Blasphemy turns me on. That’s a grabber of a sentence, ain’t it?
Yeah, my tweak is a blasphemous one. I got no problem whatsoever with the occasional nun’s habit but if you hit me with a wooden ruler, I will punch you in the face. My freak doesn’t include pain. I’ve tasted pain you could never truly comprehend and I know its purpose. The people who equate pain to pleasure have never been held by the neck and forced head first into a bucket of water or held there until the night slammed down with exploding stars and lightning flashes. Pain is not pleasure. It is deterrent.
I used to love Tuesdays. My first job, I arranged every Tuesday night off so I could watch ‘Moonlighting’ with Willis and Shepherd. My favorite episode involved a demon in a blue dress and Whoopi Goldberg. I can see it in my head like a snapshot. Barricaded in the backroom with the concrete floor under an old console television, a million pillows and a large comforter, and me in the middle, eyes glued to the screen. I was fifteen years old. My eyes were lighter, my skin and hair darker, and puberty kept hitting me and leaving zits behind. It was only there in the darkness, alone with the television, that I could laugh. Everywhere else, I tried and failed to be stone. I look at her, there, frozen in my head, and I want to yell at her and warn her about all the things she hadn’t realized at that point. She could have saved us from so much pain…
And there’s Luke in my head, whispering, “Only the dead feel no pain,” as if it’s some sort of deterrent or admonition. Why doesn’t he understand that that is what makes it so attractive? And all he has are those sad eyes for response. My muses are better at framing the question than in answering it.
That’s always been up to me. Means I should be good at it, right? There should be definitive answers, damnit, and I should be able to find them by now! You’d think that with enough practice at a thing, that if you dig your fingers in and shred them to the bone to find purchase, that you could wrest it to your will, mangle it to your design, twist it to your purpose but no, it turns and it bites you in the ass every fucking time. What the complete fuck? I mean, really.
‘Please, God, make me a stone,” River whispered and cried and I was arrested, breath held, caught in that feeling, that yearning, that need. I know that need. It’s on my tongue and I am desperate, digging for purchase, holding my breath…
Lucy, with her skin like marble, lightning eyes and ragged red locks stands behind me and I know what she is, muse and devil, and I envy her for everything except her immortality. That’s the part of her I’d want none of and that says a lot more about both of us than I care to examine at this time.
Lindsay Stirling’s ‘Crystallize’ is playing and that violin reminds me of moonlight and wagons and campfires with the cold Carpathians darker than the horizon. You can’t have vampires without gypsies and you can’t have gypsies without music. Some things are intertwined in my head and I’ve no desire to untangle them.
I looked at ‘Pretty Monsters’ again and I have to sigh. I can’t re-write it. It stands. Lucy won’t allow me to run George Lucas all over it. So, I’ll write a different story. I’m working on it. Hope to have it done soon. When it is, I’ll put it up here. I still need the comparison.