Poem

I stand on the steps with my heart in my hand
And this is not turning out how I had planned.
I never expected this friendship to change,
To metamorphose into something so strange.
I didn't think I'd love you this way,
I never thought you'd turn my night into day.
I didn't believe that this would feel so right,
I hadn't planned on this flame burning so bright;
Never dreamed that your touch would ignite such a fire
Or that you'd be my one and only desire.
I never thought I would experience such bliss
Brought forth by the simplest hug or kiss.
I never expected this passion to cool,
Never thought you would play me for a fool,
I didn't dream it was over, that he was the one,
Didn't think that you'd leave me and take our son.
Never dreamed I'd be standing here listening to
Your dulcet moans as he makes love to you.
I couldn't believe it - you were my life.
Why is it now that you are his wife?
You used to be pure, you used to be mine.
I see shadows on the wall of you two intertwined.
I can't believe that our relationship is done,
And I don't know why, but I'm loading this gun.
I slam the door open, I see I surprise you.
Did you expect that I wouldn't despise you?
You hurt me, you bitch - now I have no choice.
I hear you tell me to lower my voice,
But the first gunshot rings and you stumble back,
Your eyes open wider, your jaw has gone slack.
You whisper my name and you see the blood,
It drips to the carpet, then becomes a flood.
He's screaming aloud now, he's crying with fear.
He wants badly to kill me but he doesn't dare.
He takes you in his arms but you're already dead,
Now I turn to him and I blow off his head.
I hear violent crying from the room next to this,
I go to our son and I give him a kiss.
I vaguely understand that what I've done is wrong
But I have to go now, I've lingered too long.
I head for the door, knocking over some chairs,
I trip and catch myself and run down the stairs.
A siren whines in the distance, my blood runs cold.
I'll be sentenced to life and never paroled.
I reload the gun with a fresh magazine,
Press the muzzle to my head; I feel so serene.
The siren is screeching, I hear running feet,
But my thoughts are of you, how you made me complete,
How peaceful you looked the moment you died;
In that instant you again were my beautiful bride.
I close my eyes now as the police tell me to freeze;
One more shot, officer, and I swear that I'll cease.
I pull the trigger and I feel no pain,
But the bullet makes such a sound as it tears through my brain.
My body falls sideways, I slump to the ground.
The police and the onlookers gather around.
I didn't mean to hurt you, or him for that matter,
To blow off his head, or your breastbone to shatter.
I know that I cannot undo this whole night,
I know that I've never done anything right.
I just hope you'll forgive me, and him as well
Because the demons are coming to drag me to hell.
Know that I love you, but after all,
No man can resist that instinctive call.
The desire to kill lives in every heart,
To rip, to rend, to tear part from part.
Violence is natural, and cannot be denied;
I tried to, my love; believe me, I tried.
So unload the bullets and be sure to sheath your knife;
You never know when you may feel like taking a life.
Whatever you do, don't end up like me -
Surrounded by fire and brimstone for all eternity.

Damnant quod non intelligent

The name of this post, by the way, means, "They condemn what they do not understand."
Here I am, wrapped up in summarizing Caribbean history essays on the black middle class in 19th century Jamaica...and on the other hand, writing a comic tale about Rome. Well, it's not meant to be comic, but it is anyway because I'm writing in old English - "On the contrary, sire, what would put another man past all redemption is becoming in thee, for thou art Caesar, and in my eyes all others pale in comparison." - and simply because of the very essence of the story: it's a romance. A romance between Gaius Julius Caesar (he of the infamous, "Et tu, Brute?") and a slave.
Before you ask, no, it's not a Mary-Sue.
Her name is Callisto, born to a Greek general father and an Egyptian aristocratic mother. With this high birth behind her, then, how did she become a slave? Well, she grew up in Gaul, which Caesar managed to conquer. His men raided their villages, rounded up the younger population and brought them back as slaves. Caesar chose Callisto to serve him and sold the rest to the slave traders who had accompanied them on the journey to Gaul - after, of course, his battle-frenzied men had pleasured themselves with the women and boys. Yes, boys. Don't watch me so.
It's not a romance in the truest sense of the word. Callisto is not in love with Caesar. She holds him in high esteem as he is a great man and a great leader, and, of course, power is extremely attractive. And Caesar wields more power than any other single individual in the known world, so obviously she is more than willing to be used as an outlet for his sexual frustrations.
Caesar is also not in love with Callisto. She is beautiful and more cultured than any slave has a right to be; having been raised as a member of the upper Gaulish class, she was taught the arts of music, dancing and pleasant conversation, and is more learned than most women of the time. She does not, interestingly enough, have the slender, sylph-like form considered fashionable at the time, but this does not prevent her from being savagely, irresistibly beautiful.
Yet he is not in love with her. This Caesar as described by me is electrified by a primordial need for dominance and has very little room for human emotion. He can be witty, charming, warm or caring at will - these qualities in him are always performances, produced as needed and rarely if ever prompted by genuine feeling. He is amused by Callisto and admires her unusual ways, and he converses with her freely about the affairs of his masculine, military world, yet this is not love. And when he sleeps with her, the joining of their two bodies into one complete whole - that is not love either. Sex does not create a bond between people in the Roman world; it is merely an act that must inevitably occasionally occur.
Enter into the fray one of Caesar's legionnaires, a man named Titus Rufus, and a centurion called Lucius Lepidus. These two show Callisto varying degrees of kindness as they become more and more involved both with Caesar and with her. Rufus is a man of great and uncommon courage but with the morality of a pirate. He is an impulsive, generous and congenial fellow, possessing huge appetites and wild passions. Lepidus on the other hand is the essence of a professional Roman soldier, honourable and severe, though pitiless and unforgiving when crossed. He is not unnecessarily cruel, and will show kindness where it is needed.
How shall this turn out? Only time will tell. And in honour of this story, a Latin quote.

In vino veritas - In wine there is truth.

In love...

My God. I've really gone and done it this time. I'm in love. *swoons*
With Jessica Alba.
Okay, didn't mean to shock anyone, but wow. How is it possible for one person to be that hot? Go see Into The Blue. I haven't seen it, but her and Paul Walker...I mean, I'd look at that screen and be unsure of who I want to fuck. Seriously.
That's all I really posted to say, lol. Bit pointless, eh?
Ah well.

Warning: decaffeinated writer.

No sólo de pan vive el hombre y no de excusas vivo yo...

Oh Lord. Why can't Avi just bring the freaking American book for me? Why must there be all this melodrama, all this accosting in the hallways and covert looks back and forth in the cafe? And now, most unsurprisingly, rumours are abounding that we're together - or, at the very least, that I like him. Oh, I have such a bad reputation with teachers now.
Dammit.
My God, I've just noticed how casually I type "Avi" rather than Avalon. And that I think of him as Avi rather than Mr. Ali. Christ. Anyway, I don't like him. Or so I tell myself. We'll see how that goes.
And today is Varune's birthday, he's twenty-eight...and this was me lying on my bed not very long ago in an emotional mess, trying not to remember the last two years...the last two years that have been so, well, memorable. I'll never forget him. Years can pass, eras can come and go and kingdoms rise and fall, but I'll never forget him. Never stop loving him. It's quite pathetic, actually.
I seriously hope stupidity isn't genetic - I'll curse my children.
I'm stuck on Nickelback's song Photograph. And it fits. There are pictures of him in my photo album just as there are in my memory, and yes, I look at them. I don't want to forget. Maybe it's a foolish impulse - to remember the beauty and the pain - but it's how I feel nonetheless. That's life for you anyway; sometimes it's painful, sometimes it's beautiful, but more often than not it's both. So if you want the beauty, you've got to learn to handle the pain as well.
And on that note of wisdom, I'm off.

“You know what I figure about hell? I figure that hell’s going to be filled with a lot of like-minded people and the odds of actual punishment rather than a party going on 24/7 are pretty bad.”

Exhausted

Too fucking tired to type much today, just finished three Caribbean history essays on the development of middle classes and health services and that sort of shit. Jesus Christ, I can't believe how much I hate my subjects now. And I used to love them. What happened?
Oh yeah, I remember...my teachers happened. Jattansingh happened to literature, Jattansingh who says eppytome instead of epitome and shitsophrenia instead of schizophrenia, who defines the phrase "without cultivation, without refinement" as "uncultivated and unrefined"...and Mohess happened to American history, Mohess and her mountings instead of mountains and Tuscany instead of Tuskegee and her way of not believing you did the research when you say you left it home - and you actually did leave it home...
And Dinnoo and Caribbean history, mother of God...five essays due next week, twenty marks each going up for end of term when your ass already has two geo essays, an American history essay and a lit essay due around the same time...Dinnoo and her biases and her undying love for Bill Clinton and talking American politics and current events just as I actually begin to comprehend the nonsense she spouts about sugar duties and metayage...
Ramcharansingh I can live with. Poor thing, she has our class to deal with. It's not her fault half of us are asleep and the other half don't notice she's talking. But I pay attention. I'm a nice child. Well, sometimes.
Friest. My hand feels like it's going to fall off. And I honestly think it will. Yes, I'm fucking exhausted. I'm not coping very well with this lovely part of life called A's...no, not coping well at all...
Right. So I'm going to bathe and then try to get some sleep. Emphasis on the 'try'.
Peace out.

A ship in the harbour is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.

Quiz results

You are an Elementalist. Your magic stems from the
forces of nature. You might be a forest
nuturing Druid, a storm-creating Weather-Wizard
or any of the many Elementals, but one thing is
sure-- your bond with nature is strong. You can
rely heavily on nature to support yourself
aesthetically or physically for it lends you
both comfort and strength. Your instincts
rarely fail you. You are vibrantly passionate
but are sometimes carried away by your own
emotions.

Which Magical Order Are You In?
brought to you by

Emotional

So sometime last month I finished a story called To Never Leave You. Now I'm making headway with the sequel, If Love Could Save. When I'm finished that, I'll probably write a prequel to the first one, but that's open for debate still. It's not as though I've been contracted to do it.
If Love Could Save is where the emotional bit comes in. I don't write in chronological order, so without having much of the plot in place for the middle of the story, I'm working on the part where they have the epiphany about the draconium and realize Nyx is irradiating herself from the inside out and there's no way to stop it. And as though that's not hard enough, I'm simultaneously working on the piece where she's been brought back to life and sees Beckett again for the first time. That part is good emotion, but it's also mixed with bad emotion from the draconium thing. *sighs*
I should really, really start doing this thing in chronological order.

"Radiation poisoning? I've died from that, that's...oh man."

A prejudice rant...

All right, so I'm a bitch. I'm cruel, I'm brutal, I hurt people. I'm a sinner. I have a thousand faults and possess few if any virtues. But one thing I am not is prejudiced. One thing I will never be is prejudiced.
People are the same - black, white, red, green or any other colour from the universal crayon box that you would like to choose. Brothers and sisters under the skin. I believe that.
I am the girl kicked out of her home because I told my mother I am a lesbian. I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room. I am one of the lucky ones; I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year the doctors say I may be able to walk again. I am the father who never hugged his son because affection between men is not acceptable. I am the people who both church and society have turned their backs on with equal disdain.
I am lesbian. I am gay. I am black. I have AIDS. I am an atheist. I am an alcoholic. I am pieces of everyone, I am part of this world just as he is and she is and you are. I am the God that instantly forsakes you when you tell the world who you really are. I am the family that breaks down when the truth comes out. I am the boy who hides everything inside and who resorts to the razor to take away his pain. I am the girl who starves herself so she can be beautiful.
I am a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars. I have every right to be here.
And you have no right to tell me what to do.

Every so often I drop a stone into the well of human ignorance. I have yet to hear one hit bottom.

Memories

Life is a funny thing, you know. There are some days when the sun slants through the window and falls on your face, searing your eyes through the lids, and you want more than anything in the world to rip it out of the sky and throw it into a black hole so that it never finds its way out. But then the next day it seems like the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
How things change. Life has a funny way of making things blow up spectacularly in your face in a dazzling explosion that leaves spots dancing behind your eyelids in a mockery of Russian ballet...and then moments later it can help you out in ways you'd never imagined.
So out of sheer idleness today, I typed a URL I hadn't thought of in months into my browser and hit enter. And I remembered all over again with crystal clarity why I used to like this boy.
Well, he's not a boy anymore. He's all grown up now, and ain't it just the darnest thing? I wonder if he still looks the same, if he still sings songs from Phantom of The Opera, if he still employs an Oxfordian accent in those dulcet tones of his. Wonder if he remembers my existence at all. Wonder why I care.
His writing is breathtaking. That I can never forget. Elegant turns of phrase, crisp expressions that communicate their meaning easily - and, shockingly, he's also learned to spell, guess med school must do that to you - all steal my breath and blow my mind in precisely the same way they always have. His poetry, his prose - everything perfect.
You may never read this, but you know who you are. And if there was ever any doubt, let me erase it: I still care about you. I still think about you. I'll never forget you. Every time I hear anything even remotely Andrew Lloyd Webber, every time I hear an English accent, every time I say something I know you would have taken entirely the wrong way - I remember.
I like what we had. And I know you're far away now, and I know you have your own life - a life I am no longer part of. But yet still I find it within myself to tell you that I'm sorry, once again, for everything I said and did that I shouldn't have. I'm not that person anymore. I'm better than she was.
Don't forget me. That's all I ask.

Everything loved can be lost.

Breathe

Two a.m. and she calls me 'cause I'm still awake - "Can you help me unravel my latest mistake? I don't love him. Winter just wasn't my season."
*sighs*...
No, I don't love him. Don't even come close to liking him. But whatever. Rahil's in the past. And the past is dead. The past is the ashes of the present, and today is the tomorrow I worried about yesterday. Ah well.
Cigarette count is two for last night, one right after the other. Got lightheaded, actually had to hold on to the bars of the wrought-iron so I wouldn't fall. Kinda fun. I think it took like five minutes to go through each cigarette. I know one's supposed to last half an hour...that's kinda eerie...
Life could be worse, I guess. Had a partially freaky dream last night and remembered it when I woke up but of course my memory has since made it foggier and foggier and more and more corrupt. So now I'm not sure whether it actually had a purple rhinoceros or whether that's just my imagination filling in the blank spaces in my cottage-cheese memory. That tends to happen a lot...sucks, really, but hey - at least I haven't inserted a gigantic cat and some pyramids...my dreams have been rather Egyptian in theme and alarmingly long in scope as of late...
My song of the moment, as should be obvious, is Breathe. Which is what I'm trying to do, more or less. Cradle my head in my hands and breathe. And try to force myself to remember that this world is fucked up enough without me having to add any more complications.
I don't care what you think. Any of you. I am who I am and I don't see why it should affect you. So what if society thinks I'm a rebel or a goth or a whore or a lesbian? I could be all four or none and it'd still be none of your business. Why should your opinion matter to me? Why should you tell me how to run my life? I don't have long enough on this earth to waste time with conformity and rules. I'll damn well make my own.
And on that note, I think I'll be off. But wait...a quote...

“Nyx’s MRI-generated hemispheric surface display shows evidence of aphasia caused by corticobasal degeneration.”
“I dare you to say that again.”

Welcome to my world...

Well, since this is the first post, I suppose it should be about me. Too bad there isn't really much to say.
I'm female and seventeen, the creative and depressed type who prefers to dress in all black and sneakers and who would die rather than wear pink, high heels or makeup. Of course, this world being ruled by the evil beings known as Pu's - Parental Units - I've been forced to do such unspeakable things several times. But it won't happen again. I swear.
I'm kind of scruffy, I guess. I bathe and everything but I don't like brush my hair or make my bed or any of those pointless things. Left to me I'd just go ras and done. But the Pu's disagree. Second point of conflict.
I like animals. I've got three dogs. I listen to rock and write poetry.
This poem was written a few days ago for Varune, who will turn twenty-eight this month, bless his heart. I hope you're happy, my friend, and I hope you will always be happy no matter where you go.

TWENTY-EIGHT
You are not beautiful.
It is a truth accepted by all in your acquaintance,
Including yourself.
You have no silken hair of gold or eyes of the bluest sky
Or skin that is satin to the touch
And you do not speak in measured, dulcet tones.

You, my friend, are far removed from beauty.

You are rough hands and dark skin,
A scarred face and an obscure sense of humour.
You are a lopsided grin and tucked-in shirts,
And the scent of cologne that follows where you walk.
You move from incomprehensibility to ultimate truth
Without ever distinguishing between the two.

And indeed, you have a beauty all your own.

You may not possess conventional attributes –
Money, power, astonishing good looks –
Yet thoughtlessly you drew me to you,
Captivating me so I can never escape.
Now I brood daily on your perfection,
Your imperfections.
I love them all equally.

I am trapped in your web, bound within your spell,
And I may never escape these chains that hold me,
And the part of me that whispers your name in the night
Is content to be held captive.
Yet at the same time I yearn to be free of your ghost,
The vision of you which haunts my dreams
With fleeting touches and stolen kisses,
Imagined issues of your world
I can never share.

For love is worth nothing
When it is not returned.

Twenty-eight years into your life
I kneel before you and swear to love you
As long as we both shall live
In a mockery of a vow we both shall never make,
Not to each other.
How sweetly you smile for her,
How raptly you listen to her pronouncements,
Though they be not as wise as my own.
Wisdom is but a source of sorrow.

I look into your eyes and drown,
And as I deny Mnemosyne my memories
I know I have found the place I must be.
Yes, I am content to die for you though you request it not,
I am in bliss to watch you walk,
Absorb like gospel the words which tumble hurriedly from your lips
And love the things you love
Simply because you love them.
And I willingly drown my heart
In the swift river of this love,
A love that can never age, nor die, nor corrupt,
But which instead becomes more beautiful as the years wear on.

Beauty is, after all, in the eye of the beholder.