WTF-writing.
Mar. 15th, 2008 01:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luchiaHoooookay. Anaesthesia does strange, disturbing things to the brain. This is what I wrote while on those.
Also I am too busy writing like a crazy person to really talk right now, so be entertained by all the what-the-fuckitry held within.
(And no, I don't have a damn clue what it's about either. BUT IT WAS REALLY POIGNANT AT THE TIME, GUYS! I SWEAR!)
---
This is like standing at a precipice looking over the ocean. It’s foggy below, but you can hear the roar and hiss of the waves, feel the spray even when it’s a hundred feet beneath you, touch the thicker breeze that feels like it’s trying to push you that final bit. And you’re wearing a coat, but your pants are thin and snap in the wind, leaving welts against your skin. You’re breathing deep and fast, eyes hazed and staring at nothing, arms wrapped around your chest, trying to hold back that feeling that’s somewhere between heartburn and having your mother die. And all the while, you keep expecting something behind you, but can’t turn to look, can’t turn, can’t even glance behind you, and while you look you don’t even see.
Your name has something to do with Bedovere or Ygraine, some name so ancient it’s the newest rage, and it shows in your shoes, heavy leather affairs where the sole is worn enough that you can still feel the brutal rock you stand on, and the lichen that clings to that. People with names like Bedovere or Ygraine don’t have last names – the type of person that can pull off what Bambi and Cherish do in a cocktail lounge without sounding trashy, your name is that heavy, like a gravestone surrounded by desert. Hearing it for the first time reminds people of something they never knew, only dreamed of, long ago – something so primal that the ennui forced them to forget.
And at first you hated your name, your too-many-syllables, too-hard-to-pronounce, too-easily-typoed name that comes out and Alphonso or Martha on your TV Guide. All children hate their name, and you made up different ones, named your pets after your ideal self, bought a mouse and named it Alex (because ALL the cool kids were named Alex), but when Alex and Stephanie and John and September grew up and showed up at your reunions wearing bright golf shirts and flouncy skirts and you stood there, trim suit and folded handkerchief, and reminded them, said Oh, you know me, my name is Artemis, my name is Acheron or Poseidon or Frigg or Mnemnosyne and you were the kid with the pink trapper in chemistry, the one that cheated on September with the best of intentions, you think that Bedovere or Ygraine isn’t really that bad a name after all.
You live with waiting, and a dog named Cat, and a mailbox stuffed with suggestions and requests and magazines you never read. There are four watches aligned against your bathroom mirror but you always wear the same one. You have three towels in your politely grimy bathroom that you use in an easy rotation. Your toothbrush is smarter than the new receptionist and does its job better. Teeth, a fake pearly white maintained with cool efficiency, never flash into a smile, only rise like a flood gate, always controlled. Your bed is made of steel piping welded together, and you bought it for more than the rest of your furniture put together – hand-crafted from Switzerland, shrink-wrapped in Turkey, sold in Milan, and shipped to your very front door which was doubled in size to get the damn thing in, and you still can’t get a night’s sleep on it, still get that damn crink in your neck, still find yourself waking up at two in the morning and then three in the morning and then four thirty and then five and then five fifty two, beating your alarm like you have for the past four years, just like you will so long as you life the same life, so long as you sleep in your dull little junkheap of a bed, so long as your house is empty of everything but a dog named Cat and a feeling like you’re still in the preface, before facing, always waiting, waiting, waiting.
But your name is something like Miranda or Machiavelli, something heavier than wax and feathers, a name that was once revered like the wind that whips across you on the cliff, and still, you stare at nothing, even now trapped in the painful pause of your existence.
Your dog is named Cat, but it is still a dog.
Your toothbrush may be able to balance your checkbook, but you still use it with your eyes half-closed and your mouth open lazily.
And you may have wanted to be named Alex or September, but somewhere along the line you realized that you don’t want to be Mikey or Luc, that Petruchio or Gwenevere may not fit you either but it’s yours, just like the bed you could have welded with your own two fucking hands in your garage for thirteen dollars, and it’s cheaper than even that ratty old blanket you still have hidden in the back of your labeled-by-year-obtained closet and you can’t bring but still so much more valuable, something that, whether bad or good or evil or sane, is still 100% truly, irrevocably, inexplicably YOU.
So you stand on the cliff. You stare at nothing. You don’t even wonder how you got here, or where you will go, or what you will do, or even if you’ll survive for the next moment, or the next moment, or the moment after that.
Also I am too busy writing like a crazy person to really talk right now, so be entertained by all the what-the-fuckitry held within.
(And no, I don't have a damn clue what it's about either. BUT IT WAS REALLY POIGNANT AT THE TIME, GUYS! I SWEAR!)
---
This is like standing at a precipice looking over the ocean. It’s foggy below, but you can hear the roar and hiss of the waves, feel the spray even when it’s a hundred feet beneath you, touch the thicker breeze that feels like it’s trying to push you that final bit. And you’re wearing a coat, but your pants are thin and snap in the wind, leaving welts against your skin. You’re breathing deep and fast, eyes hazed and staring at nothing, arms wrapped around your chest, trying to hold back that feeling that’s somewhere between heartburn and having your mother die. And all the while, you keep expecting something behind you, but can’t turn to look, can’t turn, can’t even glance behind you, and while you look you don’t even see.
Your name has something to do with Bedovere or Ygraine, some name so ancient it’s the newest rage, and it shows in your shoes, heavy leather affairs where the sole is worn enough that you can still feel the brutal rock you stand on, and the lichen that clings to that. People with names like Bedovere or Ygraine don’t have last names – the type of person that can pull off what Bambi and Cherish do in a cocktail lounge without sounding trashy, your name is that heavy, like a gravestone surrounded by desert. Hearing it for the first time reminds people of something they never knew, only dreamed of, long ago – something so primal that the ennui forced them to forget.
And at first you hated your name, your too-many-syllables, too-hard-to-pronounce, too-easily-typoed name that comes out and Alphonso or Martha on your TV Guide. All children hate their name, and you made up different ones, named your pets after your ideal self, bought a mouse and named it Alex (because ALL the cool kids were named Alex), but when Alex and Stephanie and John and September grew up and showed up at your reunions wearing bright golf shirts and flouncy skirts and you stood there, trim suit and folded handkerchief, and reminded them, said Oh, you know me, my name is Artemis, my name is Acheron or Poseidon or Frigg or Mnemnosyne and you were the kid with the pink trapper in chemistry, the one that cheated on September with the best of intentions, you think that Bedovere or Ygraine isn’t really that bad a name after all.
You live with waiting, and a dog named Cat, and a mailbox stuffed with suggestions and requests and magazines you never read. There are four watches aligned against your bathroom mirror but you always wear the same one. You have three towels in your politely grimy bathroom that you use in an easy rotation. Your toothbrush is smarter than the new receptionist and does its job better. Teeth, a fake pearly white maintained with cool efficiency, never flash into a smile, only rise like a flood gate, always controlled. Your bed is made of steel piping welded together, and you bought it for more than the rest of your furniture put together – hand-crafted from Switzerland, shrink-wrapped in Turkey, sold in Milan, and shipped to your very front door which was doubled in size to get the damn thing in, and you still can’t get a night’s sleep on it, still get that damn crink in your neck, still find yourself waking up at two in the morning and then three in the morning and then four thirty and then five and then five fifty two, beating your alarm like you have for the past four years, just like you will so long as you life the same life, so long as you sleep in your dull little junkheap of a bed, so long as your house is empty of everything but a dog named Cat and a feeling like you’re still in the preface, before facing, always waiting, waiting, waiting.
But your name is something like Miranda or Machiavelli, something heavier than wax and feathers, a name that was once revered like the wind that whips across you on the cliff, and still, you stare at nothing, even now trapped in the painful pause of your existence.
Your dog is named Cat, but it is still a dog.
Your toothbrush may be able to balance your checkbook, but you still use it with your eyes half-closed and your mouth open lazily.
And you may have wanted to be named Alex or September, but somewhere along the line you realized that you don’t want to be Mikey or Luc, that Petruchio or Gwenevere may not fit you either but it’s yours, just like the bed you could have welded with your own two fucking hands in your garage for thirteen dollars, and it’s cheaper than even that ratty old blanket you still have hidden in the back of your labeled-by-year-obtained closet and you can’t bring but still so much more valuable, something that, whether bad or good or evil or sane, is still 100% truly, irrevocably, inexplicably YOU.
So you stand on the cliff. You stare at nothing. You don’t even wonder how you got here, or where you will go, or what you will do, or even if you’ll survive for the next moment, or the next moment, or the moment after that.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-15 07:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-16 06:30 am (UTC)♥
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-16 12:40 pm (UTC)I figure it took four years to beat some happiness, genuine true happiness and joy of life into Cain.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-16 06:37 am (UTC)Do you have any idea what the limit is for how long a post can be? I tried 25 pages out of curiosity and it pretty much said "HELL NO BITCH, CUT THAT SHIT DOWN".
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-16 12:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-15 08:03 pm (UTC)Wow. That sounded bad. Oh well.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-16 06:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-16 09:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-15 09:52 pm (UTC)Did you hit on your anesthesiologist? Because I totally did the last time I went under like that. Heh. It was kind of embarrassing once I woke up.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-16 06:31 am (UTC)BUT YEAH, BASICALLY! ♥
TOTALLY SPYING ON YOUR COMMENTS
Date: 2008-03-20 08:59 pm (UTC)I DID THIS IN PEN. AND IN LIKE 10 SECONDS. ON A CRANIUM POST-IT NOTE. FOR A CHEAP JOKE. THAT IS MY EXCUSE.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-16 05:46 pm (UTC)random gift!art:
http://theminionjil.deviantart.com/art/GiftArt-My-Morning-Happy-Face-80111213
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-20 09:26 pm (UTC)I PARTICULARLY LOVE THIS PART.