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December 16
I follow voices raised in screams, drums in tribal rhythms, the promise
of a little oblivion. I come across an oasis of truth in a city of illusions
- by firelight and full moonlight I see feral faces flicker in and out
of reality. St Sebastian stands chained, body pierced by the darts of
keen scrutiny, a keener blade laid against his flesh. A goddess dances
with her acolytes in the throes of passion, and dreams swirl to the
stars with the smoke and sparks. Someone unseen holds a dispenser
to my mouth. Gratefully, wilfully, I draw cold mist into my lungs,
and hold it, and expel it. Tonight I desire only oblivion. I seek to
avoid your caress and escape these ghosts that haunt me. And I fear the
great oblivion of death, so do I seek the smaller oblivions - drugs, art,
decadence. And they are the walls between me and my humanity - and until
I find my wings, I live in Limbo, walled off by fear from mortality,
and yet unable to soar free. My angel, my love, my manstar, my dove,
be careful with my heart sometimes, for I would not become as hard as
thee, a god of icy fire. If my compassion is the price of my godhood,
then I fear that choice, and remain yet undecided. I feel the rush, and
as my head lowers, I meet the eyes of the boy saint naked at the stake,
and I read there something unexpected - the Godhead I have seen before
only in the mirrors of your soul. Unknown hands catch me as I swoon -
I recall no more.
More like ten years, actually. December 16, 1995. I'm reminded of this, because Saturday night was Miss Cathy's 40th birthday. And there were people there who, after a few beers, forget that my name isn't Tom anymore. People who start telling that same story to Megan, people who were the unseen someone holding the nitrous bottle, people who, at that party, hadn't seen me for 3 or 4 years. People who really can claim to have known me when, or in fact well before, I was a pretty ballerina. Benjemima and Robyn and Johnboy, oh my .... And Miss Cathy turning 40 doesn't bother me - Miss Cathy has always been Old (tm), even when I was 21 and she was 30. The fact that I've known Miss Cathy ten years (and therefore, it occurs to me, I've also known![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
erudito ten years, longer than I've meaningfully known anyone else in my social circle) doesn't really bother me. The fact that Robyn still *smells* the same as she did when we were seeing each other nearly 15 years ago merely intrigues me. What spins me the hell out is that Robyn's little sister is turning 30. Surely thin, blonde 18-year-old little sisters can't turn 30 ?? That freaks me out a whole lot more than me turning 30 did, let me tell you :)
Happy birthday, Madame Sin, in the name of ten years gone. Ten years since the House of Fun, ten years since the days of Adam the Rubber Master, ten years since Adelaide, ten years since we were the Younger Gods.
And in the spirit of hot wax and candle dreams, here's to another ten years, just like the last ten ....
Solitaire, Jai, and the Tomcat.
.
I follow voices raised in screams, drums in tribal rhythms, the promise
of a little oblivion. I come across an oasis of truth in a city of illusions
- by firelight and full moonlight I see feral faces flicker in and out
of reality. St Sebastian stands chained, body pierced by the darts of
keen scrutiny, a keener blade laid against his flesh. A goddess dances
with her acolytes in the throes of passion, and dreams swirl to the
stars with the smoke and sparks. Someone unseen holds a dispenser
to my mouth. Gratefully, wilfully, I draw cold mist into my lungs,
and hold it, and expel it. Tonight I desire only oblivion. I seek to
avoid your caress and escape these ghosts that haunt me. And I fear the
great oblivion of death, so do I seek the smaller oblivions - drugs, art,
decadence. And they are the walls between me and my humanity - and until
I find my wings, I live in Limbo, walled off by fear from mortality,
and yet unable to soar free. My angel, my love, my manstar, my dove,
be careful with my heart sometimes, for I would not become as hard as
thee, a god of icy fire. If my compassion is the price of my godhood,
then I fear that choice, and remain yet undecided. I feel the rush, and
as my head lowers, I meet the eyes of the boy saint naked at the stake,
and I read there something unexpected - the Godhead I have seen before
only in the mirrors of your soul. Unknown hands catch me as I swoon -
I recall no more.
More like ten years, actually. December 16, 1995. I'm reminded of this, because Saturday night was Miss Cathy's 40th birthday. And there were people there who, after a few beers, forget that my name isn't Tom anymore. People who start telling that same story to Megan, people who were the unseen someone holding the nitrous bottle, people who, at that party, hadn't seen me for 3 or 4 years. People who really can claim to have known me when, or in fact well before, I was a pretty ballerina. Benjemima and Robyn and Johnboy, oh my .... And Miss Cathy turning 40 doesn't bother me - Miss Cathy has always been Old (tm), even when I was 21 and she was 30. The fact that I've known Miss Cathy ten years (and therefore, it occurs to me, I've also known
erudito ten years, longer than I've meaningfully known anyone else in my social circle) doesn't really bother me. The fact that Robyn still *smells* the same as she did when we were seeing each other nearly 15 years ago merely intrigues me. What spins me the hell out is that Robyn's little sister is turning 30. Surely thin, blonde 18-year-old little sisters can't turn 30 ?? That freaks me out a whole lot more than me turning 30 did, let me tell you :) Happy birthday, Madame Sin, in the name of ten years gone. Ten years since the House of Fun, ten years since the days of Adam the Rubber Master, ten years since Adelaide, ten years since we were the Younger Gods.
And in the spirit of hot wax and candle dreams, here's to another ten years, just like the last ten ....
Solitaire, Jai, and the Tomcat.
.