Thine Cerulean Nereid Air
Mon, May. 27th, 2013, 04:19 pm
I'm sick of feeling like I'm alone in my experiences. Like no one
identifies at all.There's got to be someone out there who has been hurt by someone else's polyamorous relationship.
Thu, Jun. 21st, 2012, 06:52 pm
Half the Battle
Title: Half the Battle
World: StarTrek: Voyager
Ship: J/7, jumping ships
Status: 1/1, Complete
Genre: Angst, Drama,
Author's Notes: All I own is my pride and my sword.
“I cannot believe you are not angry at me.” The words were clearly, but softly spoken.
With my back to her, my eyes are turned toward the stars, but my gaze never penetrate past the barrier of transparent aluminum. She requires a response. “How could I be angry with you? You couldn’t have known.”
But I should have made myself clear. I should have spoke with less innuendo, fewer metaphors and followed through with direct statements to spur on conversations that have never been.
“It’s not your fault, Seven, you couldn’t have known,” I reiterate. For a moment I’m pleased that my voice still comes out sounding strong, still ever in control, but the next breath I take is shallow, sitting high in my chest. As my throat begins to constrict, I know I cannot risk her staying in my quarters much longer.
Two long, gentle strides bring her to stand just behind me to my left. Even from this distance, the heat from her radiates through the layers of my uniform, and I wonder briefly if she knows that I can feel her soft exhales against my neck. Goosebumps rise over my skin and for a moment I regret cutting my hair as its length could have shielded me from the cold that is left in the wake of Seven’s breath.
“Captain,” she covers her hesitation by stepping around me in an effort to look me in the eye, “I find myself confused as to the nature of your reaction.”
My attempt to inhale may have caused me to choke on my tongue. If it weren’t for my focus being on clearing my throat because of that, the sudden stabbing sensation in my side would surely have gotten a stronger reaction. This is it. This is one of those moments where our communication goes completely awry, where I fail to ask for the all-important clarification. “And what do you think my reaction is?”
Why did I ask that? I don’t want to discuss this. I want her out. No, no that’s not what I want, but it will do for now, because I can’t stand the thought of her watching me while I pretend I’m not struggling to breathe. I want to gasp in solace.
“You are… withdrawn. I believe you are hurt. I wish for you to know that I never intended to transgress upon the establishment of your relationship.” I’m sure she sees my eye twitch at that. Turning on my heel, I find a handy excuse to move away—coffee is always a grand excuse. “Had I known of your feelings for the commander I never would have embarked upon a relationship with him.”
I’m frozen for a moment, staring into space. My feelings for the commander. My glorified toaster stares blankly back at me. I suppose I should order, “Scotch, neat.” That’s not coffee. I pause to take a sip. It’s definitely not coffee. “Would you care for something?”
“I do not require liquid refreshment at this time.” Sometimes I wonder why I ask.
As much as I’d rather be having a conversation with my replicator... I take a seat on my chaise and gesture for her to sit as well. “The commander and I are just friends.”
“You would have it be more, would you not?” Her question throws me momentarily. How much to tell? “Your reaction to this situation would indicate that—”
“No.” That came out as a command, not part of a conversation, damn it. “No, Seven. I would not change the status of my relationship with Commander Chakotay.”
“But you do harbor non-platonic urges towards him.”
She’s serious enough with that statement that it amuses me and I have to hide my half-smirk behind another sip of my drink. “Seven, I haven’t harbored urges towards him in a while.”
I suppose she realize she’s made a syntax error. “Emotions, then.” Her eyes are riveted on me and I’m beginning to wonder if this isn’t just an uncomfortable conversation, but more of an interrogation. Whatever it is, I want to put an end to it.
“Seven, listen to me very carefully, because I am only going to say this once,” she leans toward me slightly as I set my drink on the coffee table with a light clink. “I am not in love with Commander Chakotay.”
I’d expect an immediate response, normally. Something along the lines of ‘That is an acceptable answer, Captain. Goodnight,’ but she makes me wait a bit longer than usual. Her blonde head tilts slightly and an eyebrow and implant furrow. “If that is the case, then I am at a loss as to your response to what should be joyous news.”
My side aches, I’ve forgotten to breathe and for a moment I fear I’ve painted myself into a corner. “On the contrary, I wish you and the Commander all the happiness in the universe.” Seven’s eyes scan my face. “Please forgive me if I gave you any other impression.”
“Yes, of course, Captain.”
My eyes finally leave hers, and I reach for my scotch again. “It’s getting late, Seven.”
“Yes, Captain.” As she stands to leave, I stand as well, resuming my place at the window.
“Goodnight, Seven.” A gulp of scotch burns its way down my throat. I hear the door to my quarters open. When they fail to close I turn to face them.
“Captain, am I the reason?” If I can feel the blood drain from my face, I hope she cannot see it in my dim quarters. Seven steps towards me, and the light from the corridor is once again locked outside.
My voice is more gravelly than usual, probably because I just downed the last of my scotch, “I’m sorry?”
“You said I couldn’t have known.”
“So I did.”
“But you said you’re not in love with the Commander.”
“What about it?”
“And you’re not angry with me—”
“I’m about to be.”
“—because I couldn’t have known.” She’s right in front of me now, looking down on me, and I am reminded of how short I feel without my boots. “Captain, the only things I can’t possibly know are the things you don’t tell me.” I try meeting her eyes, and end up letting my gaze wander across her face. “Captain. Is there something I should know?”
Inhaling, I catch the scent that is distinctly her. What was I thinking earlier? Less innuendo, fewer metaphors, direct statements. Our eyes meet.
Words, social constructs. Love. War. Labels, boyfriend, girlfriend. There are some things in this culture I grew up in that I disagree with--the social construct that is the crap that molds our self-image into something muddied and hideous, for example. And that is a "social construct" of our western civilization.
But for someone to say that love is a social construct? By definition, something that is a social construct is something that isn't real, it does not apply to all human beings in all places all over the earth (spanning all time, so far as we can tell?). If Love is a social construct, then why on earth do all human cultures have it?
I want to bitch slap my sister's anthropologist boyfriend.
Fri, May. 14th, 2010, 07:16 pm
I slide my eyes along the smooth floor, my posture imperfect, as I lift my head towards the all-knowing eyes of my audience. I lean my chin upon my palm, elbow on my knee, tilting my head as if to see those who are shroud in darkness. Reexamining myself, I lean back in my chair and uncross my legs, preparing the first few crisp words to slide from my tongue.
"Now…" I pause, hearing the gentle rustle of silence. I stand, extending my body to its full height, and begin once again. "Now…" With my crystal clear vision of an ever-expanding black, my confidence and clarity of that single word is almost eerie. I can feel it melting from them as I slowly glide closer towards the edge of my world. "Entertain conjecture of a time," they are captivated, "when creeping murmur," I can see them shiver, "and the poring dark," they ache, "fills the wide vessel of the universe."
I know what it is like to be one of them, to sit there, with someone staring straight into you. What they don't know, what so many of them don't know, is that the all-seeing creature on the stage before them... cannot see a thing. I perch on the edge of the spot light, peering down into so many of them, feeling what they are, hearing their ache for my words, and seeing nothing but black. "From camp to camp," it's horribly precise. The precision of which I speak is that which is purposely, artfully flawed. "Through the foul womb of night…" Strikingly deadly; no one in the dark expanse before me is moving, no one breathing. "The hum of either army stilly sounds."
I stare through them. They are not there. All that exists in this moment for me are the words, those that I paint with. I continue sketching a story for them and move effortlessly across the edge of the stage, carefully aware of where the floor ends and the pit begins. As I perch here in my light, I sense the breath of them from the edge of their seats. They listen. I paint for them the doomed soldiers, the restless horses, the French, the English; I paint the entire night.
They sit there and breathe. And so, I continue with my soliloquy, "Presenteth them unto the gazing moon…" The next line would be in securely harnessed rage, but they want something that will somehow be… more. Silently unaware that I know their minds, I give forth a hoarse whisper "So many horrid ghosts." I tell of Harry, of preparation for battle and of comfort drawn from the sight of a cheery king.
My movements ride with my words, seeping new meaning for those who would have been ignorant before. I wait. I turn to leave, and then, as if an after thought, "Yet sit and see, minding true things by what their mockeries be."
With those words, the dark closes around me. I am once again enveloped by what encloses tonight's audience in flames. I hope, with all my being, that they see me for what I am. I am flawed.
Then again, what need have I for perfection? I am the chorus. And I shall be as flawed as I see fit. After all, flaws build perfection... on a stage.
And I pity those who are entrapped in a racist greed. But how should they love? If one is taught to hate all of a specific color or belief, how is one to change? I often ponder on this, and all the while, the only conclusion I come up with is none. People raised in lives of ignorance choose by their own will, and that of their fathers', to remain submerged in their ignorance. I always try to believe that this can change; that people are not only of one mindset. But I was raised to believe that. And so, I am of that mindset, which holds faith in people.
I am wrong. We are all wrong. Do you see? This is the place where I sit, absorbed in mind. There is no answer. The answer is that there is no answer. Human beings will continue to make human decisions, and in doing so, make difficult other lives. This is what I know. Yet, I believe that I know nothing.
Is it not so easy to see me? I stand before, and sit behind you. I am the 'child' who sometimes speaks her mind, and at other moments is silent in her guilt. Do you see me? I've attempted to show you, yet not enough. I will flightily try to explain and proceed, but I am the reason why you all remain embraced by your ignorance.
I am pain incognito. I live not for the pleasure of my brothers, and not for the people whom I serve. I live to destroy. I seep into my loneliness as time passes in it's curled shell. Here I sit. I will move only when I sense the emotion of another; and then, I rant through my own emotion as if my idle lies were all that existed in the world. And here I stay in my emptiness, filled with my liquidic void of unanswered questions. Here I am.
Am I not so hard to see now? I fear, like you. I love, like you. I hate, like you. I breathe, like you. I live... unlike you. Or perhaps, I live so much like you, that I am you. That I live, love, and breathe within you. The feeling that you get when you believe that someone is watching you, could that be me? For end, I am pain. I am the fear of the pain that will mayhap never come. Why then, do so many people fear me? Fearing fear, for sure, that is nothing to be readily admitting of.
"Never fear." Yet, we do. We fear in the way we move, breathe, love, live... and hate. Hate is fear. Fear is. Do you know? Have you known forever now? Once you realize that you do, it becomes so... unimportant. Unimportant and insignificant in an obsessive way. Do you understand now? Understanding is half the battle, after all. Or is it just the beginning? Perhaps understanding something is the end. If we would simply understand each other, perhaps there would be no battle to fight. If we could understand each other; if we could. Can we? Shall we try, dear friend? For this is pain's finest way of killing us invisibly.
Ne'er in life does death weep. Do I understand? Shall we try, sister of my soul? Here I sit, for I am wicked. My soul in the eyes of another, is blackened with the ashes of my fellows. Here I am. Judge me. Go on. Do we believe we've heard me out now?
I have not said my share, for I can speak forever. No, no, for I shall never finish. If you've heard my part in pain's voice, strike me down soon, for I shall not stand to stop you. Here I sit, take me now to their world of eternal torment and lay me there beneath their thrown to die. I shall not fight. The pain which you all fear from me will consume me in the fire of my heart. And here I will lay in my ashed state, staying in this place until some pious wind will sweep me toward another life, and I shall live again. Pray I be with you, my brother, my friend, my killer. Pray that pain shall be late in coming, for I shall sit in your fear and live with you as the eyes that pry into your back. Pray for us.
Life will stay
I'll be here
When you wake
A breath to take
And sleep well
Close your mind
From this hell
Close your eyes
And sleep tight
You are safe
Thu, May. 13th, 2010, 07:01 pm
Status: Revised, Complete
Genre: Angst, Drama, Romance?
Warnings: Future character death.
Author's Notes: All I own is my pride and my sword.
No one needs to know. To know such a thing would only be damaging. To them, to me. To him. Of course, he will be angry. Once he finds out I knew, he will blame me. And of all people, he will most likely believe I should have chosen him to tell, if anyone.
Perhaps he will read this one day and lash out in anger. That is the easiest scenario for me to imagine. I cannot stand the thought of him--crying... over me. He will believe he has a right to know. "You're my partner." Yes, that is true. But before it was about you protecting me. It was about you helping me. (It was about you needing me to need you too.) But now... There are some things that no one can fight. Some things you cannot protect another person from. Some you cannot even protect yourself from.
You cannot help me. Not with this. So I will pretend that I am well, that nothing out of the ordinary--at least, ordinary for me--is going on. Just let me have this.
I want to keep what I have. And no, that is not any ability, or physical object, or tangible thing, nor is it any thing others could possibly perceive (except, perhaps, Gibbs). I want to keep the way you look at me. That green sparkle with flecks of mischief and reflections of thinly veiled secrets. I want you still to look at me that way. With a rare, daunting sort of passion that makes me simultaneously want to dive into you or look away. (Run away.) I need to see the laughter in the wrinkles around the corners of your eyes. Your protectiveness, your oddly unjust possession. And yes, even your jealousy. It makes me feel wanted, even though I cannot have you.
I want to catch you staring, with your guard down and to see the minute flash when my eyes meet yours. That flash--sometimes I like to think it is desire. Our glances hold so much more than we would ever allow ourselves to say. More than we may ever allow ourselves to have for so many reasons. So many excuses.
I have seen the way people change once someone around them falls ill. Their eyes dim, hold worry, and pity and fear. I have seen the looks given to those who love someone whose only destiny is to die. It is a gaze you have directed toward me on occasion. I cannot stand the thought of you looking at me like a doomed person, an inevitable death too soon before me.
I cannot imagine what you might do if you knew. If I were more selfish, I would not deny myself what I really want. I would take everything you are so willing to give. Rules be damned. It could be rapturous. But then, I would die. And I cannot give all of myself to you, only to rip it away so soon after. It is not fair. I am not that selfish. Better to stay away, distance myself just enough. Just so I do not break.
It will be quick. Sudden. That is what makes this all the more difficult. A week, a month, a year... tonight. There is no way to know when, only that it will. I cannot live with you looking at me as if it is the last time you will ever see me, as if I will cease to exist at any moment. I want you to look at me as you are now.
I want to die knowing that the last time I met your eyes, I believed that you love me too.
I am selfish enough for that.
We run in all directions or
Stare at the sky
Watch the cloudy stars pass with
Sun blinking in our eyes
Some run towards the light
Others simply from the dark
Leaving breath behind
Only to be left with the
Pounding of our hearts
Destinations are no matter for
Those who run from dark
Glimpses of resplendent
Dawn the reality of our daze
Fast glancing around the bends of
Choices yet to come
To stay still staring up or fall
Into the sun moving towards
Not away from pasts and pretense
The enlightenment of our lives
The question left unasked
Apprehensive with its
Bold aspirations of tomorrow
Where am I going?
Thu, Jan. 15th, 2009, 01:48 am
The more I sit with people as they die, the more I am convinced it is in fact the opposite of birth. The end result will come about, one way or another. Quickly or slowly, with or without pain, with courage and fear (the one cannot exist without the other), silence and groans, odd breathing and counting. Counting—the seconds between the breaths of the one who is dying—I believe Vernie went 25 seconds at one point. We’d sit and hold our breaths with her, waiting a difference—whether it was another rise and fall or a ceasing of all movement, I do not know.
We sat with Vernie for two weeks while she tried to die. Was she in pain? “No.” Was she bored? “Yes.” Her answers, not our conjectures. She had her mind and part way through stated that maybe praying to keep her mind was not such a good idea after all. Those with dementia seemed more content.
But Nanny, she doesn’t have all of her mind—miniature strokes have sort of taken care of that. But it is there. She is there. She cannot speak now. The only words I have heard from her were “oh, no no no!” in response to me saying that it was okay if she went back to sleep. That I would still be here. She didn’t want to go to sleep, and I worry that instead of helping the process, my presence may actually hinder it. One more thing to anchor her to this plane of existence.
I’m concerned that my gentle typing might wake her, but it is more likely to wake Meg if I go back into the living room. And I wonder: if while I’m sitting here, she dies, should I wake the others? Should I tell them at the moment or simply wait until they wake—not disturb their sleep.
She doesn’t snore as loudly as she used to. She hasn’t drank anything since yesterday. Vernie had body fat and edema to sustain her throughout her journey. Nanny has neither. Usually people die in three days without food or water. VJ went 10 days without eating and 7 days without drinking. If I’ve learned anything about death, about life, it is that while the outcome is the same, the path beaten on the way there is always different.
I worried about leaving the room. If I walked the stone’s throw distance to Muchas Gracias to get food at 3 in the morning, what if VJ died when I wasn’t there? What if that very second, the one when I blink, is the moment it happened?
I think I woke her. No, perhaps not. Her eyelids deceive me. Her once a minute snores give her away.
No matter if I am not here, as I was not the second VJ died, it will still happen. It is not a single shooting star that I miss if I blink. Yes, I might miss the last sparkle of light, but I was there for the blaze. The twinkle in the eyes is what matters. And it has been aimed at me many times in my life.
I remember decorating our own birthday cakes every year. Keeping bicycles and roller blades in her garage—her street was flat and smooth, once they repaved it. Snow ball fights with the neighborhood kids. Trick or treating. Building snow men. Stew with okra. The People’s Court, Nick at Night, obscenely white carpet, a beagle named Maggie, a busted pool table with plants on it, the attic over the shop that held the smell of moth balls and secrets of the past that I was not privy to. Tins of buttons, china cabinets, shoe boxes full of pictures, hiding from the Wicked Witch of the West behind the reclining chair, breaking my leg when I jumped into a wading pool, Granddad scaring me when he had WWII flash backs when Nanny went to the store, scary pictures of clowns in the yellow bedroom, getting and staying mad when I had a second instant won ton soup and she mentioned my weight, crashing my bike when racing with the neighbor and getting a huge bruise on my face right before a wedding, QVC, a brown velvet dress I hated, the car over heating on the way back from a doctor’s appointment, hearing stories I’d never heard before, learning patience, learning a few things that aren’t good to say to a preteen girl, practicing acceptance.
We can go back to sleep now, Nanny. It’s okay.
Wed, Dec. 3rd, 2008, 12:05 pm
I randomly think the words "basal ganglia."
I do not think "chicken cheeze-its" quite as often as I used to.