...
[All Rights Reserved. Steal and Die.]
"Fallen angels who were not good enough to be saved, nor bad enough to be lost" say the peasantry...
I read my Tower of Souls notes this afternoon, avoided the musical [critical] analysis paper and the piano practice like plague. Threw the sheet music and the textbooks to one side just for today: today I was going to be a writer again. It was going to be like old times, good times when I was eleven, twelve, thirteen and spent every hour of every day buried in a notebook. It was going to be. But I woke up late and did a bit of homework after all, and by the time I got to my desk I was a bit sad, a bit distanced. So I sat on the floor, heaved the box of notebooks out from under my bed and casually reread the top few clumps of writing. It is the most beautiful feeling to recognize something - something good - that you wrote years ago. It's like visiting an old friend. Like going home. It was a lovely wreck of a novel: the purification of the reincarnation cycle, the Death, The Dream Keeper, Mikhyl the Arch-King, angels did battle with humans and we had Tjaii [who was Majhisti, who was the Death's incarnation] waiting to kill a man - "Go to Hell," he whispered just before pulling the trigger, "and fight a Demon." It was quite a thing to write. And on the topic of going to Hell...
:... It's The Cleanest I've Been...:
More Cast.
- Miroslav Satan: A friend... possibly. He serves two purposes. A dark angel like his namesake, and devoid of divinity. He is what he is, does what he does, and ultimately seves dual purposes: catalyst, antagonist. A friend from South Slavia. The name was nicked without hesitation from a boy who lives in my town. I was reading the newspaper one day and came upon his name. He had done something grand at the local high school, apparently. And the name caught my attention: Miroslav Satan, in a little Ukrainian town full of little Ukrainian babas making the sign of the cross at him. Poor thing. I love that these characters are snagged straight from reality, from people I know, people I know of, people I love indirectly and from a distance. (I do believe that there is a Czech Mr. Satan somewhere on the professional ice hockey front, but his name is spelled with the caroned Š, and thus it becomes Shah'ton. I may or may not nick it). For the purposes of our narrative, however, our Miroslav will be black-haired and slick as silk and suave - a thin,dark Livny to contrast Serafeim: S. is a metaphorical angel, M. is a man... an occasionally delinquent man. He hangs out in bars, swears too much... less violent than Livny, more ridiculous. A healthy dose of the Tovish Uncle goes into this fellow. ... He spends a great deal of effort attempting to drag our frail protagonist into the abandonment of his vows of chastity. Odd enough that our Miroslav is the most wretchedly [animalistically, naturally] human of the lot of them. And so continues the theme and postulation that humanity is the most inferior in the divine hierarchy [...Look at me, says an appalled and fallen Lucifer - I'm almost a human being.] He likes living without regrets. He writes about his shameless escapades in Croatian and has Eleanore translate them for the Western market for 20 kuna a page.
. . .
I've been trying to figure out the clergy are involved, with little luck. I don't know how far I want to take this, or how high. And I am, of course, out of time. The NaNovel, which is never written in November, will - of course - spill over into the subsequent years. I love how useless I am on deadlines. And no, you may not have a word count. Excerpts, next time, if you're nice to me.
- mood:
sad - music:Growing Up by Peter Gabriel
Something interesting which I discovered the other day, wandering aimlessly about cyberspace when I should have been doing music for theatre homework. A dream symbol dictionary: it informed me that dreaming of any sort of cross or crucifix indicates (1) joy, happiness and fufillment after a long and difficult struggle, or (2) a crossroads implying the obvious: two possible paths lie ahead, and a choice must be made. On the subject, Frost manages to be useful for once: Two roads diverged in a yellow wood / And sorry I could not travel both / And be one traveler, long I stood / And looked down one as far as I could / To where it bent in the undergrowth...
Poetry keeps attacking me from the most unlikely places, from Milosz anthologies and books I've nicked from the library. They bleed together like watered-down dye and keeping leaking into my narrative. It is the nature of art, beauty, and divinity to be clean, implies Lang... Wat comments upon the beauty of breathless lungs and Sexton describes the perversity of a God who unties the knot of double hunger in mortals. Memories keep bubbling up from nowhere: a nun who once told me the story of a woman who so loved God that she took communion thrice a day; He decided to test this extraordinarily loyal woman by causing her to bleed for forty years from her fingernails and toes. ["If that's what He does to the people who love him," says Eleanore, "You're off the hook."] Our protagonist would doubtless end up in the realm of "If that's what he does to the people who love him, imagine the retribution which will face me in Hell." ... It positively begs to be thrown into the mix. I initially imagined that I would be too far afield, too out of the loop to write about Roman Catholicism, but I'm starting to realize that it isn't the denomination that matters. It's the small graces, the miniature downfalls, the personal failures which hold the story, not the language of the mass. It's all about the humanity.
:.. [Tell] the Priest, He's the Doctor, He Can Handle the Shocks: Playlist #1...:
Mercy Street by Peter Gabriel
Leave by The Swell Season
Walk Away by The Nadas
Sweet Religion by Imogen Heap
Near To You by A Fine Frenzy
In Darkness Let Me Dwell by Sting & Karamazov
Furious Angels by Rob Dougan
I'm Not Driving Anymore by Rob Dougan
Angel by Massive Attack
Borrowed Time by A Fine Frenzy
I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston
Terrible Lie by Nine Inch Nails
Nothing At All by Rob Dougan
Puis Qu'en Oubli by Guillame de Marchaut
When the Angels Fall by Sting
Clubbed to Death by Rob Dougan
Darkness by Peter Gabriel
The Road to Chicago [from the Perdition Soundtrack]
The Hill by Marketa Irglova
Sakrelig by Eisbrecher
Mein Blut by Eisbrecher
- mood:
okay - music:As Vesta Was Descending by Thomas Weelkes
So beautiful lungs are, breathless! How calm, when the wrists proclaim
no pulse and the saint meets his maker in a laconic dark. What a clean murder.
A stillbirth from the outset, this Nestorian rhythm, these shattered pieces
of much-loved ikon which shattered so easily against the headboard.
The sheets smell of tea and roses, the breath on his neck so shallow with strain...
Perhaps, after a million and a half petits morts, he will have tasted enough
sweet poison to safely die of shame.
. . .
no pulse and the saint meets his maker in a laconic dark. What a clean murder.
A stillbirth from the outset, this Nestorian rhythm, these shattered pieces
of much-loved ikon which shattered so easily against the headboard.
The sheets smell of tea and roses, the breath on his neck so shallow with strain...
Perhaps, after a million and a half petits morts, he will have tasted enough
sweet poison to safely die of shame.
. . .
Word Count: 265 words. It's what I had, scribbled in the margins of physics notes and lying over top of last week's calculus. And even though I was supposed to begin on the 5th, I lose three days to insanity and the pretense of fencing. But here I am! At home, at last: avec laptop, tea, and the cat... in one of those dark, semi-expansive moods so conducive to writing tragedy. Of course I left my notebook back at university, but tonight I plan to be rather brilliant and Chekhovian and wing it.
Not even a school night - who needs sleep? Let's get this party started.
Not even a school night - who needs sleep? Let's get this party started.
- mood:
irritated - music:Will You Follow Me? by Rob Dougan
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excommunimoi- the one that got away
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