Saturday, December 31, 2005

Astrud Gilberto. The girl from ipanema.

Tall and tan and young and lovely,
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, each one she passes goes, “Aaah…”
When she walks, she’s like a samba
That swings so cool and sways so gently
That when she passes, each one she passes goes, “Aaah…”

Oh, but he watches so sadly -
How can he tell her he loves her?
Yes, he would give his heart gladly,
But each day when she walks to the sea,
She looks straight ahead – not at he…

Tall and tan and young and lovely,
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, he smiles, but she doesn’t see…
Oh, but he sees her so sadly -How can he tell her he loves her?
Yes, he would give his heart gladly,
But each day when she walks to the sea,
She looks straight ahead – not at he…

Tall and tan and young and lovely,
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, he smiles, but she doesn’t see…
She just doesn’t see…
No, she doesn’t see…
But she doesn’t see…
She doesn’t see…
No, she doesn’t see…

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Serenity prayer

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

Sunday, December 25, 2005

Blue's your hue, you tiny thing...

Eyes as ebon as charred coal. She stared at me from across the room, soft bangs tumbling over her face, pale and transparent as silk. Her hair, mimicked her eyes in hue and texture. It was strange to see her staring at me like that. There was no shame in her eyes. When they met mine, she didn't turn away. Tendrils formed from the shadows. Hooking me. Praying on me. I was her feast. She was my predator. And yet, there was nothing sexual about the way her hungry eyes probed me. Hypnotic maybe.

Maybe something else entirely.

Soft blue gauzy fabric clung to her like a cloud. Of course, even without the gown the woman seemed to have an unearthly quality about her. The french had a saying for it, but I don't know what it is. Regardless, I found quickly I could not turn away. Music throbbed like a vein, giving life and oxygen to the masses starving for something. Alcohol, sex, love. Did it matter, really? The music fed them, nourished them. It protected them under its wing. It soothed their wounds, and it didn't care who you were. Lyrics didn't discriminate the way people did.

I could understand why people practically lived here.

There was something for everything after all. A beer to nurse your broken heart away, and if that didn't work, there was always a whore to be had, who was happy to listen as long as you kept her glass full. I wondered if the woman in blue was a whore. I doubted it though. She was an artist. I could see it in the way she looked at me. She was commiting every line of my flesh to memory. She would savour it later with a pencil in one hand, and a canvass in the other. I knew, I looked at people the same way.

If she was a whore, she would be an expensive one.

I tried to imagine what it would be like, to be her. She would have suitors, I imagine. Wealthy men, with wives at home. Would she care for them? Of course not. Women like her didn't love. They cared, perhaps, but not enough to tie them down. Women like that were strong. They were brave. They needed nothing more out of life then the company of a man, better left a stranger for all intents and purposes. They didn't need to marry, they needed only stability.
I wondered what would happen to her when her beauty faded.

A husk. A mere fragment of what she was. I could see her now, standing in front of the bar, twenty years hence. Her face, once smooth as porcelain was now wrinkled as yesterday's clothes. Eyes sunken in, accented with bags, dark crescent moons that could not have been darker had she painted them on herself. I imagine her in the same blue dress, hideous sagging breasts hanging low now, despite the wonder bra. She pretends to not notice how much she missed, how she passed her entire life away for mere cash. What had she now? A nice house? A nice car? Certainly no steady income now, unless she'd reduced herself to whoring, but she wouldn't have made enough money doing that anyway.

Would I be any better off?

The one and only.


The little voice drew Andromeda out of her reverie. Her head twisted, pulling her eyes precariously from the window, to the child standing at her feet. Little fingers clutched her pant leg, pleading brown eyes upturned. Innocence incarnate. She smiled gently and nodded, leaning down to scoop the little boy into her arms.

'Yes, Samuel?'

'N-N-nofin...' And with that he flung his arms around her shoulders and buried his little face into her neck. She sighed. Everything that she'd done, had been precisely for this moment. She'd done everything to save humanity, but lost the one person who'd ment the most to her in the process. She felt the familiar pain in the back of her throat and bit her lip to quell the rising emotions.

Not here. Not now.

He was gone. The One. She'd watched him as he was destroyed with her own to eyes, but suddenly, it didn't seem like it was enough. She smoothed her hand over Samuel's back as the student clung to her, her eyes shifting back to the window. She scanned the horizon. She could feel him. He was dead, but he was gathering strength.

You can't kill the antithesis of life.

She realized that now. It had seemed all fine and dandy at the time. They'd been clustered there together. She remembered it well. She'd been foolish then, to think it would last. He was older then humanity itself, how naive had she been to think that they, a ragtag band of mortals could destroy... him.

She wished Cyprien was here now. She could use his arms around her.

So much had happened since then. They'd all grown apart regardless of what meaningless promises they'd made. She'd moved away, out of the city. It had been too hard to stay there with the memories of him haunting her every waking moment. She couldn't bear to sleep in their flat, let alone their bed. So she'd picked up, and moved on. She was outside of the city now, living in the outskirts. She'd opened up a school, for the 'gifted'. Samuel here, was her prize student. Even at the tender age of 4, his learning abilities surpassed even her own. He would certainly be an asset.

Assuming the poor child had time enough to grow up.

Irritated clouds, bloated and heavy bore their way across the sky, inch by painful inch. It would storm soon, she knew.

It was starting all over again.

Madre De Dolor

There is no beginning.

No fraction of time where everything simply existed. No millisecond when something decided to live. No minute when the seas awoke, when the sun shone, when the mountains rose.

It is illogical to assume any story has a beginning. Any tale can be traced along its roots, to threads woven before it. Ideas, like matter, aren't created. They simply change form. Gas to liquid, revolutionary to renaissance. The art was always there, shifting, molding, melting, existing.

It seems unimportant then, where we choose to begin our tale.

Here, lies our 'Madre'. A woman named for the trauma that she would solely bring to pass, on humanity. The mother of sorrow. A beast, a burden, a flower.

Humankind. A strange breed. So afraid of ambiguity, they shun it. Rigid, uncaring, and essentially a dying race.

And so their god sent this woman. To heal them, to lead them, to bear their saviour, his son, who'd in turn, rescue them from their earthly shackles. But the Madre decided to delay her task.

Bolero. Ravel's Bolero

She knelt. Arms horizontal, palms up, head back. Naked as the day she was born, mutilated by helter skelter, frightening scars. Lacerations down her back, covering her spine and ribs. Incisions through her arms, burns on her legs, lesions on her breasts.

Now, the question arises. Why on earth would anyone do this to themselves? What would posses this woman to be consumed by her desire to bleed?

Mortal sin. Immortal sin. Riteous decisions. Deluded thought. Perhaps, if you asked her, she might tell you. She might... but then again she'd most likely attack you for spying.

Shame on you, mortal brother. Let not your curiosity sway you from your purpose.

She shifted, attention torn. Tears of blood crept down her face.

She sat, palms in the air, head tilted back. Raven locks tumbled down the marred flesh of her back. Skin pale, amber eyes closed, breathing steady. Quiet. Nude. The dark cotton that so often hugged her thin form was gone. Blood, puss, open wounds. Dark scars, crusting flesh.

Why would she do that? You wonder. An ache, a pain, a need to belong. She hurts. She bleeds. She is purity, and she is death. She is life, and she is evil. A contradiction in the truest sense, brings conflict within oneself. To live, or to die? Neither choice seems reasonable, or attainable. One who cannot feel, cannot live. And to forsake her life force now would be tragedy for humanity. To bleed is to feel, and to die. Life force escaping, pain becomes real, and the twin souls may once again unite.

Lies, truths, fiction, reality. In a world such as this, they become inseparable. Undeterminable. A world as this, filled with passions unfelt by mortals. A world of realities so incomprehensible its frightening. A wonderland, filled with loves more authentic than you've ever felt, of passion, intensity, amour, but contradicted by frightening shadows. Heralding from the darkness, beasts larger then fiction, with teeth that bite and claws that scratch. Beware the Jabberwock my son!

This, dying woman comes from the world. The wonderland, the world of dreams. A reality that you mortal, yearn for. You might as well recognize her spirit. Magdalene. Mother. Nurturer. Race to her, child before she wakes! Cling to her, love her, but despise her. She is a beast, a danger, a scourge. Slay her child, before her time is near, and before she slays you!

Quick, child. Quick. Don't watch her, act. Act now. She'll find you, and she'll slay you.

She stirred, a tongue darted from pale lips, caressing the dry flesh. She moved, gently. Amber eyes flickered towards you.

She knelt, before the black altar. Deep in the home of her crypt, the stench of decay assaults you. Bare knees cupped together. Spine arched, palms raised. A receptacle. Raven locks swung, pushed by an unseen attender. Dark eyes shifted beneath pale lids. Porcelain skin marred by tears of blood. Lashes curled, clotted. Puckered wounds danced along her flesh. Pain. Scarring, blood, puss, infection. Gaping, reaching, desperate flesh, mourning, hating, loving. Nude but for the ribbons in her hair. You wonder where she got them..?

Scars, wounds, pain. They're of her own doing, her own making. Talented with the knife, the eternal medication. If your hand does sin, cut it off, he said. She attempted to fillet off the offending flesh, to no avail. In the limbo of life and death, she did what she could to remain balanced. Too much life, too much death. Neither would do. To exist, one must dance precariously between the two, an art that humanity had yet to master. Perhaps Asia came closes, but the western world seemed oblivious to the concept of balance. Life and death, pain and joy. Each tugged on each other for dominance. Each pained her equally. To remain indifferent was a much easier task then to live. To exist is simplicity. To be -real- was a challenge. The key to this, was unity.

Ambiguity. A concept most of us hide from. An ideal so incomprehensible that we stick our heads in the sand and feign ignorance. If there was no life, there'd be no death. No shadows if not for light. No happiness if not for tragedy, no feeling if not for numb. Humanity attempts in many cases to ignore half of the equation. To run from sin, to hide in the light, to strive to be happy, and to live, disregarding that to truly be living, unity has to be attained. And so, in this world, mortals face loves that are bland. Diluted by an ignorance of loss. Lights that could be far much brighter if they dwelt in the dark. Lives that would attain harmony if they indulged in sin, and to truly live, unafraid of death. That fair child, is the key to eternity, to immortality, to true freedom. Love and life, death and hate, each emotion more powerful when experienced to its true potential, with its partner.

This woman, a dying, frail beast. Shunned and revered. Hunted and worshipped. A living expression of life, an escaping expression of death. She is essence, spirit mind and body. Confidence, paranoia, bittersweet. You want her, you hate her. Confused, conflicted. Reality is a rainbow, and your duty my child, is to savour, each of these colors. Cry, laugh, sing, mourn. Each is to be experienced in sequence, rather then half. You will find young one, if you listen to the words of the Madre, your life with take on new colors. You too, will arrive in wonderland. That secret society you've been searching for all your life.

Listen child. Open your ears. Cease to exist, and begin to live. I beg you.

And this story, having no beginning, will neither have an end.



In. Out. In. Out.

Short, shallow, ragged breaths.

Cold steel pressed against the side of her face, she struggled to get her breathing under control. Peering around the corner, she held the weapon close. Eyes narrowing, she pushed herself up off of her knees, cautioning herself against any sudden movements. Creeping, slowly, with painstaking caution. Suddenly a series of shots are rounded off into the air. Count them.

One… Two… Three… Four…

A gargling sound, and a loud thump. A body drops to the floor, but in the darkness its impossible to tell whom it belonged too. Two more. She cursed, silently. There’s no telling who heard them, and she supposed it was safe to say her cover had been blown. The siren began to throb.

She rolled her eyes. Just great, just… fucking… great…

Suddenly the lights flickered on. She pushed herself up onto the balls of her feet, and rounded the corner. He was standing there, hands on his hips, eyeing her. She grunted, shoving the pistol home into the holster pressed against her thigh. Her hands dropped awkwardly to her sides, and she shifted her weigh uncomfortably on her feet. His gaze always made her self-conscious. Resisting the urge to fold her arms protectively across her chest, she knew he hated that.

"Three out of four. Not bad, but not brilliant either, considering you’d be dead by now on the field."

She grunted, obviously unappreciative of his analysis. Always treating her like a puppy, or a child. She’d like to see him to better, sometime. Avoiding eye contact just in ‘case’. He had a creepy way of knowing which direction her mind leapt in some cases, and the last thing she needed right now was to give him any provocation. She stood stiffly and uncomfortably, staring at the floor. Silent, she waited. Andromeda never wanted to be the first to speak; especially with the way things had been lately. He let her off the hook.

"Right, well that’s enough for today. Go clean yourself up and come down for dinner."

She cast him a seething glare, but remained silent. A subtle nod of her head, she spun on her heel, stalking towards the door. Stepping carefully over the mannequins now littering the tile floor she moved like quicksilver. He called to her and she waited, tilting her head over her shoulder as he spoke.

‘You did well tonight, Thirteen."

She paused for a moment, and continued her trek without a response.