here and discovered this one called "Missed Connections." If you are like me, you may have heard of the CraigsList section called "Missed Connections," maybe you've even read a few. Apparently this one woman (who also draws) made a book out of them, along with pictures. This one captured my imagination and now I'm wondering if I could use it in my current story or if I should write a story based entirely off of the following paragraph. It is sweet, really.
I like reading the missed connections from Women to Men, because they are decidedly less creepy than the ones Men usually post for Women. Women focus more on the moment and Men focus more on the body. Maybe I'll invest in this book and take story ideas from real life missed connections. Who knows?
"You were wearing an average office suit with an admirably messy haircut. I was the girl with brown curly hair and a blouse with horses on it. We did that awkward back-and-forth shuffle of two strangers trying to pass each other on the street; then you grabbed me and gently swirled me in a mini waltz in the middle of the lunchtime shoppers and angry passersby. I would understand that moment if it happened now – two people sharing a delicate second in a day that hadn't gone to plan. But no, when it happened I was in my awkward early-twenties, so I just frowned, trudged away and hoped no one had noticed. Thanks for making my day."
I like reading the missed connections from Women to Men, because they are decidedly less creepy than the ones Men usually post for Women. Women focus more on the moment and Men focus more on the body. Maybe I'll invest in this book and take story ideas from real life missed connections. Who knows?
"You were wearing an average office suit with an admirably messy haircut. I was the girl with brown curly hair and a blouse with horses on it. We did that awkward back-and-forth shuffle of two strangers trying to pass each other on the street; then you grabbed me and gently swirled me in a mini waltz in the middle of the lunchtime shoppers and angry passersby. I would understand that moment if it happened now – two people sharing a delicate second in a day that hadn't gone to plan. But no, when it happened I was in my awkward early-twenties, so I just frowned, trudged away and hoped no one had noticed. Thanks for making my day."
Popping the Cherry
I don't understand popular culture's views on virginity. Particularly the ones revolving around losing said virginity. Books, Movies, TV shows, etc... They make it seem like the most amazing experience. Worth all kinds of trouble and perfect every time it happens. No one ever admits that losing their virginity sucked hard core. No one ever wants to read about that. If they are reading about it, they want it to be beautiful so they can pretend that was their experience too.
Truth of the matter is this:
Losing your virginity (if you are a woman) is not really pleasant. It varies from woman to woman, but even if it doesn't hurt (the actual penetration that is) it is still super uncomfortable because your hips aren't used to it. There may be a little blood or a lot, depending, again, on who you are.
And sometimes we lose our virginity to someone who doesn't deserve it and that thing we've always been told is precious is gone. It makes the whole situation miserable to even think about. But when a book or a movie portrays losing your v-card as beautiful and romantic and pain/blood free, they are lying to you.
Yes, it may be romantic. I'll give you that. Mine wasn't super romantic (mostly by my choice, really). Yes it may be relatively pain/blood free. But it is still super awkward, uncomfortable and if you are unlucky with a partner, traumatizing.
Losing your virginity (if you are a man) is not like having sex later on, when you've learned to control yourself. You are probably not going to last more than a few minutes. Some men last longer, but, once again, it entirely relies on the individual. You are not going to be the best in stamina and sex and the world on your first try. Not how that works.
Also you aren't going to be "good" at sex the first time you do it. No one is. The books/movies/tv lie to you when they make it appear that you are the perfect lover right from the get go. Truly not the way it works. Like many other things, it takes practice to be a good lover/partner. Whilst you may be better than average, you aren't going to be the best right off the bat. It takes a couple tries to be really good at something.
I don't understand why we portray it in a better light, really. Are we afraid that young people are going to be scared off from sex forever and then we'll slowly die out? Because desire will win out in the end. It always does.
Also, I don't fully understand why women portray the loss of virginity as beautiful, pain free, etc... while men (who've never actually experienced it like we do) portray it exactly as it is. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Shouldn't the men be trying to make it seem better? I mean, because they are the "takers" in this situation. They are the ones removing said virginity, so wouldn't you think they'd want to make it seem like they are all wonderful and gentle lovers who make everything perfect every time? Nope. They are the ones being, brutally (sometimes), honest and women are the ones covering it up in flowery phrases and metaphors.
I suppose, on a cognitive level, I understand this. Especially if the particular virginity losing episode was traumatic/painful/bloody/weird/uncomfortable for the particular female writer. I can see that. Trying to make it better than it is. But shouldn't you also be realistic? I mean, because you are influencing the young women around you.
They are all going to be disappointed with their first time, because it will never be as wonderful as the books/movies/tv shows make it out to be. They are all going to be saddened by the experience because it wasn't what they had been lead to believe it would be.
I suppose I am also very much guilty of making it flowery in my own story... However, that was between two women and that makes things a little different. There is no actual hymen breaking, unless you go for a dildo. Which my characters didn't. Physically, Jahan leaves that relationship intact. Emotionally, sexually, mentally, she isn't so intact. But that is a different story all together.
Ladies, your first time is different depending on who you are. Everyone is different. Your first time may be everything the books/movies/tv shows promise it will be. If it is, congrats! You have discovered something wonderful.
Gentleman, your first time is different depending on who you are. Everyone is different. Your first time may be everything the books/movies/tv shows promise it will be. If it is, congrats! You aren't like a whole bunch of other guys.
Truth of the matter is this:
Losing your virginity (if you are a woman) is not really pleasant. It varies from woman to woman, but even if it doesn't hurt (the actual penetration that is) it is still super uncomfortable because your hips aren't used to it. There may be a little blood or a lot, depending, again, on who you are.
And sometimes we lose our virginity to someone who doesn't deserve it and that thing we've always been told is precious is gone. It makes the whole situation miserable to even think about. But when a book or a movie portrays losing your v-card as beautiful and romantic and pain/blood free, they are lying to you.
Yes, it may be romantic. I'll give you that. Mine wasn't super romantic (mostly by my choice, really). Yes it may be relatively pain/blood free. But it is still super awkward, uncomfortable and if you are unlucky with a partner, traumatizing.
Losing your virginity (if you are a man) is not like having sex later on, when you've learned to control yourself. You are probably not going to last more than a few minutes. Some men last longer, but, once again, it entirely relies on the individual. You are not going to be the best in stamina and sex and the world on your first try. Not how that works.
Also you aren't going to be "good" at sex the first time you do it. No one is. The books/movies/tv lie to you when they make it appear that you are the perfect lover right from the get go. Truly not the way it works. Like many other things, it takes practice to be a good lover/partner. Whilst you may be better than average, you aren't going to be the best right off the bat. It takes a couple tries to be really good at something.
I don't understand why we portray it in a better light, really. Are we afraid that young people are going to be scared off from sex forever and then we'll slowly die out? Because desire will win out in the end. It always does.
Also, I don't fully understand why women portray the loss of virginity as beautiful, pain free, etc... while men (who've never actually experienced it like we do) portray it exactly as it is. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Shouldn't the men be trying to make it seem better? I mean, because they are the "takers" in this situation. They are the ones removing said virginity, so wouldn't you think they'd want to make it seem like they are all wonderful and gentle lovers who make everything perfect every time? Nope. They are the ones being, brutally (sometimes), honest and women are the ones covering it up in flowery phrases and metaphors.
I suppose, on a cognitive level, I understand this. Especially if the particular virginity losing episode was traumatic/painful/bloody/weird/uncomfortable for the particular female writer. I can see that. Trying to make it better than it is. But shouldn't you also be realistic? I mean, because you are influencing the young women around you.
They are all going to be disappointed with their first time, because it will never be as wonderful as the books/movies/tv shows make it out to be. They are all going to be saddened by the experience because it wasn't what they had been lead to believe it would be.
I suppose I am also very much guilty of making it flowery in my own story... However, that was between two women and that makes things a little different. There is no actual hymen breaking, unless you go for a dildo. Which my characters didn't. Physically, Jahan leaves that relationship intact. Emotionally, sexually, mentally, she isn't so intact. But that is a different story all together.
Ladies, your first time is different depending on who you are. Everyone is different. Your first time may be everything the books/movies/tv shows promise it will be. If it is, congrats! You have discovered something wonderful.
Gentleman, your first time is different depending on who you are. Everyone is different. Your first time may be everything the books/movies/tv shows promise it will be. If it is, congrats! You aren't like a whole bunch of other guys.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
To Do or Not...
Okay, as some of you know, I am on Twitter (@wicked_roses). One of the people I follow on there is Gackt (no, duh!). It just so happens that he (he is a God, have I mentioned this?) has his e-mail up there... I may or may not have mentioned it in a blog convo I had with Fawny Fawn. Anyway, I really, REALLY, want to e-mail him. I don't know what the hell I'd say or do if he, heaven forbid, actually wrote me back. (The President did it, so maybe he would too?)
I just want to do it. Just for the sake of doing it. To say, "I e-mailed Gackt Camui. For shits and giggles."
He wouldn't have enough time to read my e-mail, I'm sure. And it would probably be read by someone who wasn't Gackt, anyway.
Of course, there is still the problem of what would I say?
"Hey, Gackt, You are amazing! And I'm a little in love with you... like at least half of the female population that knows of your existence."
"Hey, Gackt, I wrote a poem about you with references to various songs by you in it... Thought you might like to read it. Maybe."
"Hey, Gackt, I fucking loved your movie 'Moon Child' with Hyde. Would you consider making a sequel?"
"You want my second virginity?"
"You were the Japanese version of Tin Man in my J-Rock Wizard of Oz, you should read it. You may want to try it sometime. With Miyavi and Yoshiki. And maybe me... and Pomme of course..."
"I just want to meet you."
"I promise I'm not a creepy stalker!"
"Can I have a job as your maid? I could do your laundry, wash your dishes, vacuum, etc."
Oh my god, I'm fucking pitiful...
I just want to do it. Just for the sake of doing it. To say, "I e-mailed Gackt Camui. For shits and giggles."
He wouldn't have enough time to read my e-mail, I'm sure. And it would probably be read by someone who wasn't Gackt, anyway.
Of course, there is still the problem of what would I say?
"Hey, Gackt, You are amazing! And I'm a little in love with you... like at least half of the female population that knows of your existence."
"Hey, Gackt, I wrote a poem about you with references to various songs by you in it... Thought you might like to read it. Maybe."
"Hey, Gackt, I fucking loved your movie 'Moon Child' with Hyde. Would you consider making a sequel?"
"You want my second virginity?"
"You were the Japanese version of Tin Man in my J-Rock Wizard of Oz, you should read it. You may want to try it sometime. With Miyavi and Yoshiki. And maybe me... and Pomme of course..."
"I just want to meet you."
"I promise I'm not a creepy stalker!"
"Can I have a job as your maid? I could do your laundry, wash your dishes, vacuum, etc."
Oh my god, I'm fucking pitiful...
Take it all away
Today's song is one that my sister introduced me to. I really enjoy its soft lilt and the lyrics. Plus the male and female vocals blend and compliment each other so beautifully. At any rate, I just like it a lot.
"I don't feel it anymore" by William Fitzsimmons feat. Priscilla Ahn
"I don't feel it anymore" by William Fitzsimmons feat. Priscilla Ahn
She Knows
I follow Imogen Heap on Twitter, but apparently wasn't paying close enough attention to her musical posts. I discovered a few new songs from her and this has quickly become my favorite. I love the Chinese aspect to it. I love the sound of Imogen's voice. I love this one line "Pretty Damn Good As You Are." Why did I capitalize every word there? I don't know, I felt it all needed to be emphasized.
I wish I felt that I was pretty damn good as I am. All I know is that I am who I am and will be who I will be.
Enjoy!
I wish I felt that I was pretty damn good as I am. All I know is that I am who I am and will be who I will be.
Enjoy!
Saturday, March 24, 2012
The Next Time...
Someone makes a comment about Homosexuality being a sin because of the Bible, I'm going to point out all the verses talking about how unclean Dogs are and basically saying we shouldn't associate with them.
Example Given: "Outside are the dogs and sorcerers and the sexually immoral and murderers and idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood." - Revelation 22:15
Scratch that. Next time anyone says ANYTHING about ANYTHING being a sin in the Bible (or they preach it and don't follow it) I'm going to point out verses proving they are in sin too.
Example Given: "Outside are the dogs and sorcerers and the sexually immoral and murderers and idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood." - Revelation 22:15
Scratch that. Next time anyone says ANYTHING about ANYTHING being a sin in the Bible (or they preach it and don't follow it) I'm going to point out verses proving they are in sin too.
Voting
I'm sorry. I can't vote for someone who believes that I don't deserve equal pay for equal work, who believes that women who have been raped deserved it, who believes that I don't deserve the right to birth control, who believes that I don't deserve to be in love with who I am in love with.
I can't. I can't because, no matter how down I may get on myself I know a few basic truths:
I don't deserve to be raped. No one does. EVER. No matter what I wear or what I do.
I deserve equal pay for equal work.
I have the right to LIFE, therefore I deserve to have access to what makes me healthy.
I have the right to LIBERTY, therefore I deserve to be able to live my life free of fear.
I have the right to HAPPINESS, therefore I deserve to be happy with whomever I choose.
So, when the time comes, you can say what you want, hate who you hate, I will stand by who I will stand by and I will still support who I support. And if you wonder why, you can look over what I've said and you will either understand or you won't.
I can't. I can't because, no matter how down I may get on myself I know a few basic truths:
I don't deserve to be raped. No one does. EVER. No matter what I wear or what I do.
I deserve equal pay for equal work.
I have the right to LIFE, therefore I deserve to have access to what makes me healthy.
I have the right to LIBERTY, therefore I deserve to be able to live my life free of fear.
I have the right to HAPPINESS, therefore I deserve to be happy with whomever I choose.
So, when the time comes, you can say what you want, hate who you hate, I will stand by who I will stand by and I will still support who I support. And if you wonder why, you can look over what I've said and you will either understand or you won't.
Raped by the GOP
Explain something to me, because I genuinely want to know:
Why would we vote OUT the one man trying to actually help us (i.e. Lilly Ledbetter Act, defending our right to birth control, etc...) and vote in people who want to take away everything we've worked for over the past 100+ years?
I can understand a man who doesn't get it, men have always had the power and the rights. But I am ashamed to see women being brainwashed into believing they don't deserve the same rights. That they deserve to be raped. That they deserve less pay for equal work. That they deserve to be treated like inferior citizens.
“Rape and incest was used as a reason to oppose this [the mandatory ultrasound for those seeking an abortion]. I would hope that when a woman goes in to a physician with a rape issue, that physician will indeed ask her about perhaps her marriage, was this pregnancy caused by normal relations in a marriage or was it truly caused by a rape. I assume that's part of the counseling that goes on.”
- Sen. Chuck Winders.
Comments like that make me sick. It is not only saying that the woman is making it up, but that it isn't rape if you are married to your rapist. RAPE IS RAPE! NO MEANS NO! No matter if you are married to the person or if you are grabbed by a stranger. This HAS to end. How long are we going to continue cowering? How long before we finally say ENOUGH IS ENOUGH?
I hope we say it before it is too late.
Why would we vote OUT the one man trying to actually help us (i.e. Lilly Ledbetter Act, defending our right to birth control, etc...) and vote in people who want to take away everything we've worked for over the past 100+ years?
I can understand a man who doesn't get it, men have always had the power and the rights. But I am ashamed to see women being brainwashed into believing they don't deserve the same rights. That they deserve to be raped. That they deserve less pay for equal work. That they deserve to be treated like inferior citizens.
“Rape and incest was used as a reason to oppose this [the mandatory ultrasound for those seeking an abortion]. I would hope that when a woman goes in to a physician with a rape issue, that physician will indeed ask her about perhaps her marriage, was this pregnancy caused by normal relations in a marriage or was it truly caused by a rape. I assume that's part of the counseling that goes on.”
- Sen. Chuck Winders.
Comments like that make me sick. It is not only saying that the woman is making it up, but that it isn't rape if you are married to your rapist. RAPE IS RAPE! NO MEANS NO! No matter if you are married to the person or if you are grabbed by a stranger. This HAS to end. How long are we going to continue cowering? How long before we finally say ENOUGH IS ENOUGH?
I hope we say it before it is too late.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
All of Her: Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
About a week after the cute Asian guy and the coffee confessions, I wake up in a cold sweat realizing who that cute guy was. Wasn't his name Jae or something like that? I know it was monosyllabic, I think. He was the one who rescued me from that brute with the bad pick-up lines, the one I vaguely remember dancing with my first time at "Alice's Wonderland." How could I not recognize him? I must have been drunker than I thought I was.
Suddenly I have to go out. I am itching to go to "Alice's Wonderland" and see if he is there. Of course he wouldn't be, this time of day. I have too many things to do today anyway. Like, sit around the house and do nothing. Okay, who am I kidding? I have nothing to really do today. I'll call my boss at "The Wilde" and see if she needs anyone to pick up a shift today. Its not like I have anything else pressing to do. Or any other work that needs done.
If she won't let me work, I could always visit my mother or my sisters. I could even, heaven forbid, call up my brother and see what he is doing. Maybe hang out with Noah or Clark. Do something! Anything, really. I just need out of the house for a little while. I just have to waste enough time so that I can try to "accidentally" bump into Jae or whatever his name was at the bar.
Luckily for me, my boss calls, before I do, asking if I can take a five hour shift. Apparently one of my co-workers had to bail. Good for me, though. I don't even hesitate in my answer. I throw on some suitable "work" clothes, slip into a pair of flip-flops and kiss my cat goodbye. He stands on the counter and meows at me as I close the door.
I don't rush to work, but I don't exactly drive like I'm behind a herd of turtles either.
Once I am settled behind the counter, and boiling water for tea; I begin to think of something I could do after this to kill time. I go through a small list of possibilities. The first being actually paying attention to my cat. The second being visiting my family. My excuse to kill a little more time arrives in the form of a petite young woman with gorgeously hued honey-blonde hair. Not that I actually see her when she comes in. I'm too busy pondering my visit to the bar tonight and an open book in my lap.
"Excuse me, do you happen to have 'Tiger, Tiger' by Margaux Fragoso?" says a soft and lilting voice. I look up, startled from my reading, into her iridescent eyes. They shift subtly from blue-green to emerald to cobalt. For a moment I am mesmerized and she gently repeats the question.
"Fragoso, you say? I think I've seen that name before." I come out from behind the counter and escort the young lady over to the letter F section. After a moment of book shuffling, I discover what I believe to be the volume she is looking for. "Is this what you were looking for?"
She smiles timidly and accepts the book from my hands. I note a sadness to her features as she looks over the cover and skims through a few pages. I wonder if she has read this book before and that is why she seems so sad. We don't move for a few moments, she seems lost in a dream and I don't know what to say.
"This book is about child abuse, did you know?" she asks, holding the book like a shield over her heart.
"I did not." I say, honestly. My realm of literature does not usual tread such grounds. "Is that why you seem so forlorn?"
She shrugs. A careless gesture made lovely by her. My attraction to this girl is fairly overwhelming at this point. It feels odd to me. I haven't felt such a strong attraction to a woman since I was with Jahan. If I was a braver woman I would kiss her now, kiss away the sadness I can feel seeping out of her bones. But I am not that brave. After a few more moments of awkwardness she smiles and motions for me to lead her to the counter.
"It comes to ten dollars and thirty-five cents, miss." I say, ringing up the total and placing her purchase in a re-usable cloth bag. She nods and counts out her money to the cent before pushing it toward me. I re-count it, if only to keep her a little longer. She doesn't seem to mind and, once I have handed her the bag and her receipt, she lingers.
"Your water is boiling." she says, simply.
"Oh shit! I forgot all about it." I run to turn off the kettle, which has started shrieking. Once I have poured a steaming cup of tea and re-situated myself on my stool, I notice that she hasn't moved at all. Instead she is staring at me, intently.
"Do you believe in fate?" she asks, quietly.
"I suppose I believe in some modicum of fate. Why do you ask?" I pour another cup of tea and gently push it toward her.
"No reason, I suppose. Just romantic fancy on my part. I'm Annabelle." she reaches out a very pale hand and I take it in a handshake.
"I'm Abra," I say. "would you like to pull up a seat? Have some tea with me? Its a rather slow day."
"I'd love to." She smiles, another slightly sad smile, and I pull up another stool for her to sit on.
We don't discuss the book she purchased. We don't discuss tea or books at all. Instead, she quietly sips her tea and watches me intently. Under all the attention, I blush. I am too embarrassed to even try flirting with her. It all seems very strange; she buys a book about child abuse and stares at me. She asks me questions about fate, yet, once she has an opportunity to ask any question she wants, she is silent.
"So, what made you choose that particular book?" I ask, nodding toward the brown cloth bag in her lap. At first she just stares at it, as though it has suddenly grown tentacles or something equally disturbing.
"It was on a list of disturbing books. I couldn't resist." She looks up at me, sips at her tea and then shrugs.
"You enjoy disturbing literature?" I ask, slightly baffled.
"I'd rather not discuss it." she says, suddenly. "I'd much rather discuss where it is that you would like to get dinner tonight. With me."
I am even more baffled. She has, up to this point, seemed to be very shy and quiet. Suddenly she is presuming that I am going to go to dinner with her. Which, I am, but that is beside the point.
"Excuse me?" I say, allowing some of my confusion to bleed through.
"I suppose I should ask, rather than tell." she says. "Would you like to go out to dinner with me?"
Quite suddenly I experience a blanking of my mind. All thoughts of going to the bar tonight, all thoughts of Jae or whatever his name was, vanish. She is suddenly all I can think about. I smile, a lopsided grin with no brain behind it at all. She responds with an equally lopsided grin and stands up. She reaches into her pocket for a stray piece of paper and grabs a stray pen off of the counter. She writes down her number, a place and a time. She even signs her name in a flourish, in the corner of the paper. She winks at me, takes her book and just like that she is gone.
The paper says Viperia Tearoom, ten-thirty.
I float through the rest of my work, dreamily wondering how I got a beautiful girl to ask me out with no real effort. As I lock up I think about the delicious things I'd like to do to her and wondering if this is what she meant by fate. At home I layer a burnt orange lace panel top over a creamy colored tank top, matching the lace paneling. I slip into a pair of black skinny jeans and raid my shoe cupboard for a pretty pair of flats. I eventually settle for a pair of burnt orange heels with a slight ruffle and an ankle strap. I take a long look at myself in the mirror and realize I've become a lot more interested in dressing up since David.
I wonder, briefly, if this because I am trying to attract attention now. And, just as briefly, I worry about this. I note a few dark circles under my eyes and pass it off as allergies, even though I know that isn't it. I confessed everything to Noah so that I would stop this behaviour. So that I might come back to the light side of the Force. Instead I seem to have confessed only to revert back to the darkness of this downward spiral. And, admittedly, I kind of enjoy the spiral. In a sick, twisted way, I really enjoy all this self-inflicted pain and torture. I feel like I deserve it, so may as well enjoy it, right?
I realize this type of thinking is extremely unhealthy, but I choose to ignore it and finish getting ready for my date. I fill up Snuggles' water and food bowls, rest my butt against my ankles while I pet him, lovingly. I then head out again, despite more protesting meows from him.
I arrive at the Viperia Tearoom at a quarter after ten. I am pleased to discover that Annabelle is already there. She waves me over to her table, stands and hugs me before we sit down. I, stealthily, take note of how beautiful she looks in her sleek turquoise mini dress with cross-back straps and her white leggings. She smiles and signals the waitress over. She orders a Thai Quinoa Salad, whatever that may be, and a peach martini. I order potato blossom dumplings, French fried green beans and a cherry-rose tea margarita. She laughs at my food choices, but doesn't say anything else.
I begin to get very nervous as we say nothing. Absolute silence. I don't know where to start, what topic to discuss, what to say? I smile, awkwardly, but she doesn't seem to notice. Just as I feel like I might be brave enough to pick a topic our food arrives and immediately begin to eat. Contended munching at least, temporarily, replaces the awful silence. Instead of focusing, I let my mind wander to what it would be like to be in bed with Annabelle. I imagine several interesting fantasies, before settling on a particularly steamy one.
"What are you thinking about?" asks Annabelle. I nearly jump out of my skin, startled by the sudden break in silence and a little bit of shame for what I was thinking. She looks at me curiously and I have the horrible feeling that she has been watching me the entire time. I gulp, guiltily.
"Nothing particularly interesting." I say, trying to laugh off these feelings. "You?"
"I was thinking about what you would be like in bed." she says, laughing. "Weren't you thinking the same thing? I can tell from your blushing that you were."
"I... Well, I mean... I would... Yes." I stammer. "I suppose I am rather transparent."
"Its only natural you know, we're sexually active young women and obviously mutually attracted to one another or we wouldn't be here. Why not think about it?" She says this all so calmly, more like it was scientific fact.
"Is this what you meant by fate? The attraction?" I ask, mulling over the oddness of the conversation.
"Partly. Partly because I feel as though we are meant to be together, at least for a time. You do find me attractive, don't you?"
"Of course I do!" I exclaim, dropping my fork with a bit of a clatter. I smile apologetically and carefully pick it back up. "Yes, I do. I find you quite attractive."
"In that case, let's call it fate for now and skip dessert. We can go back to my place, if you like. Its just a block or so away from here."
I bite my lip, trying not to acquiesce too quickly, but I find that I am already nodding in agreement. She laughs again, a melodic sound, and I find I am laughing too. We hold each other's hands as we head toward my car. When we get to the car, I find that I can't resist any longer and I press her to my car, kissing her as passionately as I have ever kissed anyone. I hold her hands, our fingers entwined, just like fate. Our fingers fit so perfectly together, our lips feel so right and our bodies pressed against my car feels like perfection.
While we kiss, a thought occurs to me. I could fall in love with this girl. Its so crazy, so insane. I pull away from her a moment, her lips glistening and slightly swollen from my kisses. I feel the breath escape my lungs. I just met this girl and I'm already thinking about breaking my rule of not falling in love. She has me so mixed up in this "fate" business that I'm actually beginning to believe it. What kind of girl is she?
Before I can take another breath she pulls my face back to hers. We kiss slowly, painfully slow. We kiss until neither one of us can breathe. I open the passenger side door and help her get in. We drive the block and a half to her apartment slowly, still holding hands. Maybe this instant attraction is fate. Could this be love at first sight? I try to shake the thought from my head. I thought David was my love at first sight too. I glance at our entwined fingers and feel a whimsical smile creep around the corners of my mouth.
She leads me upstairs to her apartment. She opens the door slowly and ushers me inside. The inside of her apartment smells sweet, with a tinge of bitterness. I wonder, for a moment, if this is a sign. But then I remember that I no longer believe in signs or metaphors or anything like that. I try to remind myself that I also no longer believe in fate, but I am quickly losing that battle. She has the windows draped with light cancelling curtains, so for a moment all I can sense is her beside me and the sweet smell of her and the room. She flicks on a light and, smiling beguilingly, pulls her turquoise top over her head, exposing a lacy white bra.
She motions me to follow her and I barely have time to slip out of my heels. I pull my shirt up and over my head and let it slip to the floor beside hers. My eyes caress her as she slips out of the rest of her clothes and lies down on the bed. She presents herself to me like a beautiful doll to play with and explore. I finish removing my own clothing and sink down beside her.
I kiss the hollow of her throat, the skin above her heart and down to her stomach. On her stomach, there is a long white scar from her belly button to the edge of her pubic region. I kiss it gingerly, feeling as though I am seeing a secret I wasn't meant to pay too much attention to. I sink lower with my kisses until I am completely distracted by the overwhelming beauty of her and the smell of her is all I can think of.
We stay like this for most of the night. We fall asleep curled into each other, our fingers entwined, and feeling like puzzle pieces finding their other piece.
I wake up slightly confused. I feel her fingers tangled with mine, I feel her pressed against me, snuggled as close as possible. It feels too right, too perfect. Hence the confusion. I keep reminding myself that I only just met her yesterday and that I'm not allowed to fall in any way, shape or form in love with her.
Except, when she opens her eyes and kisses me, I feel a little of my resolve being swept away by ridiculous emotions.
"Stay with me," she whispers. "don't go."
"I wasn't planning on it." I mutter into her honey-gold hair. She whimpers a little and I look at her. She has a tear running down her cheek and, concerned, I wipe it away. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I've just been by myself too long and I can't stand to think about it." She kisses me, touching and caressing until what she said has completely been wiped from my mind.
We spend most of the day in her bed, making love, making believe that we have all the time in the world to be together. When we finally emerge from the bedroom, for sustenance other than each other, I ask a question that has been scratching at the back of my brain.
"How did you get that scar on your stomach, if you don't mind my asking?" I say, as nonchalantly as possible. At first I don't think she heard me, but then she sighs and turns to look at me.
"When I was thirteen I gave birth to a stillborn baby boy. The scar is from the emergency Cesarean section." She looks at me, as if to measure my reaction on internal scale. I am stunned, but do my best not to show it. I think of my sisters at thirteen, or myself at that age. And I can't imagine giving birth to a dead child. I can't find anything to say, so I settle for saying nothing at all.
"Thank you," she says. Turning back toward the toaster, she catches the emerging toast and begins to butter it.
"Why are you thanking me?" I ask, coming up next to her. She turns and looks me in the eyes, her shifting eye color both beguiling and frightening.
"Thank you for not prying further." She kisses me and hands me a piece of toast, before heading back toward the bedroom.
About a week after the cute Asian guy and the coffee confessions, I wake up in a cold sweat realizing who that cute guy was. Wasn't his name Jae or something like that? I know it was monosyllabic, I think. He was the one who rescued me from that brute with the bad pick-up lines, the one I vaguely remember dancing with my first time at "Alice's Wonderland." How could I not recognize him? I must have been drunker than I thought I was.
Suddenly I have to go out. I am itching to go to "Alice's Wonderland" and see if he is there. Of course he wouldn't be, this time of day. I have too many things to do today anyway. Like, sit around the house and do nothing. Okay, who am I kidding? I have nothing to really do today. I'll call my boss at "The Wilde" and see if she needs anyone to pick up a shift today. Its not like I have anything else pressing to do. Or any other work that needs done.
If she won't let me work, I could always visit my mother or my sisters. I could even, heaven forbid, call up my brother and see what he is doing. Maybe hang out with Noah or Clark. Do something! Anything, really. I just need out of the house for a little while. I just have to waste enough time so that I can try to "accidentally" bump into Jae or whatever his name was at the bar.
Luckily for me, my boss calls, before I do, asking if I can take a five hour shift. Apparently one of my co-workers had to bail. Good for me, though. I don't even hesitate in my answer. I throw on some suitable "work" clothes, slip into a pair of flip-flops and kiss my cat goodbye. He stands on the counter and meows at me as I close the door.
I don't rush to work, but I don't exactly drive like I'm behind a herd of turtles either.
Once I am settled behind the counter, and boiling water for tea; I begin to think of something I could do after this to kill time. I go through a small list of possibilities. The first being actually paying attention to my cat. The second being visiting my family. My excuse to kill a little more time arrives in the form of a petite young woman with gorgeously hued honey-blonde hair. Not that I actually see her when she comes in. I'm too busy pondering my visit to the bar tonight and an open book in my lap.
"Excuse me, do you happen to have 'Tiger, Tiger' by Margaux Fragoso?" says a soft and lilting voice. I look up, startled from my reading, into her iridescent eyes. They shift subtly from blue-green to emerald to cobalt. For a moment I am mesmerized and she gently repeats the question.
"Fragoso, you say? I think I've seen that name before." I come out from behind the counter and escort the young lady over to the letter F section. After a moment of book shuffling, I discover what I believe to be the volume she is looking for. "Is this what you were looking for?"
She smiles timidly and accepts the book from my hands. I note a sadness to her features as she looks over the cover and skims through a few pages. I wonder if she has read this book before and that is why she seems so sad. We don't move for a few moments, she seems lost in a dream and I don't know what to say.
"This book is about child abuse, did you know?" she asks, holding the book like a shield over her heart.
"I did not." I say, honestly. My realm of literature does not usual tread such grounds. "Is that why you seem so forlorn?"
She shrugs. A careless gesture made lovely by her. My attraction to this girl is fairly overwhelming at this point. It feels odd to me. I haven't felt such a strong attraction to a woman since I was with Jahan. If I was a braver woman I would kiss her now, kiss away the sadness I can feel seeping out of her bones. But I am not that brave. After a few more moments of awkwardness she smiles and motions for me to lead her to the counter.
"It comes to ten dollars and thirty-five cents, miss." I say, ringing up the total and placing her purchase in a re-usable cloth bag. She nods and counts out her money to the cent before pushing it toward me. I re-count it, if only to keep her a little longer. She doesn't seem to mind and, once I have handed her the bag and her receipt, she lingers.
"Your water is boiling." she says, simply.
"Oh shit! I forgot all about it." I run to turn off the kettle, which has started shrieking. Once I have poured a steaming cup of tea and re-situated myself on my stool, I notice that she hasn't moved at all. Instead she is staring at me, intently.
"Do you believe in fate?" she asks, quietly.
"I suppose I believe in some modicum of fate. Why do you ask?" I pour another cup of tea and gently push it toward her.
"No reason, I suppose. Just romantic fancy on my part. I'm Annabelle." she reaches out a very pale hand and I take it in a handshake.
"I'm Abra," I say. "would you like to pull up a seat? Have some tea with me? Its a rather slow day."
"I'd love to." She smiles, another slightly sad smile, and I pull up another stool for her to sit on.
We don't discuss the book she purchased. We don't discuss tea or books at all. Instead, she quietly sips her tea and watches me intently. Under all the attention, I blush. I am too embarrassed to even try flirting with her. It all seems very strange; she buys a book about child abuse and stares at me. She asks me questions about fate, yet, once she has an opportunity to ask any question she wants, she is silent.
"So, what made you choose that particular book?" I ask, nodding toward the brown cloth bag in her lap. At first she just stares at it, as though it has suddenly grown tentacles or something equally disturbing.
"It was on a list of disturbing books. I couldn't resist." She looks up at me, sips at her tea and then shrugs.
"You enjoy disturbing literature?" I ask, slightly baffled.
"I'd rather not discuss it." she says, suddenly. "I'd much rather discuss where it is that you would like to get dinner tonight. With me."
I am even more baffled. She has, up to this point, seemed to be very shy and quiet. Suddenly she is presuming that I am going to go to dinner with her. Which, I am, but that is beside the point.
"Excuse me?" I say, allowing some of my confusion to bleed through.
"I suppose I should ask, rather than tell." she says. "Would you like to go out to dinner with me?"
Quite suddenly I experience a blanking of my mind. All thoughts of going to the bar tonight, all thoughts of Jae or whatever his name was, vanish. She is suddenly all I can think about. I smile, a lopsided grin with no brain behind it at all. She responds with an equally lopsided grin and stands up. She reaches into her pocket for a stray piece of paper and grabs a stray pen off of the counter. She writes down her number, a place and a time. She even signs her name in a flourish, in the corner of the paper. She winks at me, takes her book and just like that she is gone.
The paper says Viperia Tearoom, ten-thirty.
I float through the rest of my work, dreamily wondering how I got a beautiful girl to ask me out with no real effort. As I lock up I think about the delicious things I'd like to do to her and wondering if this is what she meant by fate. At home I layer a burnt orange lace panel top over a creamy colored tank top, matching the lace paneling. I slip into a pair of black skinny jeans and raid my shoe cupboard for a pretty pair of flats. I eventually settle for a pair of burnt orange heels with a slight ruffle and an ankle strap. I take a long look at myself in the mirror and realize I've become a lot more interested in dressing up since David.
I wonder, briefly, if this because I am trying to attract attention now. And, just as briefly, I worry about this. I note a few dark circles under my eyes and pass it off as allergies, even though I know that isn't it. I confessed everything to Noah so that I would stop this behaviour. So that I might come back to the light side of the Force. Instead I seem to have confessed only to revert back to the darkness of this downward spiral. And, admittedly, I kind of enjoy the spiral. In a sick, twisted way, I really enjoy all this self-inflicted pain and torture. I feel like I deserve it, so may as well enjoy it, right?
I realize this type of thinking is extremely unhealthy, but I choose to ignore it and finish getting ready for my date. I fill up Snuggles' water and food bowls, rest my butt against my ankles while I pet him, lovingly. I then head out again, despite more protesting meows from him.
I arrive at the Viperia Tearoom at a quarter after ten. I am pleased to discover that Annabelle is already there. She waves me over to her table, stands and hugs me before we sit down. I, stealthily, take note of how beautiful she looks in her sleek turquoise mini dress with cross-back straps and her white leggings. She smiles and signals the waitress over. She orders a Thai Quinoa Salad, whatever that may be, and a peach martini. I order potato blossom dumplings, French fried green beans and a cherry-rose tea margarita. She laughs at my food choices, but doesn't say anything else.
I begin to get very nervous as we say nothing. Absolute silence. I don't know where to start, what topic to discuss, what to say? I smile, awkwardly, but she doesn't seem to notice. Just as I feel like I might be brave enough to pick a topic our food arrives and immediately begin to eat. Contended munching at least, temporarily, replaces the awful silence. Instead of focusing, I let my mind wander to what it would be like to be in bed with Annabelle. I imagine several interesting fantasies, before settling on a particularly steamy one.
"What are you thinking about?" asks Annabelle. I nearly jump out of my skin, startled by the sudden break in silence and a little bit of shame for what I was thinking. She looks at me curiously and I have the horrible feeling that she has been watching me the entire time. I gulp, guiltily.
"Nothing particularly interesting." I say, trying to laugh off these feelings. "You?"
"I was thinking about what you would be like in bed." she says, laughing. "Weren't you thinking the same thing? I can tell from your blushing that you were."
"I... Well, I mean... I would... Yes." I stammer. "I suppose I am rather transparent."
"Its only natural you know, we're sexually active young women and obviously mutually attracted to one another or we wouldn't be here. Why not think about it?" She says this all so calmly, more like it was scientific fact.
"Is this what you meant by fate? The attraction?" I ask, mulling over the oddness of the conversation.
"Partly. Partly because I feel as though we are meant to be together, at least for a time. You do find me attractive, don't you?"
"Of course I do!" I exclaim, dropping my fork with a bit of a clatter. I smile apologetically and carefully pick it back up. "Yes, I do. I find you quite attractive."
"In that case, let's call it fate for now and skip dessert. We can go back to my place, if you like. Its just a block or so away from here."
I bite my lip, trying not to acquiesce too quickly, but I find that I am already nodding in agreement. She laughs again, a melodic sound, and I find I am laughing too. We hold each other's hands as we head toward my car. When we get to the car, I find that I can't resist any longer and I press her to my car, kissing her as passionately as I have ever kissed anyone. I hold her hands, our fingers entwined, just like fate. Our fingers fit so perfectly together, our lips feel so right and our bodies pressed against my car feels like perfection.
While we kiss, a thought occurs to me. I could fall in love with this girl. Its so crazy, so insane. I pull away from her a moment, her lips glistening and slightly swollen from my kisses. I feel the breath escape my lungs. I just met this girl and I'm already thinking about breaking my rule of not falling in love. She has me so mixed up in this "fate" business that I'm actually beginning to believe it. What kind of girl is she?
Before I can take another breath she pulls my face back to hers. We kiss slowly, painfully slow. We kiss until neither one of us can breathe. I open the passenger side door and help her get in. We drive the block and a half to her apartment slowly, still holding hands. Maybe this instant attraction is fate. Could this be love at first sight? I try to shake the thought from my head. I thought David was my love at first sight too. I glance at our entwined fingers and feel a whimsical smile creep around the corners of my mouth.
She leads me upstairs to her apartment. She opens the door slowly and ushers me inside. The inside of her apartment smells sweet, with a tinge of bitterness. I wonder, for a moment, if this is a sign. But then I remember that I no longer believe in signs or metaphors or anything like that. I try to remind myself that I also no longer believe in fate, but I am quickly losing that battle. She has the windows draped with light cancelling curtains, so for a moment all I can sense is her beside me and the sweet smell of her and the room. She flicks on a light and, smiling beguilingly, pulls her turquoise top over her head, exposing a lacy white bra.
She motions me to follow her and I barely have time to slip out of my heels. I pull my shirt up and over my head and let it slip to the floor beside hers. My eyes caress her as she slips out of the rest of her clothes and lies down on the bed. She presents herself to me like a beautiful doll to play with and explore. I finish removing my own clothing and sink down beside her.
I kiss the hollow of her throat, the skin above her heart and down to her stomach. On her stomach, there is a long white scar from her belly button to the edge of her pubic region. I kiss it gingerly, feeling as though I am seeing a secret I wasn't meant to pay too much attention to. I sink lower with my kisses until I am completely distracted by the overwhelming beauty of her and the smell of her is all I can think of.
We stay like this for most of the night. We fall asleep curled into each other, our fingers entwined, and feeling like puzzle pieces finding their other piece.
I wake up slightly confused. I feel her fingers tangled with mine, I feel her pressed against me, snuggled as close as possible. It feels too right, too perfect. Hence the confusion. I keep reminding myself that I only just met her yesterday and that I'm not allowed to fall in any way, shape or form in love with her.
Except, when she opens her eyes and kisses me, I feel a little of my resolve being swept away by ridiculous emotions.
"Stay with me," she whispers. "don't go."
"I wasn't planning on it." I mutter into her honey-gold hair. She whimpers a little and I look at her. She has a tear running down her cheek and, concerned, I wipe it away. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I've just been by myself too long and I can't stand to think about it." She kisses me, touching and caressing until what she said has completely been wiped from my mind.
We spend most of the day in her bed, making love, making believe that we have all the time in the world to be together. When we finally emerge from the bedroom, for sustenance other than each other, I ask a question that has been scratching at the back of my brain.
"How did you get that scar on your stomach, if you don't mind my asking?" I say, as nonchalantly as possible. At first I don't think she heard me, but then she sighs and turns to look at me.
"When I was thirteen I gave birth to a stillborn baby boy. The scar is from the emergency Cesarean section." She looks at me, as if to measure my reaction on internal scale. I am stunned, but do my best not to show it. I think of my sisters at thirteen, or myself at that age. And I can't imagine giving birth to a dead child. I can't find anything to say, so I settle for saying nothing at all.
"Thank you," she says. Turning back toward the toaster, she catches the emerging toast and begins to butter it.
"Why are you thanking me?" I ask, coming up next to her. She turns and looks me in the eyes, her shifting eye color both beguiling and frightening.
"Thank you for not prying further." She kisses me and hands me a piece of toast, before heading back toward the bedroom.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
An Asthma Attack
We arrive on this scene to find it in disarray. There seems to be an interesting battle taking place and the whole of the battlefield is a set of heaving lungs. The lungs seem to be in some kind of stand off with the immune system, all weapons aimed and primed for the battle.
Left Lung: Sir, I ask you to kindly holster your weapons. We are of one body, YOUR body. We are a part of this system and it is quite silly of you to be attacking us in this manner.
A Bronchial Tube: *he is clearly contracted and struggling to maintain airflow* I think I may explode, sir. I can't take much more. Where is our back up?
Immune System Sargent 1: I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid you don't have the proper clearance to be a part of this system. I'm going to have to ask you to cease and desist all operation immediately or we will have to resume our attacks.
Right Lung: *into a tiny radio* Where the fuck is our back-up?! We can't take much more and they aren't backing down! Requesting immediate back-up!
There is a loud whistling and wheezing that can be heard throughout the set of lungs, a warning siren trying to contact their back-up.
Immune System Sargent 2: Fuck this, its a trap! FIRE!
The Immune System begins an all out assault upon the lungs and bronchial tubes, which have full constricted, restricting air flow. The wheezing gets louder with every attempted intake of oxygen.
Right Lung: We are running low on O2, Commander. Where is our back-up?!
Voice Over: We're deploying as fast as possible, hold your positions!
Left Lung: Things are starting to look a little hazy, Sir. I'm beginning to feel a little blue-ish.
Voice Over: Maintain your positions! We are all apart of this same body, we can't let them destroy it!
Another Bronchial Tube: Intake valves completely blocked. O2... cannot... be... taken. *He quickly passes out*
Immune System Sargent 1: Keep firing men! Destroy the interlopers!
Immune System Sargent 2: For the love of Body, where the hell is all this haze coming from?
Left Lung: That's because we can't get to our reserves of O2, you idiots! Without it everything looks hazy. You have to hold your fire so we can reopen the conduits!
Immune System Sargent 2: NEVER! ITS A TRAP!
Right Lung: YOU WATCH TOO MUCH FUCKING STAR WARS! For the love of Body, hold your fucking fire!
Just as everything seems lost, the area above the lungs and immune system fills with a soft mist. Steroidal Paratroopers drop in and begin spraying the area. The Immune System retreats and the Bronchial tubes are revived.
Immune System Sargent 2: *clearly high* Why were we fighting again? Everything is too pretty to fight.
Immune System Sargent 1: *quickly losing to the effects of the steroids* I know right? Everything is so... red. Such a pretty red. I wanted to be red once.
Immune System Sargent 2: Dude, those lungs look like water balloons. Did you notice?
Immune System Sargent 1: I think you are drunk, Sargent. They most definitely look like heaving red petals, barely hanging on to the flower stems.
Right Lung: Man, that stuff works fast.
A Steroidal Paratrooper: That's what you wanted right? Fast back-up?
Left Lung: Not complaining. Just in awe of how fast your fast is.
A Steroidal Paratrooper: That should keep them occupied for a while. *the Paratroopers retreat further up leaving the lungs and bronchial tubes to assess and reverse any damage*
Right Lung: Its too bad that this peace can't last.
Left Lung: There is no way to convince them that we are part of them is there?
Right Lung: Unfortunately, no. This immune system is too damaged to realize the truth. We just have to continue maintaining our ground.
Left Lung: In a never-ending civil war. Sounds almost poetic, don't you think?
Left Lung: Sir, I ask you to kindly holster your weapons. We are of one body, YOUR body. We are a part of this system and it is quite silly of you to be attacking us in this manner.
A Bronchial Tube: *he is clearly contracted and struggling to maintain airflow* I think I may explode, sir. I can't take much more. Where is our back up?
Immune System Sargent 1: I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid you don't have the proper clearance to be a part of this system. I'm going to have to ask you to cease and desist all operation immediately or we will have to resume our attacks.
Right Lung: *into a tiny radio* Where the fuck is our back-up?! We can't take much more and they aren't backing down! Requesting immediate back-up!
There is a loud whistling and wheezing that can be heard throughout the set of lungs, a warning siren trying to contact their back-up.
Immune System Sargent 2: Fuck this, its a trap! FIRE!
The Immune System begins an all out assault upon the lungs and bronchial tubes, which have full constricted, restricting air flow. The wheezing gets louder with every attempted intake of oxygen.
Right Lung: We are running low on O2, Commander. Where is our back-up?!
Voice Over: We're deploying as fast as possible, hold your positions!
Left Lung: Things are starting to look a little hazy, Sir. I'm beginning to feel a little blue-ish.
Voice Over: Maintain your positions! We are all apart of this same body, we can't let them destroy it!
Another Bronchial Tube: Intake valves completely blocked. O2... cannot... be... taken. *He quickly passes out*
Immune System Sargent 1: Keep firing men! Destroy the interlopers!
Immune System Sargent 2: For the love of Body, where the hell is all this haze coming from?
Left Lung: That's because we can't get to our reserves of O2, you idiots! Without it everything looks hazy. You have to hold your fire so we can reopen the conduits!
Immune System Sargent 2: NEVER! ITS A TRAP!
Right Lung: YOU WATCH TOO MUCH FUCKING STAR WARS! For the love of Body, hold your fucking fire!
Just as everything seems lost, the area above the lungs and immune system fills with a soft mist. Steroidal Paratroopers drop in and begin spraying the area. The Immune System retreats and the Bronchial tubes are revived.
Immune System Sargent 2: *clearly high* Why were we fighting again? Everything is too pretty to fight.
Immune System Sargent 1: *quickly losing to the effects of the steroids* I know right? Everything is so... red. Such a pretty red. I wanted to be red once.
Immune System Sargent 2: Dude, those lungs look like water balloons. Did you notice?
Immune System Sargent 1: I think you are drunk, Sargent. They most definitely look like heaving red petals, barely hanging on to the flower stems.
Right Lung: Man, that stuff works fast.
A Steroidal Paratrooper: That's what you wanted right? Fast back-up?
Left Lung: Not complaining. Just in awe of how fast your fast is.
A Steroidal Paratrooper: That should keep them occupied for a while. *the Paratroopers retreat further up leaving the lungs and bronchial tubes to assess and reverse any damage*
Right Lung: Its too bad that this peace can't last.
Left Lung: There is no way to convince them that we are part of them is there?
Right Lung: Unfortunately, no. This immune system is too damaged to realize the truth. We just have to continue maintaining our ground.
Left Lung: In a never-ending civil war. Sounds almost poetic, don't you think?
Sunday, March 18, 2012
The Right to Freedom
Right now there are men fighting over who should have to provide birth control, over birth control being taken away, over sex being diminished to simple procreation. Men are fighting over whether women should be able to have an abortion or use birth control. MEN. Not WOMEN.
Woman was created from Man's rib, says the Bible. This is to mean that woman is to be at man's side, not in front or behind him. Equal with him. Man may have been created first, but what is Man without Woman?
Is it a man who suffers through Menstruation? Is it a man who suffers through pregnancy and child-birth? Is it a man who can suffer from cysts on the ovaries, the cervix or the uterus? Or endometriosis? Is it a man who is being denied the ability to decide?
No. It is women. It is women who need birth control to help with the horrific, searing, pain of cysts on various internal organs. It is women who need birth control to help control cramping and blood loss. It is women who need birth control to prevent pregnancy. And it is women who should decide.
This is what the women before us fought for. The freedom to decide. To vote, to choose. To be equal citizens.
And we still aren't EQUAL. We still make less money than a man in the same position. We still have to beg and plead and fight to have our medicines provided by insurance and companies that don't want to give it. We are STILL fighting what should've ended a long time ago.
Woman was created from Man's rib, says the Bible. This is to mean that woman is to be at man's side, not in front or behind him. Equal with him. Man may have been created first, but what is Man without Woman?
Is it a man who suffers through Menstruation? Is it a man who suffers through pregnancy and child-birth? Is it a man who can suffer from cysts on the ovaries, the cervix or the uterus? Or endometriosis? Is it a man who is being denied the ability to decide?
No. It is women. It is women who need birth control to help with the horrific, searing, pain of cysts on various internal organs. It is women who need birth control to help control cramping and blood loss. It is women who need birth control to prevent pregnancy. And it is women who should decide.
This is what the women before us fought for. The freedom to decide. To vote, to choose. To be equal citizens.
And we still aren't EQUAL. We still make less money than a man in the same position. We still have to beg and plead and fight to have our medicines provided by insurance and companies that don't want to give it. We are STILL fighting what should've ended a long time ago.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
An Ayn Rand Institute Internship
As some of you may or may not know, I have recently been delving into the world/philosophy of Ayn Rand. Partially because of my love of BioShock, which is loosely based on her philosophy (Objectivism). As well as being the best video game EVER!
*clears throat* Anyway, Today I want you to send me as many good thoughts/prayers/voodoo/whatever it is you do because I am going to try to get an internship at the Ayn Rand Institute (henceforth referred to as ARI) for three weeks during the summer. In Irvine California.
I may not be the most qualified, or the most amazing, but I want it badly enough that I'm going to go for it. I just have to start the essay, finish filling out the application and get my records from my high school/GED center.
Thankfully, if I don't get accepted this year, they do this annually so there may be a chance next year. All I can do is try.
Here's to following dreams.
*clears throat* Anyway, Today I want you to send me as many good thoughts/prayers/voodoo/whatever it is you do because I am going to try to get an internship at the Ayn Rand Institute (henceforth referred to as ARI) for three weeks during the summer. In Irvine California.
I may not be the most qualified, or the most amazing, but I want it badly enough that I'm going to go for it. I just have to start the essay, finish filling out the application and get my records from my high school/GED center.
Thankfully, if I don't get accepted this year, they do this annually so there may be a chance next year. All I can do is try.
Here's to following dreams.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
A Letter
Dear Memere,
It has been almost thirteen years since you left us. Thirteen years since I heard your voice, heard you tell me you loved me. Thirteen years since you told me about all the crazy animal adventures that you were having so far away from me. Thirteen years of wishing you were still here and knowing you will never be here again. I suppose I shouldn't wish you were still here, because I know that you would be hurting. I don't want you to hurt, Memere. I just don't want to keep missing you like I do.
I can barely remember your voice. I watch those videos Dad made to keep you alive in my mind. I look through the pictures to keep your face fresh in my soul. Its hard, though, knowing I will never see you again. That I had only such a short time to be loved by you. To get to know you. I wish I had gotten to know you better.
Though, a part of me is terrified that if you were here you wouldn't love me anymore. You wouldn't be proud of me. That is more terrifying than any nightmare I could ever have. The thought that you wouldn't love me if you were still here makes me work harder to be a person you might be proud of. A person you would always love, in spite of my many, many, faults. And I have so many, Memere. More than I can count, even.
I wonder, sometimes, when I look in the mirror and see my reflection staring back at me, if you would like the person I am today. Would I still be someone you enjoyed talking to? Would I have ever sent Dad a hateful letter? Would we all still be clinging to some semblance of a family?
I can't remember how you smell, or what it felt like to be in your arms. I can't remember those little things that would make you still real in my world. I would give anything to talk to you again. Anything to hear your soft accent. Anything to hear you tell me again about the bear in the neighbor's swimming pool or the lizard in your trash can.
I'd give anything to have had you there when I got married. I don't think I've ever missed you as much as I did that day. It was beautiful, even though it was just a courthouse ceremony. I think you would've liked it. I hope you would've liked it.
Its unfair, Memere. Its unfair that you left me when I was so young. I've spent my entire growing up wishing you were here. Praying that somehow the dead could come back, even for a few minutes. Just so I could say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye. I didn't get to go to your funeral. I don't even know where you are buried. Are you near Pepere? Are you somewhere beautiful?
Its such a strange feeling, really. To be so young and have no grandparents left. Pepere first, you, Grandpa and finally Grandma Bobbi. It seems impossible really. Impossible that I have lost you all. Implausible. Improbable. Insane.
I suppose, simply put, I miss you. It only gets worse as I grow older. With each passing year I feel your absence more keenly. I think, "I wish Memere was here so I could tell her about this." But maybe you are here. Maybe you already know. Maybe you are still with me, even when I feel that I have lost all hold I thought I had on your memory. You are such a beautiful memory. Something I never want to lose. Where would I be without even a memory of you?
I love you.
I miss you.
I wish you were somehow here, just for a little while. Just so I could tell you everything I've been wanting to tell you for thirteen years. Just so I could tell you that I love you and I miss playing piano with you. I miss talking to you at night. I miss hearing your voice. I miss that most of all, just hearing you speak always made me feel better. I wish that wishing would give me something besides a throb of pain in my chest and in my throat from holding back the tears.
Dear Memere, I love you.
Love,
Sarai.
It has been almost thirteen years since you left us. Thirteen years since I heard your voice, heard you tell me you loved me. Thirteen years since you told me about all the crazy animal adventures that you were having so far away from me. Thirteen years of wishing you were still here and knowing you will never be here again. I suppose I shouldn't wish you were still here, because I know that you would be hurting. I don't want you to hurt, Memere. I just don't want to keep missing you like I do.
I can barely remember your voice. I watch those videos Dad made to keep you alive in my mind. I look through the pictures to keep your face fresh in my soul. Its hard, though, knowing I will never see you again. That I had only such a short time to be loved by you. To get to know you. I wish I had gotten to know you better.
Though, a part of me is terrified that if you were here you wouldn't love me anymore. You wouldn't be proud of me. That is more terrifying than any nightmare I could ever have. The thought that you wouldn't love me if you were still here makes me work harder to be a person you might be proud of. A person you would always love, in spite of my many, many, faults. And I have so many, Memere. More than I can count, even.
I wonder, sometimes, when I look in the mirror and see my reflection staring back at me, if you would like the person I am today. Would I still be someone you enjoyed talking to? Would I have ever sent Dad a hateful letter? Would we all still be clinging to some semblance of a family?
I can't remember how you smell, or what it felt like to be in your arms. I can't remember those little things that would make you still real in my world. I would give anything to talk to you again. Anything to hear your soft accent. Anything to hear you tell me again about the bear in the neighbor's swimming pool or the lizard in your trash can.
I'd give anything to have had you there when I got married. I don't think I've ever missed you as much as I did that day. It was beautiful, even though it was just a courthouse ceremony. I think you would've liked it. I hope you would've liked it.
Its unfair, Memere. Its unfair that you left me when I was so young. I've spent my entire growing up wishing you were here. Praying that somehow the dead could come back, even for a few minutes. Just so I could say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye. I didn't get to go to your funeral. I don't even know where you are buried. Are you near Pepere? Are you somewhere beautiful?
Its such a strange feeling, really. To be so young and have no grandparents left. Pepere first, you, Grandpa and finally Grandma Bobbi. It seems impossible really. Impossible that I have lost you all. Implausible. Improbable. Insane.
I suppose, simply put, I miss you. It only gets worse as I grow older. With each passing year I feel your absence more keenly. I think, "I wish Memere was here so I could tell her about this." But maybe you are here. Maybe you already know. Maybe you are still with me, even when I feel that I have lost all hold I thought I had on your memory. You are such a beautiful memory. Something I never want to lose. Where would I be without even a memory of you?
I love you.
I miss you.
I wish you were somehow here, just for a little while. Just so I could tell you everything I've been wanting to tell you for thirteen years. Just so I could tell you that I love you and I miss playing piano with you. I miss talking to you at night. I miss hearing your voice. I miss that most of all, just hearing you speak always made me feel better. I wish that wishing would give me something besides a throb of pain in my chest and in my throat from holding back the tears.
Dear Memere, I love you.
Love,
Sarai.
Monday, March 05, 2012
The 400th Post
For my 400th post, I've decided to post the prologue of a new story I'm conjuring. It isn't going very far since I haven't finished "All of Her" yet. Once I'm completely satisfied with "All of Her" I will possibly continue working on this. Let me know what you think. It is going to be a horror/fairy tale mixture and possibly something new for me to explore.
"The Hanging Garden"
Prologue
I do not remember when I first discovered the meaning of the Hanging Garden, though I had known of its existence for years. Nor do I remember when I first discovered the fate of those called to be its keeper. I had known that I would one day take the place of my mother as the queen of those grounds, though I had no idea the meaning behind its name nor the horrors that were to await me upon succession. I knew, only as a child knows of places they are forbidden to go.
In my mind I had greatly romanticized the Hanging Garden. Many an hour was spent daydreaming of the day that I would take my mother's throne and be the solo heiress of those haunted landscapes. I imagined tea in lavish gardens filled with fragrant roses and graceful willows. I pictured court suitors and lords desirous of my hand in marriage pleading with me beside small pools of crystal clear water. I imagined them proposing with white honeysuckle and purple hyacinths plucked from those very gardens, for where else would there be flowers as sweet?
I did not then know that my only suitors would be the ageless scarecrow, hung upon his decaying cross, and the merman prince, forever drowning in his pools of blood. I knew not that the only flowers in my care would be those that sprang from the viscera of wicked and innocent men, spilled in those gardens for generations before my own existence was realized. I did not know that upon taking my mother's crown, my mother's throne, that she would join the hanging bodies in that cursed garden. A forever feast for the carrion birds that flourished in that sweltering bubble of decay.
And now, in my age of dying, I begin to write these words to my daughter. She may read of her fate in them after I have gone to take my place aside my mother. A fate suffered by myself, my mother and countless generations of first born daughters to the cursed queens of the Hanging Garden. A fate that each generation has tried so desperately to record in the annals of a history censored by destiny. She may never read these words before she has met the ageless scarecrow or the drowning merman prince.
She may never read them, as I never read those of my mother. It is only now, in my age of dying, that I have found the words my mother recorded to warn me. How little I understood has now been made plain. Mayhaps my daughter will be wiser than I. Mayhaps she will do what I did not and read the words written as warning. I can only hope and pray to the pagan gods of this land that she does.
Though I do not know the use of these words of mine. Had I read my mother's words would I have been able to escape her fate? Would the line drawn by destiny have wavered? Would I have been able to change the course of time? I suppose it no longer matters as I am too old now to prove useful to anyone but the starving grounds to which I am promised.
So it is that in this, my dying age, I, Aubra of Jarron, do take up my quill and ink to write to my only child, Selene, of the Hanging Garden.
~~~
It has been said that once, many years hence, there lived a beautiful queen. She is said to have been a witch, marked so by her unnatural white hair and piercing lilac eyes. Though she was queen she was not safe from man's lusts nor his suspicious nature.
A day arrived when the queen was called to name her king, for she would need an heir once she had gone. She refused all that sought her hand. And though, they pressed, she refused to name a man as her king. This infuriated her advisors and those that sought to make themselves higher in status than was their station. So much so that they conspired against the queen, seeking to overthrow her and name one of their own as king of the land.
One night, not long after refusing yet another suitor's advances, the queen was walking through her garden. The garden was famed throughout the land for the lushness of its grasses, the grace of its trees and the fragrance of its flowers. Though those against the queen whispered quietly that it was only so beautiful because of sorcery and innocent blood spilled. Flowers that beautiful could only be grown by the spilling of innocent blood upon the earth. Trees that strong must only grow from the bones of honest men buried. Grasses that soft could only thrive from the tears of the mighty felled by wickedness.
While she walked through her garden, the queen was ambushed by her advisors and rejected suitors. She was bound and hung, naked, from the tallest tree in her garden. As she struggled for air she placed a curse upon the men that bound her there.
"This day," she gasped. "I curse thee and all that may come after thee. Thy wife shall rise above thee and all thy daughters will be sworn to follow me. This garden, thou shalt not enjoy, for when I die all shall die with me. A beautiful garden no longer to be, a Hanging garden shall be the last thy eyes shall see."
Her last breath came out as a sigh and as it floated away the men marked a strangeness growing within them. Each man found himself rooted to the ground, vines pushing out from within them. Their screams were terrible to hear and the earth quaked with fear. Thunder crashed and lightning struck as each one of them became a part of the garden. Once beautiful, as the queen had said, now the garden had become a place of death.
From each man's eyes grew venomous flowers, stained with the lust and envy of the heart. From their mouths grew spiked grasses, sharp as razors. From their bones grew haunted trees, bound to the earth by wickedness. From their hearts burst flowers and vines, until they had been choked to death by them.
In the garden it is not hard to find them, they stand as a monument to the curse. Forever rooted before their betrayed queen, her body clothed only in vines and rotting flowers.
~~~
My daughter, Selene, today you are seventeen. The day that you will take my throne and bear my crown. Today is my dying day. The day that all mankind must one day meet. I do not yet know if all my writing will be for naught or if you shall heed the warnings herein. I suppose that only time will tell and my time is quickly running out. As my successor, and only child, I hope you do.
When you take your first steps as queen, they will be to follow me to the garden. A garden you have heard of many times. A garden you have known for years would one day be yours. A garden in which you shall watch me die as I watched my mother die. And as she watched her own mother die before me. It is only once I have joined my mother, her mother and all the generations of women before me, that you shall be completely bound to the garden. I wish it was not so, but wishes mean nothing in the light of reality.
After you have watched me die, you will be compelled to wander the landscape. In your coronation gown, stained with my blood, you will find yourself standing before the first queen to die in the garden. You will be surrounded by her betrayers, her monuments. You will feel sick and overwhelmed, but you are not done yet.
There are more horrors in this garden. It is a testament to the madness flowing rampant through our veins, your veins. I will not speak of all that there is within this cursed ground. Though I know them better than the skin that covers my bones. You will learn in time, what I have learned.
You will have no suitors, no men to call upon your hand. You will have no lovers, besides those that may be found in the garden. You will be alone until the day that you, too, bear a daughter. Have no doubt that you will bear nothing but daughters no matter how hard you wish for a son. No matter how you may try, you cannot escape that part of the curse.
The first man with whom you speak will be the scarecrow. He stands, crucified to a dying tree, in the center of the garden. He is never to be removed from his post. I know not how he came to be there. He only speaks in rhymes and is timeless within time, ageless within age. He is the only beautiful thing within the walls of the garden, though he has tattered with time and age. He will ask from whence you come and whence you came. You must never answer him. I know not why.
The second man you will encounter in the garden is the merman prince. He is secluded in the furthest corner of the garden, drowning in a pool of blood. He will never leave his pool and he will never drown. He will give you a gift, which you must not open until your dying day. His words will sound like honey in your ears, but their meaning will turn your hair white as snow. You will fall in love with him, as many generations before you have, but beware his love.
I do not know how he came to be imprisoned within those pools of blood or how the scarecrow came to be crucified on his dying tree. Perhaps you will read the volumes left behind by previous generations and within them find the answers. I do not know why I was so foolish as to believe I could find them without help. I pray you do not fall prey to the same arrogance as I.
These are the last words I write, darling. I leave my words behind hoping that you will be the undoing of this curse and that you will be a better queen than I. You may find all the writings of your ancestors within the libraries buried beneath the garden. You will know how to find them, though you may not know their use until it is too late. You will be brave, because you are stronger than those that have gone before.
These are the last words I, Aubra of Jarron, last queen of the Hanging Garden, leave my only daughter, Selene of Jarron, newest queen of the Hanging Garden.
"The Hanging Garden"
Prologue
I do not remember when I first discovered the meaning of the Hanging Garden, though I had known of its existence for years. Nor do I remember when I first discovered the fate of those called to be its keeper. I had known that I would one day take the place of my mother as the queen of those grounds, though I had no idea the meaning behind its name nor the horrors that were to await me upon succession. I knew, only as a child knows of places they are forbidden to go.
In my mind I had greatly romanticized the Hanging Garden. Many an hour was spent daydreaming of the day that I would take my mother's throne and be the solo heiress of those haunted landscapes. I imagined tea in lavish gardens filled with fragrant roses and graceful willows. I pictured court suitors and lords desirous of my hand in marriage pleading with me beside small pools of crystal clear water. I imagined them proposing with white honeysuckle and purple hyacinths plucked from those very gardens, for where else would there be flowers as sweet?
I did not then know that my only suitors would be the ageless scarecrow, hung upon his decaying cross, and the merman prince, forever drowning in his pools of blood. I knew not that the only flowers in my care would be those that sprang from the viscera of wicked and innocent men, spilled in those gardens for generations before my own existence was realized. I did not know that upon taking my mother's crown, my mother's throne, that she would join the hanging bodies in that cursed garden. A forever feast for the carrion birds that flourished in that sweltering bubble of decay.
And now, in my age of dying, I begin to write these words to my daughter. She may read of her fate in them after I have gone to take my place aside my mother. A fate suffered by myself, my mother and countless generations of first born daughters to the cursed queens of the Hanging Garden. A fate that each generation has tried so desperately to record in the annals of a history censored by destiny. She may never read these words before she has met the ageless scarecrow or the drowning merman prince.
She may never read them, as I never read those of my mother. It is only now, in my age of dying, that I have found the words my mother recorded to warn me. How little I understood has now been made plain. Mayhaps my daughter will be wiser than I. Mayhaps she will do what I did not and read the words written as warning. I can only hope and pray to the pagan gods of this land that she does.
Though I do not know the use of these words of mine. Had I read my mother's words would I have been able to escape her fate? Would the line drawn by destiny have wavered? Would I have been able to change the course of time? I suppose it no longer matters as I am too old now to prove useful to anyone but the starving grounds to which I am promised.
So it is that in this, my dying age, I, Aubra of Jarron, do take up my quill and ink to write to my only child, Selene, of the Hanging Garden.
~~~
It has been said that once, many years hence, there lived a beautiful queen. She is said to have been a witch, marked so by her unnatural white hair and piercing lilac eyes. Though she was queen she was not safe from man's lusts nor his suspicious nature.
A day arrived when the queen was called to name her king, for she would need an heir once she had gone. She refused all that sought her hand. And though, they pressed, she refused to name a man as her king. This infuriated her advisors and those that sought to make themselves higher in status than was their station. So much so that they conspired against the queen, seeking to overthrow her and name one of their own as king of the land.
One night, not long after refusing yet another suitor's advances, the queen was walking through her garden. The garden was famed throughout the land for the lushness of its grasses, the grace of its trees and the fragrance of its flowers. Though those against the queen whispered quietly that it was only so beautiful because of sorcery and innocent blood spilled. Flowers that beautiful could only be grown by the spilling of innocent blood upon the earth. Trees that strong must only grow from the bones of honest men buried. Grasses that soft could only thrive from the tears of the mighty felled by wickedness.
While she walked through her garden, the queen was ambushed by her advisors and rejected suitors. She was bound and hung, naked, from the tallest tree in her garden. As she struggled for air she placed a curse upon the men that bound her there.
"This day," she gasped. "I curse thee and all that may come after thee. Thy wife shall rise above thee and all thy daughters will be sworn to follow me. This garden, thou shalt not enjoy, for when I die all shall die with me. A beautiful garden no longer to be, a Hanging garden shall be the last thy eyes shall see."
Her last breath came out as a sigh and as it floated away the men marked a strangeness growing within them. Each man found himself rooted to the ground, vines pushing out from within them. Their screams were terrible to hear and the earth quaked with fear. Thunder crashed and lightning struck as each one of them became a part of the garden. Once beautiful, as the queen had said, now the garden had become a place of death.
From each man's eyes grew venomous flowers, stained with the lust and envy of the heart. From their mouths grew spiked grasses, sharp as razors. From their bones grew haunted trees, bound to the earth by wickedness. From their hearts burst flowers and vines, until they had been choked to death by them.
In the garden it is not hard to find them, they stand as a monument to the curse. Forever rooted before their betrayed queen, her body clothed only in vines and rotting flowers.
~~~
My daughter, Selene, today you are seventeen. The day that you will take my throne and bear my crown. Today is my dying day. The day that all mankind must one day meet. I do not yet know if all my writing will be for naught or if you shall heed the warnings herein. I suppose that only time will tell and my time is quickly running out. As my successor, and only child, I hope you do.
When you take your first steps as queen, they will be to follow me to the garden. A garden you have heard of many times. A garden you have known for years would one day be yours. A garden in which you shall watch me die as I watched my mother die. And as she watched her own mother die before me. It is only once I have joined my mother, her mother and all the generations of women before me, that you shall be completely bound to the garden. I wish it was not so, but wishes mean nothing in the light of reality.
After you have watched me die, you will be compelled to wander the landscape. In your coronation gown, stained with my blood, you will find yourself standing before the first queen to die in the garden. You will be surrounded by her betrayers, her monuments. You will feel sick and overwhelmed, but you are not done yet.
There are more horrors in this garden. It is a testament to the madness flowing rampant through our veins, your veins. I will not speak of all that there is within this cursed ground. Though I know them better than the skin that covers my bones. You will learn in time, what I have learned.
You will have no suitors, no men to call upon your hand. You will have no lovers, besides those that may be found in the garden. You will be alone until the day that you, too, bear a daughter. Have no doubt that you will bear nothing but daughters no matter how hard you wish for a son. No matter how you may try, you cannot escape that part of the curse.
The first man with whom you speak will be the scarecrow. He stands, crucified to a dying tree, in the center of the garden. He is never to be removed from his post. I know not how he came to be there. He only speaks in rhymes and is timeless within time, ageless within age. He is the only beautiful thing within the walls of the garden, though he has tattered with time and age. He will ask from whence you come and whence you came. You must never answer him. I know not why.
The second man you will encounter in the garden is the merman prince. He is secluded in the furthest corner of the garden, drowning in a pool of blood. He will never leave his pool and he will never drown. He will give you a gift, which you must not open until your dying day. His words will sound like honey in your ears, but their meaning will turn your hair white as snow. You will fall in love with him, as many generations before you have, but beware his love.
I do not know how he came to be imprisoned within those pools of blood or how the scarecrow came to be crucified on his dying tree. Perhaps you will read the volumes left behind by previous generations and within them find the answers. I do not know why I was so foolish as to believe I could find them without help. I pray you do not fall prey to the same arrogance as I.
These are the last words I write, darling. I leave my words behind hoping that you will be the undoing of this curse and that you will be a better queen than I. You may find all the writings of your ancestors within the libraries buried beneath the garden. You will know how to find them, though you may not know their use until it is too late. You will be brave, because you are stronger than those that have gone before.
These are the last words I, Aubra of Jarron, last queen of the Hanging Garden, leave my only daughter, Selene of Jarron, newest queen of the Hanging Garden.
A Missing You kind of Day
When I was younger, about 17/18 I believe, I had a cat named Forgiven. I was going through a very serious Christianity phase during that time, trying to reclaim some semblance of faith as my world was falling apart. Which is how he ended up with the name "Forgiven." He was one of the few beautiful things in my life at the time.
He was a black and white cat, with a light pink nose that had one black spot on it. He had the brightest blue eyes and he was the cuddliest cat I'd ever met. Sometimes when I would be walking home from school he would run up and want held. He was so comical sometimes, we often joked that if Charlie Chaplin was a cat he would be Forgiven. He was my world, really.
I'll have to find the one picture I have of him and post it, he was the most adorable kitten and then the sweetest cat.
Five years ago this month, two months before he turned a year old, Forgiven was hit by a car and killed. We discovered him one morning, on my way to school. I remember feeling paralyzed as I stood by his little lifeless body, crying, on the side of the road. Of course this isn't the most traumatizing incident in my life, for I have had many, but it is an incident that makes my heart ache sometimes.
Last night, possibly because the day he died is rapidly approaching or because I miss him just as much now as I did then, I dreamt about him. At first he was biting me and scratching me, something he never did in real life. Then he turned into his normal self, cuddling and "kissing" like a loving cat does. He seemed frightened by another cat that was lurking the darkness. A cat I couldn't see, except for the eyes. It was understood that the cat in the darkness belonged to Donnie, but it wasn't Lovey (Donnie's cat that lives with his grandmother currently). It was something bigger than a normal cat, but it was a cat nonetheless.
This isn't the first dream I've had with large cats or cats attacking me recently. In fact the past couple of days all I dream about are cats. Have I angered Sekhmet or Bastet, the cat headed Goddesses of Egyptian mythos? Have I become afraid of the feminine side of myself as the "Dream Moods: Dream Dictionary" suggests?
I also dreamt about car accidents. The roads were lined with crashed cars and I was dazed and wandering amongst them. The police officer kept asking why I had left my van, but I couldn't explain it. I couldn't remember.
Then I was dreaming about Barack Obama and I hugged him. I felt guilty because I got snot and tears all over him because of my crying. And I wasn't just crying because of the car accidents everywhere, I was crying because I had been forced to chop off my hair and because of all the accusing eyes watching me. I was surrounded by women, all of us struggling for air. Trying to find our voices in the deafening crowds. It was as if President Obama heard our voiceless screams and he spoke for us. Saying what it was we were trying to say. It was a glorious moment, terrifying and bewildering. But so very true. I have often felt that Obama has been a voice for the women of this country who are still very much oppressed though there are those who would try to convince us otherwise.
And when I woke up I missed my Memere (French for Grandmother) more than anything. It was a deep throb as I got dressed. I looked in the mirror and just wondered what she would think of me if she were still alive. Would she love me as much? Would she be proud of who and what I've become? Would it matter?
I suppose it doesn't matter to think about those things. To think about a cat that hadn't even reached a first birthday. Or a grandmother who has been dead for almost thirteen years now. But today I miss them. And I miss them more with every breath I take. It doesn't help that I have had a new song by Jason Derulo stuck in my head, echoing the ache in my chest.
In honor of my cat, in honor of Memere, in honor of all those that I feel an ache for on this day.
"Today I miss you.
It gets easier, so they say. So why do I feel like this hole in my heart gets bigger whenever I think of you?
Its because I only miss you when I'm breathing."
He was a black and white cat, with a light pink nose that had one black spot on it. He had the brightest blue eyes and he was the cuddliest cat I'd ever met. Sometimes when I would be walking home from school he would run up and want held. He was so comical sometimes, we often joked that if Charlie Chaplin was a cat he would be Forgiven. He was my world, really.
I'll have to find the one picture I have of him and post it, he was the most adorable kitten and then the sweetest cat.
Five years ago this month, two months before he turned a year old, Forgiven was hit by a car and killed. We discovered him one morning, on my way to school. I remember feeling paralyzed as I stood by his little lifeless body, crying, on the side of the road. Of course this isn't the most traumatizing incident in my life, for I have had many, but it is an incident that makes my heart ache sometimes.
Last night, possibly because the day he died is rapidly approaching or because I miss him just as much now as I did then, I dreamt about him. At first he was biting me and scratching me, something he never did in real life. Then he turned into his normal self, cuddling and "kissing" like a loving cat does. He seemed frightened by another cat that was lurking the darkness. A cat I couldn't see, except for the eyes. It was understood that the cat in the darkness belonged to Donnie, but it wasn't Lovey (Donnie's cat that lives with his grandmother currently). It was something bigger than a normal cat, but it was a cat nonetheless.
This isn't the first dream I've had with large cats or cats attacking me recently. In fact the past couple of days all I dream about are cats. Have I angered Sekhmet or Bastet, the cat headed Goddesses of Egyptian mythos? Have I become afraid of the feminine side of myself as the "Dream Moods: Dream Dictionary" suggests?
I also dreamt about car accidents. The roads were lined with crashed cars and I was dazed and wandering amongst them. The police officer kept asking why I had left my van, but I couldn't explain it. I couldn't remember.
Then I was dreaming about Barack Obama and I hugged him. I felt guilty because I got snot and tears all over him because of my crying. And I wasn't just crying because of the car accidents everywhere, I was crying because I had been forced to chop off my hair and because of all the accusing eyes watching me. I was surrounded by women, all of us struggling for air. Trying to find our voices in the deafening crowds. It was as if President Obama heard our voiceless screams and he spoke for us. Saying what it was we were trying to say. It was a glorious moment, terrifying and bewildering. But so very true. I have often felt that Obama has been a voice for the women of this country who are still very much oppressed though there are those who would try to convince us otherwise.
And when I woke up I missed my Memere (French for Grandmother) more than anything. It was a deep throb as I got dressed. I looked in the mirror and just wondered what she would think of me if she were still alive. Would she love me as much? Would she be proud of who and what I've become? Would it matter?
I suppose it doesn't matter to think about those things. To think about a cat that hadn't even reached a first birthday. Or a grandmother who has been dead for almost thirteen years now. But today I miss them. And I miss them more with every breath I take. It doesn't help that I have had a new song by Jason Derulo stuck in my head, echoing the ache in my chest.
In honor of my cat, in honor of Memere, in honor of all those that I feel an ache for on this day.
"Today I miss you.
It gets easier, so they say. So why do I feel like this hole in my heart gets bigger whenever I think of you?
Its because I only miss you when I'm breathing."
Sunday, March 04, 2012
All of Her: Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
I am single for far longer than I should be. I just can't seem to get my head back into the game. I am a mess. I have finally come to the point where I can admit that. I am more of a mess than I thought I would be. I am falling apart at the seams. Especially after everything with Liam. I am too afraid to go to a bar where men might want me. And I can't seem to convince myself to seduce another woman.
I realize a terrifying truth, as I am sitting at my desk at work. At some point this spiral of self-destruction has stopped being about David and Alice. It has stopped being revenge against them for ruining my life. It has become all about the revenge I have taken on my body, on my soul. It has become nothing more than self-destruction for the sole purpose of destruction. I have grown so accustomed to the spiral I no longer hesitate. I have been using sex as a weapon against myself.
My own twisted version of cutting. Sex is the blade and with each slice, I make it sharper. There is no healing. No redemption. No coming back from this. In the end I deserve whatever happens.
Right?
Except there is a still small voice screaming at me. It screams out that I am wrong, that I've completely lost touch with who and what I am. I don't know how much longer I can ignore that inner voice. How much longer I can ignore the truth, is like a new test to me. A newer version of tearing myself down. I am discovering new ways of tearing myself apart. And this hatred for myself is becoming all consuming.
My boss comes up to my desk while I am deep in these thoughts. He clears his throat to gain my attention and motions me to his office. I follow, my stomach suddenly twisting into a vicious knot. He pulls out a chair for me and then seats himself behind his desk.
"Abra, you've been with us for quite some time, yes?" He asks, steepling his fingers.
"Yes, sir." I murmur.
"You were an intern for almost a year, right?" He asks. He waits for me to nod, before continuing.
"And you've been a paid employee for a few months now. In these few months, I've noticed you slowly slipping downward in your attendance, your performance, your attitude, et cetera. During your internship, you were the model employee. I had no complaints whatsoever. It was not a matter of 'if' you were hired, it was a matter of when."
"Sir," I begin, but he silences me with a gesture.
"I hate to do this, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to clear your desk. Perhaps, in the future, when you have regained your drive, we can speak further on your employment with this company. In the meantime, I'm afraid I'm going to have to terminate your employment with us."
During his speech, I feel the tears welling up and spilling over.
"Please," I begin, again. He stands up, as if to dismiss me. I don't say anything else and silently go to my desk. I don't have much here. A family photo, a vase of fake flowers. I ask one of my co-workers for a blank CD and I copy all of my files from the computer to the disc. I don't even have enough to put in a box.
I give the vase and flowers to another girl who started off as an intern. She smiles, graciously, though she looks mildly confused. I put the photo in my purse, along with the disc. I don't say goodbye or even make a scene. I simply walk out. Away from the only job I've ever truly wanted, away from everything I went to school for.
I pass my car in a daze. I don't even stop to put my purse inside. It is pouring and I am quickly soaked. I don't care. I just walk. I don't ponder my mistakes or berate myself for being so stupid. I don't have anything to say to myself at this point. I just walk. I've brought it all on myself. My foolish endeavor to destroy myself has finally come full circle, if you think about it.
I finally stop. I don't know where I am and I am soaked to the bone. I wave down a taxi. It is still pouring and I have absolutely no clue where the hell I'm going. I've just been walking aimlessly for what feels like years. The cabby pulls up to the curb and waits for me to get in. Once I'm in, he hands me something in pink wrapping paper. I look at him for a minute before he motions for me to open it.
Inside is a fluffy pink beach towel. It is huge and warm. I am shocked into utter silence by this simple act of kindness.
"Do you always carry pretty pink towels wrapped in pink wrapping paper?" I ask, after a moment of patting myself to a dryer status.
"Sometimes. And sometimes it is a blue towel in the pink wrapping paper." He smiles and begins to drive. He hasn't asked where I want to go and I notice the meter isn't running just yet.
"Why do you carry towels?" I lean over the front seat and see six identical packages lying neatly wrapped on the floor of the front passenger side.
"For days when it is pouring and someone has forgotten an umbrella. They come in handy sometimes."
"Where are you taking me?" I ask, lowering myself back into my seat.
"I don't know. Where do you want to go?" He pulls up to a stop sign and looks back at me. He smiles. I can't help but smile back.
"Anywhere but here."
Without a word he starts driving again. He heads toward down town and just keeps driving. The rain continues to come down in torrential spurts and I think of the world being washed away like a chalk drawing on a sidewalk. I suppose life is kind of like a chalk drawing. Could I start over? Change things? Or am I really as far gone as I believe?
"What's your name?" asks the cab driver.
"Abra." I say, simply, still staring outside the windows at the rain. "You?"
"Aidan." he says. "Nice to meet you."
We are quiet for a little bit, the edges of the world blurring with my tears and the incessant rain. I should be trying to seduce this guy. It would be very easy. He can tell I've been crying. He can tell that I am very vulnerable right now. I just really don't have the heart for it, or so I think.
It is then that my stubborn side takes over, and I find myself flirting, in spite of my myriad of feelings.
"Would you like to take me somewhere with food and alcohol?" I ask, batting my lashes at his rear view mirror.
"I suppose I am due for a lunch break." He says, smiling at my mirror self. There is a small crack in his mirror, right at the top of my head. I pretend that it isn't symbolic, because it isn't, and continue.
"I know a great spot." I say. I give him directions and before I know it, we are inside eating. We order some fried calamari dumplings and baked sweet potatoes. He doesn't order any alcohol, for obvious reasons, but I order a raspberry vodka on ice. At first, we don't say anything, just eat our food. I recall another awkward date, somewhat like this one.
"How long have you driven a taxi?" I ask, sipping my drink and thanking God for it.
"About a year or so, now." he says, smiling. "What do you do?"
"I'm an accountant." I say, though I am flooded with an overwhelming feeling of loss as I say the words. I am still an accountant. I am just no longer an accountant for that company.
"Really?" he says. "That sounds interesting. Do you help people with their taxes and what not?"
"Sometimes. It depends on the person."
"I have some things that could stand some taxing." He says. He winks at me and takes another bite of his sweet potato. I blush and take another sip of my drink, but I don't say no. The more liquid courage the better, I suppose.
After we are done eating, I am surprised that he picks up the bill. He then ushers me back to his taxi and takes me down the street to a motel. I have a moment of panic, recalling Liam. This man is not Liam. However, it takes me several moments to remind myself of that. He doesn't try to take me inside. Instead, he gets out and comes to sit with me in the backseat. I must look nervous, because he speaks very softly and reassuringly. He is gentle as he inches his hand up and underneath my skirt. I try not to resist and just let myself melt into the sensations.
It doesn't work, but I don't stop him. We never actually go into the motel. When we are done, he drives me back to my office. Well, what used to be my office. I thank him for everything, give him a tip and get in my car. I wait for him to leave before I lean against the steering wheel and burst into tears. Several months ago, if you had asked me where I would be today, I would've said happily married and working at my dream job. Instead, I am slumped against my steering wheel, in front of what used to be my job and completely alone.
I go home, after an hour or so of sitting in my car crying. I feel disgusting. I wonder, briefly, if I am the first woman he has had sex with in the back of his cab. To help counter this feeling I take a hot shower and change into some nice dry clothes. Just as I am settling in to a good book and a cup of cocoa on the couch, my phone rings.
"Abra, come out for coffee with me." says Noah. I sigh, but I don't refuse.
"Where do you want to meet up?" I ask. We decide on where to go and hang up. I kiss Snuggles goodbye and head over to the cafe.
Once I am there I confess everything to Noah, before we have even ordered. I am almost giddy as I tell him. Not because I think the situation is funny, but because I am so relieved to tell someone, anyone. It probably helps that I am so numbed to it that I have no more tears to cry. Instead I reach an eerie level of serene as I tell him about my plans and the lovers. I even tell him about what happened in the parking lot of the motel a few hours ago. He is stunned, but he doesn't say anything. We are silent for a few moments. I try to think of something to brighten the mood and find that I am beginning to feel genuinely better.
"Maybe I'll write a shitty romance novel about vampire watermelons, make a shit ton of money and leave the country on a boat made of gold and tears. Wouldn't that be nice?" I say, after a few moments of contemplation.
"Clearly you have lost your mind and I'm going to have to have you put in a haunted insane asylum for your own protection."
"Or, maybe, I could just give up and become a lesbian." I put my head in my hands and sigh.
"Or maybe you could stop this madness and use your brain for once." Noah crosses his arms and looks at me over those cute little John Lennon glasses he has an affinity for wearing.
"When have you ever known me to use my brain?" I mumble into my hands.
"Not at all since this madness began. You're starting to remind me of a Shakespeare character with all this insanity."
"Maybe," I say. "you could be a little more supportive of your BFF and her life choices."
"Well, if my BFF wasn't trying to ruin her life by being overly skanky and self-destructive over a boy who happens to be a huge douche, I might be. But seeing as how you are insistent on this stupidity, I can't. I'm still here for you, of course. Though, I am still judging."
"I would expect nothing less than your judgement. Ugh, this is ridiculous."
"I agree. Let's order some coffee and discuss how we can get you back on the right track."
"No, no. Not that," I say. "it's ridiculous that I'm not talking to that cutie over there." I point at a really cute Asian guy standing with a friend at the counter. His shoulder length black hair looks so soft and silky that I just want to run my fingers through it. And I just might, depending on how this goes.
The look on Noah's face is hilarious. He genuinely thought I'd stop my plans. Of course, I thought I would too for a moment, but I can't let Noah be right, even though I know he is. I am being self-destructive and attempting to ruin my life. To be contrary, to both myself and Noah, I go over toward the cute Asian. Upon closer inspection he has an inch thick section of his black hair dyed this gorgeous shade of red. Somehow that makes him hotter and more familiar.
"Hi," I say. I vainly wish I had put on a little more make-up, but I'll work with what I've got for now. "would you like to be my boyfriend for a few weeks, cheat on me and set me up for a sad break-up song?"
"Excuse me?" He looks incredulous and I am not surprised. Usually I wouldn't confess my entire plan in the first conversation, but I'm tired of pretending like the relationship is going to go anywhere when I know it isn't. And the only guy who actually cheated on me was Adam, beside the point of course. Why not just let him know what he is getting into now? We can play boyfriend and girlfriend for a short time, he can sleep with whoever and I can pretend to be outraged. It will end in a flaming plane crash of a break-up. With the possibility of sweet, angry, break-up sex. Even though I am beginning to think I may be too messed up to have any kind of "sweet" sex ever again.
"How about a pizza and a fuck." I say. I can hear Noah's jaw hitting the floor behind me.
The guy gets a kind of cocky smile and just looks at me. I look up in a flirty way, looking through my lashes like Scarlett O'Hara at her best.
"I'm not hungry." He says, coyly.
I put a hand on one lightly muscled arm, still smoldering in a Gone with the Wind way, and lean in close. He can see down my shirt right now and Noah is attempting to pick up his jaw. He is about to lose it again.
"We can skip the pizza." I say. I give a saucy wink and walk back over towards Noah, whose jaw never made it off the floor. I hear him follow behind me. He taps on my shoulder.
When I turn around he kisses me. That kiss is so familiar, so strange and warm. He kisses me as if we have been dating for weeks or have been secretly in love for years. He kisses me as if he knows all my secrets, knows every inch of my skin or knows all of my fears. He kisses me for so long that I am literally melting into his arms. After what must've been forever, or a few seconds of forever, he let's me go and walks away.
I slump into my chair, staring at his disappearing figure. Noah has given up on trying to pick up his jaw and he just looks at me.
"What just happened?" He finally asks.
"I don't know, but I wish it would happen again."
I am single for far longer than I should be. I just can't seem to get my head back into the game. I am a mess. I have finally come to the point where I can admit that. I am more of a mess than I thought I would be. I am falling apart at the seams. Especially after everything with Liam. I am too afraid to go to a bar where men might want me. And I can't seem to convince myself to seduce another woman.
I realize a terrifying truth, as I am sitting at my desk at work. At some point this spiral of self-destruction has stopped being about David and Alice. It has stopped being revenge against them for ruining my life. It has become all about the revenge I have taken on my body, on my soul. It has become nothing more than self-destruction for the sole purpose of destruction. I have grown so accustomed to the spiral I no longer hesitate. I have been using sex as a weapon against myself.
My own twisted version of cutting. Sex is the blade and with each slice, I make it sharper. There is no healing. No redemption. No coming back from this. In the end I deserve whatever happens.
Right?
Except there is a still small voice screaming at me. It screams out that I am wrong, that I've completely lost touch with who and what I am. I don't know how much longer I can ignore that inner voice. How much longer I can ignore the truth, is like a new test to me. A newer version of tearing myself down. I am discovering new ways of tearing myself apart. And this hatred for myself is becoming all consuming.
My boss comes up to my desk while I am deep in these thoughts. He clears his throat to gain my attention and motions me to his office. I follow, my stomach suddenly twisting into a vicious knot. He pulls out a chair for me and then seats himself behind his desk.
"Abra, you've been with us for quite some time, yes?" He asks, steepling his fingers.
"Yes, sir." I murmur.
"You were an intern for almost a year, right?" He asks. He waits for me to nod, before continuing.
"And you've been a paid employee for a few months now. In these few months, I've noticed you slowly slipping downward in your attendance, your performance, your attitude, et cetera. During your internship, you were the model employee. I had no complaints whatsoever. It was not a matter of 'if' you were hired, it was a matter of when."
"Sir," I begin, but he silences me with a gesture.
"I hate to do this, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to clear your desk. Perhaps, in the future, when you have regained your drive, we can speak further on your employment with this company. In the meantime, I'm afraid I'm going to have to terminate your employment with us."
During his speech, I feel the tears welling up and spilling over.
"Please," I begin, again. He stands up, as if to dismiss me. I don't say anything else and silently go to my desk. I don't have much here. A family photo, a vase of fake flowers. I ask one of my co-workers for a blank CD and I copy all of my files from the computer to the disc. I don't even have enough to put in a box.
I give the vase and flowers to another girl who started off as an intern. She smiles, graciously, though she looks mildly confused. I put the photo in my purse, along with the disc. I don't say goodbye or even make a scene. I simply walk out. Away from the only job I've ever truly wanted, away from everything I went to school for.
I pass my car in a daze. I don't even stop to put my purse inside. It is pouring and I am quickly soaked. I don't care. I just walk. I don't ponder my mistakes or berate myself for being so stupid. I don't have anything to say to myself at this point. I just walk. I've brought it all on myself. My foolish endeavor to destroy myself has finally come full circle, if you think about it.
I finally stop. I don't know where I am and I am soaked to the bone. I wave down a taxi. It is still pouring and I have absolutely no clue where the hell I'm going. I've just been walking aimlessly for what feels like years. The cabby pulls up to the curb and waits for me to get in. Once I'm in, he hands me something in pink wrapping paper. I look at him for a minute before he motions for me to open it.
Inside is a fluffy pink beach towel. It is huge and warm. I am shocked into utter silence by this simple act of kindness.
"Do you always carry pretty pink towels wrapped in pink wrapping paper?" I ask, after a moment of patting myself to a dryer status.
"Sometimes. And sometimes it is a blue towel in the pink wrapping paper." He smiles and begins to drive. He hasn't asked where I want to go and I notice the meter isn't running just yet.
"Why do you carry towels?" I lean over the front seat and see six identical packages lying neatly wrapped on the floor of the front passenger side.
"For days when it is pouring and someone has forgotten an umbrella. They come in handy sometimes."
"Where are you taking me?" I ask, lowering myself back into my seat.
"I don't know. Where do you want to go?" He pulls up to a stop sign and looks back at me. He smiles. I can't help but smile back.
"Anywhere but here."
Without a word he starts driving again. He heads toward down town and just keeps driving. The rain continues to come down in torrential spurts and I think of the world being washed away like a chalk drawing on a sidewalk. I suppose life is kind of like a chalk drawing. Could I start over? Change things? Or am I really as far gone as I believe?
"What's your name?" asks the cab driver.
"Abra." I say, simply, still staring outside the windows at the rain. "You?"
"Aidan." he says. "Nice to meet you."
We are quiet for a little bit, the edges of the world blurring with my tears and the incessant rain. I should be trying to seduce this guy. It would be very easy. He can tell I've been crying. He can tell that I am very vulnerable right now. I just really don't have the heart for it, or so I think.
It is then that my stubborn side takes over, and I find myself flirting, in spite of my myriad of feelings.
"Would you like to take me somewhere with food and alcohol?" I ask, batting my lashes at his rear view mirror.
"I suppose I am due for a lunch break." He says, smiling at my mirror self. There is a small crack in his mirror, right at the top of my head. I pretend that it isn't symbolic, because it isn't, and continue.
"I know a great spot." I say. I give him directions and before I know it, we are inside eating. We order some fried calamari dumplings and baked sweet potatoes. He doesn't order any alcohol, for obvious reasons, but I order a raspberry vodka on ice. At first, we don't say anything, just eat our food. I recall another awkward date, somewhat like this one.
"How long have you driven a taxi?" I ask, sipping my drink and thanking God for it.
"About a year or so, now." he says, smiling. "What do you do?"
"I'm an accountant." I say, though I am flooded with an overwhelming feeling of loss as I say the words. I am still an accountant. I am just no longer an accountant for that company.
"Really?" he says. "That sounds interesting. Do you help people with their taxes and what not?"
"Sometimes. It depends on the person."
"I have some things that could stand some taxing." He says. He winks at me and takes another bite of his sweet potato. I blush and take another sip of my drink, but I don't say no. The more liquid courage the better, I suppose.
After we are done eating, I am surprised that he picks up the bill. He then ushers me back to his taxi and takes me down the street to a motel. I have a moment of panic, recalling Liam. This man is not Liam. However, it takes me several moments to remind myself of that. He doesn't try to take me inside. Instead, he gets out and comes to sit with me in the backseat. I must look nervous, because he speaks very softly and reassuringly. He is gentle as he inches his hand up and underneath my skirt. I try not to resist and just let myself melt into the sensations.
It doesn't work, but I don't stop him. We never actually go into the motel. When we are done, he drives me back to my office. Well, what used to be my office. I thank him for everything, give him a tip and get in my car. I wait for him to leave before I lean against the steering wheel and burst into tears. Several months ago, if you had asked me where I would be today, I would've said happily married and working at my dream job. Instead, I am slumped against my steering wheel, in front of what used to be my job and completely alone.
I go home, after an hour or so of sitting in my car crying. I feel disgusting. I wonder, briefly, if I am the first woman he has had sex with in the back of his cab. To help counter this feeling I take a hot shower and change into some nice dry clothes. Just as I am settling in to a good book and a cup of cocoa on the couch, my phone rings.
"Abra, come out for coffee with me." says Noah. I sigh, but I don't refuse.
"Where do you want to meet up?" I ask. We decide on where to go and hang up. I kiss Snuggles goodbye and head over to the cafe.
Once I am there I confess everything to Noah, before we have even ordered. I am almost giddy as I tell him. Not because I think the situation is funny, but because I am so relieved to tell someone, anyone. It probably helps that I am so numbed to it that I have no more tears to cry. Instead I reach an eerie level of serene as I tell him about my plans and the lovers. I even tell him about what happened in the parking lot of the motel a few hours ago. He is stunned, but he doesn't say anything. We are silent for a few moments. I try to think of something to brighten the mood and find that I am beginning to feel genuinely better.
"Maybe I'll write a shitty romance novel about vampire watermelons, make a shit ton of money and leave the country on a boat made of gold and tears. Wouldn't that be nice?" I say, after a few moments of contemplation.
"Clearly you have lost your mind and I'm going to have to have you put in a haunted insane asylum for your own protection."
"Or, maybe, I could just give up and become a lesbian." I put my head in my hands and sigh.
"Or maybe you could stop this madness and use your brain for once." Noah crosses his arms and looks at me over those cute little John Lennon glasses he has an affinity for wearing.
"When have you ever known me to use my brain?" I mumble into my hands.
"Not at all since this madness began. You're starting to remind me of a Shakespeare character with all this insanity."
"Maybe," I say. "you could be a little more supportive of your BFF and her life choices."
"Well, if my BFF wasn't trying to ruin her life by being overly skanky and self-destructive over a boy who happens to be a huge douche, I might be. But seeing as how you are insistent on this stupidity, I can't. I'm still here for you, of course. Though, I am still judging."
"I would expect nothing less than your judgement. Ugh, this is ridiculous."
"I agree. Let's order some coffee and discuss how we can get you back on the right track."
"No, no. Not that," I say. "it's ridiculous that I'm not talking to that cutie over there." I point at a really cute Asian guy standing with a friend at the counter. His shoulder length black hair looks so soft and silky that I just want to run my fingers through it. And I just might, depending on how this goes.
The look on Noah's face is hilarious. He genuinely thought I'd stop my plans. Of course, I thought I would too for a moment, but I can't let Noah be right, even though I know he is. I am being self-destructive and attempting to ruin my life. To be contrary, to both myself and Noah, I go over toward the cute Asian. Upon closer inspection he has an inch thick section of his black hair dyed this gorgeous shade of red. Somehow that makes him hotter and more familiar.
"Hi," I say. I vainly wish I had put on a little more make-up, but I'll work with what I've got for now. "would you like to be my boyfriend for a few weeks, cheat on me and set me up for a sad break-up song?"
"Excuse me?" He looks incredulous and I am not surprised. Usually I wouldn't confess my entire plan in the first conversation, but I'm tired of pretending like the relationship is going to go anywhere when I know it isn't. And the only guy who actually cheated on me was Adam, beside the point of course. Why not just let him know what he is getting into now? We can play boyfriend and girlfriend for a short time, he can sleep with whoever and I can pretend to be outraged. It will end in a flaming plane crash of a break-up. With the possibility of sweet, angry, break-up sex. Even though I am beginning to think I may be too messed up to have any kind of "sweet" sex ever again.
"How about a pizza and a fuck." I say. I can hear Noah's jaw hitting the floor behind me.
The guy gets a kind of cocky smile and just looks at me. I look up in a flirty way, looking through my lashes like Scarlett O'Hara at her best.
"I'm not hungry." He says, coyly.
I put a hand on one lightly muscled arm, still smoldering in a Gone with the Wind way, and lean in close. He can see down my shirt right now and Noah is attempting to pick up his jaw. He is about to lose it again.
"We can skip the pizza." I say. I give a saucy wink and walk back over towards Noah, whose jaw never made it off the floor. I hear him follow behind me. He taps on my shoulder.
When I turn around he kisses me. That kiss is so familiar, so strange and warm. He kisses me as if we have been dating for weeks or have been secretly in love for years. He kisses me as if he knows all my secrets, knows every inch of my skin or knows all of my fears. He kisses me for so long that I am literally melting into his arms. After what must've been forever, or a few seconds of forever, he let's me go and walks away.
I slump into my chair, staring at his disappearing figure. Noah has given up on trying to pick up his jaw and he just looks at me.
"What just happened?" He finally asks.
"I don't know, but I wish it would happen again."
Saturday, March 03, 2012
Bunraku
A while back I posted a blog about what I was looking forward to in movies, books, video games and music. (http://saraicrazyblog.blogspot.com/2011/10/oh-lists-you-shall-read.html)
The very first on my list of movies was "Bunraku" Gackt's movie with Joshua Hartnett. About a month ago I went ahead and purchased the film (it was $10, the same amount I would've spent to see it in theatres if I had known it was playing). However, I didn't watch it immediately. Once I actually got it home I was nervous that it wasn't going to be very good and I was going to be disappointed.
Being sick does funny things to you. Last night, after I re-watched "Inception", I decided to go ahead and take the plunge and watch "Bunraku." Well, first I watched the trailer, which I realized I'd never seen. I like watching trailers for movies. They give you a taste of what to expect from the film. They give you a peek into the acting, the cinematography, the mood of the film, if you will. Before I go into the film, watch the trailer below. Let it sink in before reading on.
Okay, you've watched the trailer (or not, depending). The first thing you'll notice about this trailer is the style in which it is filmed. There is a lot of different lighting and it has a very staged look to it. In fact, that is one of the things I enjoyed most about the film. The cinematography was brilliantly done. However, if you aren't used to it, it can be a little weird and draw attention away from the movie itself. The reason for this style? Well, from what I have been reading "Bunraku" is a type of Japanese puppet theatre. If you take that into account while watching this movie (and Woody Harrelson's love of pop-up books), you suddenly completely understand why they couldn't do a movie titled "Bunraku" in any other style.
The other thing that was interesting was the almost comic book like atmosphere. It was a very interesting way of filming it. Almost all the sets were real, not CGI, not green screen. They were built. Which is so rare in movies now-a-days. It's nice to see someone using their imagination and their hands to create a set, rather than using a computer to do it for them.
It plays off of old Spaghetti westerns and 80's samurai movies. As well as the comic book style, puppet theatre and gangster-ish style. It was brilliant, actually. I thought. I also found the acting to be rather superb.
Joshua Hartnett - He plays a character simply titled "The Drifter." As Woody Harrelson's character points out later (we'll get to him in a moment) he is a "cowboy" in a "world without guns." Which is very true. He also has a moderate to severe fear of heights, giving him a little realism in my opinion. And he is gorgeous. Did I mention that?
Gackt - He plays "Yoshi", a "young" Japanese man looking for a lost family memento. A dragon medallion. I was actually very impressed with Gackt's debut in an English film. His English was perfect for the character and actually much better than I thought it would be. I know the man is fluent in it, but being fluent doesn't always mean you get it right. I also love how he is portrayed as being rather naive and younger than Joshua Hartnett, when in reality he is almost ten years Joshua's senior.
Woody Harrelson - He plays the bartender who loves pop-ups. He has even created a book about a hero named Arachnid. Or if you like, Spiderman, in an alternate universe set roundabout the 1930's. Also, never tell him it doesn't matter which whisky. He'll give you the most expensive one. Which is 55 for a swallow.
Ron Perlman - This was the wild card character in my opinion. I had no idea what to expect from Ron Perlman as far as this movie went. Truly, I had no clue. But his portrayal of "The Woodcutter" aka "Nicola" was superb. I knew he was a great actor, but I suppose I'd never seen him quite like this. Also, I never realized how fucking HUGE this man is. Seriously. He could probably fit Demi Moore's entire face in his mouth! Okay, that's an exaggeration, but seriously he is f-ing big.
Speaking of Demi Moore - She has a small part, really. But her part was interesting. At least to me it was. She plays the lover of Ron Perlman, a former lover of another character. No spoilers for you, because you can figure it out pretty quickly. Her part is brief, but it adds a little something to the film. A certain je ne sais quoi if you will.
There are a few other interesting characters in this little drama. Number one among them is Number 2 killer. He is played by Kevin McKidd. His style of fighting is intriguing and he has a fabulous accent. I also loved his glasses and overall style of dress. It is safe to say that this comic book movie is a mix of 1930's gangster, 1800's cowboy and 1800's samurai.
Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed this film and it was worth my wait. Opinions are as numerous as flies of course and can sometimes be just as annoying. So I won't say you have to watch this film (except you do) and that you have to love it (because you must). I'm just saying give it a chance and you may be surprised at what happens.
Favorite lines from the movie:
"Do you want to know what took me so long?" - Yoshi (aka: Gackt)
"Not really." - The Drifter (aka: Joshua Hartnett)
"There is always someone more powerful than you." - Nicola (aka: Ron Perlman)
"You wanna kill a man like me, son? You better stab me in the back. That's the catch. Honorable men, well, they die hard, but they still die. It's men like me who survive and conquer. Men like me understand that the fight is not about who's right, but about who's left." - Nicola
"Great lessons are often found in defeat." - Yoshi
"I'm the product of a fucked up generation." - The Drifter
"Sh! Did you hear that...? My bed is calling me." - The Bartender (aka: Woody Harrelson)
"Spiders... don't have superpowers." - Yoshi
"But they can climb walls." - The Bartender
The very first on my list of movies was "Bunraku" Gackt's movie with Joshua Hartnett. About a month ago I went ahead and purchased the film (it was $10, the same amount I would've spent to see it in theatres if I had known it was playing). However, I didn't watch it immediately. Once I actually got it home I was nervous that it wasn't going to be very good and I was going to be disappointed.
Being sick does funny things to you. Last night, after I re-watched "Inception", I decided to go ahead and take the plunge and watch "Bunraku." Well, first I watched the trailer, which I realized I'd never seen. I like watching trailers for movies. They give you a taste of what to expect from the film. They give you a peek into the acting, the cinematography, the mood of the film, if you will. Before I go into the film, watch the trailer below. Let it sink in before reading on.
Okay, you've watched the trailer (or not, depending). The first thing you'll notice about this trailer is the style in which it is filmed. There is a lot of different lighting and it has a very staged look to it. In fact, that is one of the things I enjoyed most about the film. The cinematography was brilliantly done. However, if you aren't used to it, it can be a little weird and draw attention away from the movie itself. The reason for this style? Well, from what I have been reading "Bunraku" is a type of Japanese puppet theatre. If you take that into account while watching this movie (and Woody Harrelson's love of pop-up books), you suddenly completely understand why they couldn't do a movie titled "Bunraku" in any other style.
The other thing that was interesting was the almost comic book like atmosphere. It was a very interesting way of filming it. Almost all the sets were real, not CGI, not green screen. They were built. Which is so rare in movies now-a-days. It's nice to see someone using their imagination and their hands to create a set, rather than using a computer to do it for them.
It plays off of old Spaghetti westerns and 80's samurai movies. As well as the comic book style, puppet theatre and gangster-ish style. It was brilliant, actually. I thought. I also found the acting to be rather superb.
Joshua Hartnett - He plays a character simply titled "The Drifter." As Woody Harrelson's character points out later (we'll get to him in a moment) he is a "cowboy" in a "world without guns." Which is very true. He also has a moderate to severe fear of heights, giving him a little realism in my opinion. And he is gorgeous. Did I mention that?
Gackt - He plays "Yoshi", a "young" Japanese man looking for a lost family memento. A dragon medallion. I was actually very impressed with Gackt's debut in an English film. His English was perfect for the character and actually much better than I thought it would be. I know the man is fluent in it, but being fluent doesn't always mean you get it right. I also love how he is portrayed as being rather naive and younger than Joshua Hartnett, when in reality he is almost ten years Joshua's senior.
Woody Harrelson - He plays the bartender who loves pop-ups. He has even created a book about a hero named Arachnid. Or if you like, Spiderman, in an alternate universe set roundabout the 1930's. Also, never tell him it doesn't matter which whisky. He'll give you the most expensive one. Which is 55 for a swallow.
Ron Perlman - This was the wild card character in my opinion. I had no idea what to expect from Ron Perlman as far as this movie went. Truly, I had no clue. But his portrayal of "The Woodcutter" aka "Nicola" was superb. I knew he was a great actor, but I suppose I'd never seen him quite like this. Also, I never realized how fucking HUGE this man is. Seriously. He could probably fit Demi Moore's entire face in his mouth! Okay, that's an exaggeration, but seriously he is f-ing big.
Speaking of Demi Moore - She has a small part, really. But her part was interesting. At least to me it was. She plays the lover of Ron Perlman, a former lover of another character. No spoilers for you, because you can figure it out pretty quickly. Her part is brief, but it adds a little something to the film. A certain je ne sais quoi if you will.
There are a few other interesting characters in this little drama. Number one among them is Number 2 killer. He is played by Kevin McKidd. His style of fighting is intriguing and he has a fabulous accent. I also loved his glasses and overall style of dress. It is safe to say that this comic book movie is a mix of 1930's gangster, 1800's cowboy and 1800's samurai.
Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed this film and it was worth my wait. Opinions are as numerous as flies of course and can sometimes be just as annoying. So I won't say you have to watch this film (except you do) and that you have to love it (because you must). I'm just saying give it a chance and you may be surprised at what happens.
Favorite lines from the movie:
"Do you want to know what took me so long?" - Yoshi (aka: Gackt)
"Not really." - The Drifter (aka: Joshua Hartnett)
"There is always someone more powerful than you." - Nicola (aka: Ron Perlman)
"You wanna kill a man like me, son? You better stab me in the back. That's the catch. Honorable men, well, they die hard, but they still die. It's men like me who survive and conquer. Men like me understand that the fight is not about who's right, but about who's left." - Nicola
"Great lessons are often found in defeat." - Yoshi
"I'm the product of a fucked up generation." - The Drifter
"Sh! Did you hear that...? My bed is calling me." - The Bartender (aka: Woody Harrelson)
"Spiders... don't have superpowers." - Yoshi
"But they can climb walls." - The Bartender
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