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| Back 20
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Sacred Texts
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| Observance
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| Sanctuary
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| LJ Music
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| Writing
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| E-mail
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| Back 20
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| Tuesday, June 19th, 2007 |
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I couldn't remember the password for this journal and evidently which e-mail I had registered under. Alas, I have settled that and now am back in the saddle to keep this journal from being deleted due to lack of use. |
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| Sunday, October 16th, 2005 |
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| Just to say - if you want me to add you in the new journal as a friend, please I guess add me as your friend then I will see it in my Manage Friends list there. I'm not really checking back here to see who leaves a message since I've been busy posting there now. Or you can e-mail me privately too hm? | ||
 Confess
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| Friday, October 14th, 2005 |
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My house says to me, Do not leave me, for here dwells your past." And the road says to me, "Come and follow me, for I am your future!" And I say to both my house and the road, "I have no past, nor have I a future. If I stay here, there is a going in my staying; and if I go there is a staying in my going. Only love and death change all things." ~Kahlil Gibran from Sand & Foam The new Livejournal is open and guess what? I think I'm going to try having a friends list. Come on Lestat, be sociable hm? Play a little, sweetheart. So if you want to be added, just raise your little hands for me. http://www.livejournal.com/users/lestatd |
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Coming through the airwaves at every turn it seems. Perfect for driving distracted. I dismiss coincidence and think instead, hm... yes. BESAME MUCHO! (I stand corrected. Blame it on the lack of rest due to certain thoughts.) Alternatively, and not to be overlooked, Depeche Mode has a new CD coming out entitled "Playing the Angel" with the first single released being "Precious". Which in my opinion sounds very good. If you get the chance, do investigate. Finally in musical appreciation, there is the Largo from Chopin's Cello Sonata In G Minor Op.65 ~ A perfect accompaniment to autum. Want to listen to a bit? Click Here - Third in the Sample Section |
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| Thursday, October 13th, 2005 |
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I listen to the stillness of you, My dear, among it all; I feel your silence touch my words as I talk, And take them in thrall. ~ D.H Lawrence from the poem 'Listening' It is not enough to conquer; one must learn to seduce. ~ Voltaire (for DR) For so long it seems I've thought that a deevolution of sorts was in progress, at least when it came to my presence and personality. I had been thinking, well, time passes and so it goes that I too should blend into the everyday fabric of what was once more than noticable. Imagine me thinking such a thing. But it's true enough. Time does pass and so much has changed here online. Do you know the history of my time here? Some of you do and for the others who do not, well it would be sufficient to say that I've been involved long enough to become jaded. But then I had a moment of greater introspection and found myself in one of those places where you see truths written all over the wall whether you want to face them or run into the hills of blissful ignorance. Mm, but to go into that here would be monotonous and confusing for whatever eyes might read. It's sufficient to say that I owe you all an apology. Somewhere along the way I became far less than any intention I ever had toward being online and interacting with mortals. Of course I'm quite good at not knowing what my intentions are in the first place and just jumping in impulsively toward whatever happens down the road. But before I digress once more, I'll say that if I had any intent, it was to know you better, to let you understand the facets of my mind, to let you come along and savor the nights and to perhaps impart even a little bit of wisdom along the way. Yes, that's Lestat: The snarling professor of the sensual. Sometimes I've suceeded. I'm not fishing for compliments. There have been enough to satisfy my ego so just give me a smile. More times than I care to admit, I've been an ass and that has cost me the thing I desired most, I believe. No, don't argue. You're not in my shoes, so let me see it the way that I will, because it's time enough I came to the realization of what my own obstinant and demanding nature produces in the end. I should have loved you all, if for nothing else than your loving me. I should have been more kind with my virtual hand, and less of a preturnatual prick, pardon the phrase. So I'll say I'm sorry. Mark it on the calendar if you feel the need. All of you out in your worlds, so vital and sensual in your own right, if you knew how I missed you too... How I see now that I've done so much pushing away that it's caught up with me and bitten me square in my arse. Ah, well if I was a tyrant, then no more will a tyrant I be. You need me to be everything I've always been, don't you? You need me to be all of the above, the in the out and upside down, a pirate, a thief, a martyr, a prince and a hero. You need to hunt and taste every little drop with me, don't you? Can I let you in on a little secret my friends? I need to be my own hero again as well. The cold, silent night is no place for my decadence to bloom. You want it back? Mm hm. So do I. This Journal will be closing soon. I'm starting another. Part II as it may be. Together, we'll get back what we love. |
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| Monday, October 10th, 2005 |
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How fortunate I am to know others of my kind. For so long I shunned them with disdain, arrogant in my thoughts that my little coven was entitled, priviledged, and more. We are of course - there's no doubt that all of us, from Maharet to Daniel, are the predominant, infamous souls of the immortal world. Celebrities among the dead, how novel. Yet there are others who at this juncture of my existence I'm relieved to know as companions and friends. Immortality as it is written and revealed, is a lonely experience and I'm too needful to be lonely for long. So Northward I came, away from destruction and dismay and what did I do? Why I looked up an old friend. Oh, probably Christopher is more of an acquaintance, but he didn't reject me when we met up on that darkened street outside of Boston city limits. Of course, he was right in the middle of one of those long drinks, the kind where the vein pulses right against your lip and the final breaths linger on your cheek. A rude time for me to interrupt, perhaps but it was oh so fun to watch. Me, standing under the halogen glow of a street lamp, propped up against it like some secondhand comedian waiting to deliver the punch line. When he sensed another immortal presence, imagine the looks we exchanged. It wasn't just any immortal. It was me. You know, that celebrity among the dead. Aside from being a bit miffed that I'd witnessed his feeding (it's a very sacred moment), he was at once thrilled and puzzled by my presence. So I insisted we find a more private abode in which to discuss what I wanted - for you know there's always something. I'm never without motivation, and who can blame me? We went to his house, which pleased me greatly for it was an old mansion done in dramatic, over-the-top New England Victorian. Wainscoting everywhere, and the only thing that saved it from being too much of a dollhouse was the fact that he or someone paid quite well had decorated the interior in dark burgundy shades with bold furnishings not unlike those I'd been rumoured to have in those movies made about me. For hours we sat and caught up on the intricacies of our time, and it was clear that he presumed I was merely passing through. Unfortunately I had to correct his logic and inform him that I was imposing upon his hospitality. Now don't look at me as if that's such a horrid thing for a Southerner to do. Come on. I'm a Frenchman at heart, and I'm a self-serving Frenchman at that. I do as I please and after all, Christopher owes me. I won't give in to the how or why just now, but that's hardly important. What is important is that I cannot tolerate the oppression of the South just now. Walls were closing in, if not in come cases being blown in upon me figuratively and literally. I'd written to Louis, to Quinn and Mona, to Rowan even, and all I got in return was empty promises. Well to hell with all of them I say. Despite the fact that I love them with all of my eternity, I need more. Haven't I always? God knows I'm not going to sit around a battered Mississippi farm house waiting for someone to think, "Gee, I wonder what Lestat is up to these nights?" and pop in for a spot of conversation. No way. I'm tired of it all, and here I am. Christopher of course conceded to my request and gave me full run of the Eastern wing. I have my own entrance, my own room, a parlor of sorts, and a library. What more could I want? I'll tell you what I want. No I won't. It's a secret, and I damn well don't have to give them all away. I've been babbling to the public for far too long based on their perceptions and invocations. I'll write secret words and leave them to be decoded with a special ring available for only $19.99 in this special television offer. Then again, maybe not. I'm tired of making sense and living predictably. Who the hell is that? Not Lestat of old, I'll tell you. What happened? He fell in love and lost his passion? Such irony would plague me, I'm sure. So to hell with convention or passivity. Forget the tenderness I might have if only… forget that a time may come… Ssh, Lestat, just let it go okay? Relinquishing all of that isn't so much a bad thing. It's liberating. I just have to find the beat again. |
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| Among many other things I could tell you I find you remarkably beautiful, but then again I'm sure you're used to hearing such topical praise. I could tell you analogous passages I've concocted in accordance with your appeal, but I would be quite far out of place, so I'll keep them to myself. I could tell you I was sorry for offenses I may have committed, when in truth I knew you not at all beyond words whispered through a veil. I could share with you the secrets we both know, but to do so might be self-serving and in the same breath self-endangering. Trust is a wavering commodity in this world, much to my chagrin. I could speculate on the way something in you brings out a need to hold on. To hold on to what is the question. You? Unfathomable really, if even a nice thought in passing. Ah, to make amends. Possibly. Did I mention your appeal? Mm, yes. I did, didn't I? What can I say, I'm a sucker for it and always have been. Yes, mind my place, and hold on to whatever I might find. Reasons will return in the end. They always do, don't they? It's just one more magnificent spoke in the wheel. Funny how when you think you've counted them all as it went around, you notice one or two more that slipped past your eyes. Still, I have to say that to taste your scent, to walk the night and partake in its offerings would be something. But such things are better left to the imagination of this wandering mind. I promise I'm not on the verge of a breakdown. Really. If I was though, wouldn't it be ironic that it came just when I was in the mind to make peace with everything, including you? Ah well. You don't want my peace, so it's a misfire of benevolence and tenderness provoked without foretelling. And there are so many others in time… someplace. Once upon a time. |
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Christopher just hollered to me that you said it was hard to read. So here it is once again. There's something elusive in the early air of autumn Lingering scents of the daytime spread smoky tendrils through the night The hunted fox, gone so clever through the brush, terrified and thrilled Horses, riders, the thrill of the sport The fragrance of adrenaline flavouring the air With the scent of death come early. Night sky composed above in pearlescent blue Filled with constellated diamonds An infinite accident of universal weaving Put forth in display to render me wordless with wonder Subtle whispers in a lover's hand The confined warmth of flesh beneath Satin and loosened leather ties Simmering crimson, and the scent of fear come early Indiscretions and alibis so sweet to the tongue Youth, warm alive with need for supplication Surrendered. As if he ever had a chance Slumber is led by the allure of dream dusted eyes Uncounted voices on the far shore of redemption Forgotten worlds beyond the slip of now and then Break into the delicate measures of nothingness Creatures of the night with quickening blood Run forth in the wicked hunt Rejoice in sensation released from the light Sprung up from a lush new world, redolent Moss and Opium seduction paints the palace Where the thrill of pleasure comes early |
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| Friday, October 7th, 2005 |
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 Thanks to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} morn1ng_star who gave this little icon to me some time ago. I was sitting here talking to someone at the house tonight and sometimes my mind is best focused if I'm lost in doing some detail or another, so I dressed him up with some gold buttons and outlined the hair and eyes. I mean, I can't be plain, can I? Never!!
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| Thursday, October 6th, 2005 |
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I hate when I leave entries like that. It's much more appealing to dream of forbidden fruit, and so this night that is how I'll occupy my hours. Who knows, in some manner or another it might just wind up in print. |
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And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, None knew so well as I For he who lives more lives than one More deaths than one must die. ~ Oscar Wilde More lives than one have I lived, I would say and so as well, more than one demise at least in some manner or another, most generally in clever reinvention of myself be it accidental or deliberate. Yet could it be too that there are deaths large or little in one's mind, deaths large or little in one's heart if we're to believe the notion that the organ is somehow connected to love and related emotion? It's funny how some believe our kind to be well beyond such mortal notions, but invariably I would say that we feel "heartbreak" just as we feel anything else: A hundredfold beyond mortal perception. Ah, but I'm not lamenting. I left word here that I wouldn't do that, and for the most part I generally stick to my words, don't I? Louis, no comments from you. The ocean has been lapping at my feet, warm still and as ever, ceaseless. It has said to me that like those blackened waves which come over and over while I sit on the shore in lost observation, so too is time and life, be it mortal or otherwise. Consider: Endless, alternately calm and turbulent, capable of creating life or dealing destruction, fathomless in places, beautiful, violent and full of endless speculation. Beautiful, non? So this is what I've been thinking, and somehow feeling indeterminate sadness. Perhaps it is an autumnal rite, given that I usually head to the Northeast in the fall. The change in climate particularly after the horrors the South experienced might be inducing such melancholy, but indeed because it happens so like those dark waves against the night-black sand, I believe it to be caused by something primal and unseen. Okay. It's caused by something primal and unseen... and memories, naturally. Lately I've been feeling... hm, well, autumn is a time of passage. Yes, I guess that's it. Maybe. I see so many things that remind me of subjects I wouldn't even begin to broach here in this paltry journal. Give me one of those fat, leather bound beauties any night - oh but wait I might lose it and then we'd have a Queen of the Damned movie scenario. "It moved me." -laughing softly- Indeed. Just like a mental laxative, my dear. I'm off topic again, and again I don't care. This message in total is written with David Talbot in mind. Oh, I don't presume that he reads my online drivel, but his friends do, don't they? I want David to know that I think of him, no matter where he is now. I want him to know that while there may be no explanations or defaulted blame (which there isn't, I don't know), I can't ever quite forgive whatever it is or was that caused the now apparently vast distance between you and I, and you know, I hate that I can't. Maybe it's more wanting to know why, wanting some resolution or justification. I'm a big one on demanding answers and yet even as I am, I know I have no right because there are actions I cannot account for on my own. I am an admitted hypocrite. I can't ever quite think that it wasn't what it was when we were on a similar but warmer shoreline, David. I won't let that go away, and I just wanted you to know. Once more then, to the darkness of the forests I will wander to find a cold mountaintop if I'm lucky, perhaps if I'm even luckier, a warm drink in the night and if nothing else, the recollection of warmth which like the constant shirring sound of the waves, isn't a bad trade off in the end. |
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| Wednesday, September 28th, 2005 |
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L'ecriture De Lioncourt 2005 Autumn approaches. I've left the fetid heat of the South, and am in more Northern climes. I need the fresh dark air and the remembrance of fire as it glimmered in the trees. I need to walk in unfamiliar woods, with the evergreen stinging my senses. The ocean beckons to the East and beyond that, the scent of something like freedom. I don't know if I'll be present online much for a while. I need time to get myself in line, you know? -smiling- What am I saying? Of course you know. Those of you sitting there reading are in some cases, infinitely smart in your own sparkling ways, and all of you … ah… well there's just no way I could make you understand. My words will be around here and there, maybe in the journal here, I don't know. Maybe in other guises. I think I'll use a normal name like… Marty Dishmacher. Yeah. Something like that. What? Yeah, it sounds funny. It's an alias that makes people smile, and that's uncommon and cool, huh? At any rate. I'm sure if it's in other places, some of you will know, now or whenever. Whether you do or not is inconsequential to me, but hm.. well, nevermind. I'm not saying goodbye. Or maybe I am, I don't know. I guess I'm saying I need time to figure that out, and in the meantime, that I hold most of you in my memories like a warm, tender smile. ~ Lestat |
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| Thursday, September 22nd, 2005 |
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Some of you who have livejournals might recognize these, if not you might want to add the feed to your Lj friends list. It's always funny.   Go See More Tits! |
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Beside the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the haze. ~Emily Dickinson What happens: In astronomy, the autumnal equinox (fall equinox, September equinox, or southward equinox) signals the beginning of autumn in the northern hemisphere: the moment when the sun appears to cross the celestial equator, heading southward; the equinox occurs around September 22–September 24, varying slightly each year according to the 400-year cycle of leap years in the Gregorian Calendar. In the southern hemisphere, the equinox occurs at the same moment, but heralds the beginning of spring. There are two conventions for dealing with this nominal confusion: either the name of the equinox can be changed to the vernal equinox, or (apparently more commonly) the name is unchanged and it is accepted that it is out of synch with the season in the southern hemisphere. At the equinox, the sun rises directly in the east and sets directly in the west. In the northern hemisphere, before the autumnal equinox, the sun rises and sets more and more to the north, and afterwards, it rises and sets more and more to the south. *source: Wikipedia More to the story though..... The first day of Fall, the Autumnal Equinox, occurs when the Sun passes into the sign of Libra, the Scales of Balance. It is a point of equilibrium, of equal day and equal night. From this point forward, the dark (longer nights) will gradually overtake the light. As the days shorten, sunlight wanes, with cooler weather and winter soon to come. Contrary to the "official" seasonal beginnings, most of us experience the equinoxes and solstices as times when the season that is "beginning" is well established-we feel its presence fully. The very first sense of impending change, of onset and transition, comes at the cross-quarters, the points midway between the equinoxes and solstices that are known in Wicca as the Greater Sabbats. At Lammas, the first harvest of the grain, we celebrated the onset of autumn. Now, at Fall Equinox, in the ways of the ancients, we bring in and celebrate the full-fledged autumn Harvest in thanksgiving for the abundance of the Earth Mother. We might enact and sing the legend of the sacrificed grain as John Barleycorn. Or, we may ritualize the hunt, depicted as a priest with a crown of antlers who is chased and falls. We honor his spirit and thank him even as we mourn him, symbolic of both the sacrificed and resurrected God and of all animals who fall to feed the people. At this Sabbat, the Mother Goddess who reigned as Queen of Summer takes on the dark mantle of Crone, the old and wise one who stands at the crossroads of life and death, all-seeing and all-knowing. In the agricultural cycle, we are now at the 7th stage. Seeds that once germinated in the womb of Earth, unseen in the long dark night of Winter Solstice (Yule), sprouted at Candlemas, grew strong with roots, stems and leaves by Spring Equinox (Ostara), and formed buds at Beltane that bloomed to full flower by the longest day at Summer Solstice (Midsummer). At Lammas, the first harvest, fruits and grains have formed, some ready to eat. Now at Fall Equinox (Harvest), the plants, trees and vines are heavy with fruits that must be harvested or they will fall when the plants wither or die and drop their seeds to Earth once again at Samhain. Samhain is the 8th and final phase that is not as final as it may seem for it is only that dark time of chaos out of which the new beginning will emerge and be seen as the Bright Lord of waxing light, reborn at Yule, as the Wheel of the Year turns again. This 7th phase of Harvest has mythical and symbolic correspondence to the Last Quarter phase of the 8-fold lunar cycle, called by the late astrological philosopher Dane Rudhyar, the "crisis of consciousness." It represents the phase in any cycle of activity where even though continued success in what has been may be what we see on the surface (akin to the Harvest feast), within our deepest inner thoughts a period of soul-searching, the "crisis," begins. There is the recognition that something is ending, and we begin to let go of the old in mind and heart, as we silently contemplate what we might do next. At some point during the phase, the changes that are occurring deep inside may begin to visibly manifest, just as the leaves change color in autumn, or the Moon shrinks from half light to the thin, waning crescent. Many ancient and medieval cultures celebrated the festival of seasonal transition through myth and legend, depicting similar themes of death and of passing into the underworld for the time of winter, followed by a birth and the return of light and spring. Among best loved and often enacted tales of winter's death and spring's rebirth is that of Demeter and her beloved daughter Persephone, who was abducted by Hades to reign as his queen. Demeter, in despair and mourning for her lost daughter, cast winter over the Earth and refused to allow spring to come again until an agreement was finally reached for Persephone to return to Earth. And so it has been ever since that when Persephone makes her yearly descent to her Underworld realm, winter comes, and when she rejoins her mother, then Mother Earth blooms with the flowers of spring. Because ancient people had no means to exactly measure the time of equinox or solstice, the corresponding festivals tended to be on set days of the calendar. The ancient Celtic celebrations of Harvest were traditionally held on September 25. With the dominance of Christianity, this holiday like so many others was Christianized and became Michaelmas, in honor of the archangel Michael. One Celtic legend gave root to Mabon as an alternate name for modern Wiccan/Pagan Harvest festivals. Mabon was born of Modron and taken after three days (some versions say three years) to dwell in the womb of Earth Mother where he gained the wisdom of the animals, notably Stag, Blackbird, Owl, Eagle and Salmon. Once freed from Earth's womb, he returned to his mother's womb and was reborn as her champion, the Son of Light. There's another myth of a Celtic God of Light that is markedly astrological and clearly derived from the zodiacal sign of Fall Equinox and those signs adjacent to it. Lugh or Llew (Light), who reigned at the early harvest of Lammas, is said to be at his most vulnerable at Fall Equinox-the only time, in fact, that he can be defeated. He stands over the Libran Scales of Balance with one foot on Cancer (Summer Solstice) and the other on Capricorn (Winter Solstice.) Bloderweld the Virgin (Virgo, zodiacal sign just before Libra) betrays Llew, causing him to be defeated by Goronwy (God of Darkness) and turned into an Eagle (Scorpio, zodiacal sign following Libra, and the sign of Samhain). Goronwy then mates with the Virgin and waits to be crowned Dark King at Samhain, the onset of winter. His dark child will be born nine months later at Summer Solstice, marking the point of transition in the solar year from waxing to waning light. Interesting, non? May you all have a blessed transition. I feel wonderfully peaceful on this night and I'm sure it's no coincidence. For all of you, whether it has turned for you to springtime or fall, I wish the same. |
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| Tuesday, September 20th, 2005 |
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| Ladies and Gentleman, a small portion of hell has just frozen over. | ||||
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| Friday, September 16th, 2005 |
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I was browsing through something tonight, some files I'd long ago forgotten, when I came upon words by E.M Cioran. He wrote a book called "The trouble with being born", and when I reviewed that title I couldn't help but to think that yes, it… the innocence of birth does come with an infinite and unplanned set of, "Yes but the problem is," sentences. The child being born has absolutely no culpability, does he? He or she doesn't ask to be born. The act is decided or accidental, happy or tragic, and all the time the growing human at the center of it all is not only innocent but ignorant to all of these facts. What a marvelous thing, I think - or perhaps I'm just relishing the condition of uterine oblivion. Hm, careful now. That sounds like a good name for a band. What am I going on about? I don't know, really. I'm sure some people wonder where I've been and what I've been up to of late. I could pout and think no one missed me, but I'm truly too vain for that sort of idea to rest within for very long. I've been busy, and then there's all the recent things to deal with of course, but let's not dwell on that. I want to be back in your arms tonight. I want to be the one who gives you that strange, soft hint of a smile with the turn of my head as I sink lower into the luxurious chair. You know, the one that makes you wonder. The one that makes you all mixed up way down deep. I can't stand to be away too long and you know it, don't you? How predictable is my longing for attention and the element of seductive surprise? It's quite an addiction, I'd say. Like a needle to the vein, mm… the fix. That moment when you gasp and shudder, when you feel reviled for the slightest second and then lick your lips, begging for more. Don't you want to know that feeling, my darlings? Do you want me prostrate before your eyes? How? Unclothed and writhing beyond mortal capability in invitation, or turned out in rock star legacy leather, with rings of silver on my fingers as they crawl softly over your eyes? Mm, dreadfully I've gotten off topic and I don't much care. You know why I don't care? Because I am The Vampire Lestat and I do what I want, when and how I choose. I want to get off while you watch. I want to bleed for the feel of your tender mouths in receptive communion. What part of my immortal manifesto do you choose to accept or decline? Can you decline at all, I wonder… or might the dampness of sweet, sinful fear already be upon you? If only you knew the hunger that arises, if I could make it happen inside of you, deliriously, you would be forever changed and such lust would never fade. |
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| Sunday, September 11th, 2005 |
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We were the sole inhabitants of the city, or so it seemed as we sat there on the balcony with a small fleet of lit candles separating our faces as we spoke. There were others who remained of course, for we’d seen them here and there as they came out onto their own balconies or street-level steps. That Louis and I walked down the deserted streets at three in the morning didn’t seem to cause them alarm. Why should it? We weren’t two swarthy, storm riddled thieves looking for whatever we might find. If anything might have bothered those who observed us, it may have been the flawlessness of my overcoat or the gleam to Louis’ hair. We couldn’t help but to be immaculate, even now. The townhouse had little damage, and for that fact we were both appreciative however, even given who and what we were by nature it did not escape our minds that to be thankful for little structural damage seemed overtly shallow when so many had lost so much to the hurricane. Just because we were physically immune to the conditions, we weren’t oblivious to them. There was no means or desire to overlook what had happened. “You’re very somber, Lestat.” He said as he looked up. The way he was bent over let the light fill his eyes and for a moment they were all I could think of, and the effect nearly made his words vanish. “Oh, I knew it would bother you but it seems to be somehow too personal for you.” “Are you bothered by it?” I asked. “Should you be the one who bears this suffering of humanity instead, Louis?” The tone of my words was surprisingly rude and I looked away. “I’m only thinking of your pain, Lestat and wondering what’s going through your mind as always.” He was unaffected by my rudeness or perhaps he was just used to the fact, whether or not it was intentional. “Ah, but it’s somehow surreal like this, isn’t it? You and I, sitting out here in the dark, no television, no music, nothing but necessary simplicity.” “I’m sure I prefer it the other way.” “Well how could you not?” He laughed. “You and that laptop are best friends, and how you’re surviving without your cable television I don’t know!” His hand traced a pattern into the lopsided wooden table. “But like I said, I understand your pain.” “We’ve done what we could I suppose. That much money will help the bureaucratic process and hopefully victims along the way. I don’t want to talk about the other things.” He knew what I meant, and so mention of the countless deaths we’d seen, very up close and personal so to speak, was bypassed. Some things just were, as they were, and were better left at that in the end. “You remember how nice it was when Merrick was here and the three of us went into the Cathedral at Christmas?” I did instantly recall the memory and for a second I wondered why he would bring it up out of nowhere. Then I figured, Louis changed into another version of himself after everything happened with Merrick. It wasn’t an unpleasant change and in fact it had been one that actually surprised me. All along it had been me telling him to lose his maudlin attachments to mortals. Back then, in many ways, that had been the consequence. It was why he could sit here this evening with me and abstractly pull a memory out of thin air instead of acting as he might have in his early immortal life. I flashed for a second on an image of that Louis, waist deep in flood waters, weeping in the moonlight. It was a vision both beautiful and disturbing. “I miss Merrick.” He added, as if it had just occurred in his mind. “I miss her too Louis.” We talked of our trio that Christmas season, and how we’d probably looked and acted like nothing more or less than common tourists in the French Quarter, as we ambled with our arms around one another in and out of the bars and shops until dawn threatened. We’d made our way to the Cathedral at her request and gone right up to the altar where she’d leaned down and wept silently. Louis had held her and I had given them their peace while finding my own in the front of the old building. How many candles I’d lit in front of the Virgin I don’t know, but finally they emerged without a trace of sadness and we’d come home to this very place where he and I passed this evening. “Have you heard from Rowan, Quinn or Mona in all of this?” He asked me. I had of course. Rowan and Mona were horrified at first to think of their property in ruins. I’d assured them that their ancestral spirits must be on guard, for the grand old house stood defiant to water, wind and looters. “Quinn is coming home to Mississippi, I guess. Mona is going to stay in Europe for the time being. They have a strange life over there the two of them. It’s utterly domestic.” I laughed. “Rowan will be coming home as well, sooner or later.” My lovely Rowan. It made sense only to me perhaps that she and I hardly spoke anymore. It pained me to hear her voice only because I longed for her in so many ways. Still as before, it wasn’t the time and I wondered if the time would ever come, the right time, or if there was such a thing at all. I gave him a short smile before I rose and walked to his side. He knew me too well, this child of my blood. There was as always, too much past and too much ahead. It was the legacy of immortality. I bent and kissed his soft, pale cheek and he sighed softly into a smile that might well have resembled a schoolgirl’s blush had he been mortal. I loved him so, and though he couldn’t read that from my mind, I knew he must surely feel it in such perfect moments. Now, I needed my space. I wanted to move to the outer edges where the ocean was once more serene and perhaps North, where there was some normal, connected life to be had. I leapt upward to the ledge of the old building that connected to our home and with little more than a nod of my head, I was gone into the darkness. |
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Confess
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| Tuesday, September 6th, 2005 |
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| There was a post somewhere that asked if I planned to put anything down here on the things that have happened to New Orleans and Mississippi. There is just no eloquent, soft way to paint once more with a pen and wax poetic over what I love in this area. It is devastation beyond anything I've ever seen in modern times. There is just so little to say. |
| Tuesday, August 30th, 2005 |
| Sunday, August 28th, 2005 |
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| Just a short note to anyone who might be wondering: I am safely away from the threat of the storm, though I'm in Mississippi, in the outlying areas from Gulfport, so there is much rain here as well. I hope you've all petitioned your Gods and Voodoo Magic for the beloved city that care forgot, because she's needing it right about now. Thankfully, the business that has kept me away lately did allow me to find safe haven for many friends of friends of friends and so on. Hotel connections are a good thing in times of need, hm? So again, my townhomes are boarded up and batonned down so to speak, and all I or anyone can do now is hope for some intervention from Marie Laveau I suppose. | ||||||||
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Confess
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LiveJournal for Lestat de Lioncourt
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