![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wolven7Looking for houses, all of us, together, with out parents. Making time and taking time to look at places. Our place to meet up isn't a real place, in a real place. We will meet in a house, made of all the unwanted and forgotten pieces of the houses we'd seen, and situated in an apartment/townhome complex that is a combination of all those kinds of complexes any of us had ever lived in.
Wandering into the complex, because you couldn't drive there, not unless you were with everyone with whom you were leaving there, looking longingly down Cashell Court, and remembering the townhouse, from Gathersburg; knowing that it was down there, waiting, along with the houses of so many people I miss and love, and can't find. I want to go down that road, so badly, but we have to meet up to look at more houses. A sense of a dome, levelled, intricate ceilinged.
Outside of the house, waiting to get on the bus to go look at houses, searching the trunk of my car for a weapon, because sosmemone on the bus is coming at me with a pipe, or some other blunt force instrument. Searching, and I find the Stop Being Fucked Up Stick, which is a steel pipe, about four feet long. He comes at me, swinging, and I block, block again, hit him in the chest, and sweep his legs out from under him.
In the house, reading and waiting for everyone to get ready. We can go to the other houses, from inside this one. But I'm still thinking about Cashell Court, wanting to go down there. I've told people about it, and they said that after we were done. We look at the bedroom, in this house again, reflecting on the ways it might not be so bad. Thinking about the staircases, the railings and over-hangs. Moving furniture, repainting walls. We talk about all off this, and the house starts to become a combination of the wanted parts, the potential that it could be, again.
Walking outside, thinkg about the house on Cashell Court, again, knowing we don't have time. I can't make it down there, and back, on foot, in the minute and thirty seconds before we had to leave. Not and be able to look around. I resolve myself to not seeing the place again, and move on, walking, riding, piling into the car, with the others.
Eight people in a small car. Nate and James, and Crew. Going to the Movies, a concert, something. Feels like a St Patick's Day celebration; all spring and drunken. There are people in the audience who knnow me, from my childhood, cartoon characters who've watched me my whole life. The Simpsons are there. Bart is onstage, drunk, dancing with the performers, burlesque dancers, can-can girls, all wild and organised and glittery. People begin to get upset, and Bart makes a speech. after his speech, everyone cheers, and it's time to leave. I know that Al and Kelly are there, but they haven't seen the same thing that some of us saw. I know that some people were watching movies on the back wall. As I pass, someone snickers at me, laughs at me, and I turn around, kneel down next to them, put my face Really close to theirs, stare at the screen, and whisper in a really creepy and intense voice, "How's the movie? You enjoying it? You having a good time? That's really great. You should keep it up." And I walk away. They all look at each other, and start laughing at each other, with each other, for being assholes.
Leavng the theater, the stairwell becomes the stairs from schools. Trying to get out, trying to be Outside, in the warming night air, it smelss like clean fresh spring, and I don't want to be inside, anymore. Up above, I see![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hametsunosaturn, and she's dyed her hair blue. She turns around, on that level, and goes back. The people I'm with don't think I can get up there, don't think I actually saw her, but I know better and am determined to prove it. I trek back up the three levels and now the stairs are a combination of indoor and outdoor stairs, in the way a parking deck or a colleseum is both inside and outside, at once. I walk up to the level she's on, and see her around the corner, around some pillars, talking to a group of people. I leave her to talk, and go back to the stairs.
I'm on the top level, and I'm inhabiting the body of a man named Michael, who's addicted to the state of ecstatic trances. When in these states, he can see people, fully, whole, and know their flaws, and the perfections, and tell true things about them. But he can only do it through sculpture. These tiny clay and foil sculptures made of neon-metallic clay and foil, and he weaves their truths and persons into these things, so that anyone who looks at them can see the person, know that person, in that piece of art. There is a woman, and she loves Michael, and wants him to stop, because she needs him, now. Needs him to be there, for her, to help her, because there are major problems coming.
He is imprinting someone, some girl he knows, and blasts her for her empty self-satisfaction and he happiness at being a part of a tradition that doesn't even know she exists. He finally hears the woman in his life. Hears her pleading for him to stop, and he stutters in his creations, loses the thread of a truth, and can look to see the blue, cloud-flecked sky, at the top of the colleseum, the flat terrace garden level, serenity, and the tiny corner in which he has walled himself... He jabs his fingernail three times, into the foil in an arc, a falling ellipises, and he tears himself from the trance state. He stumbles to his feet, having been sitting so long, and runs to the toilet, vomiting up mucous and ectoplasm. He's sweating like a man in detox, and he is shivering, because he's too warm, and they know they're going to be okay. With a distinct start and displacement, I wake up
I need to get drunk. I mean, weekend-party, no-expectations, let-it-all-go, sitting-around-in-a-yard-in-a-house-with-a-bunch-of-people-I-like Drunk. I haven't had that kind of 'carefree,' Just Have Fun kind of experience since around late 2004...
Someone throw a party. Not a punk party, or an eighties party. I just want to go to a party. I want to be comfortable around people enough to get trashed in front of them, again, to not have things peter out or berak down. Just... A nice party...
Hmm...
Time for breakfast.
Wandering into the complex, because you couldn't drive there, not unless you were with everyone with whom you were leaving there, looking longingly down Cashell Court, and remembering the townhouse, from Gathersburg; knowing that it was down there, waiting, along with the houses of so many people I miss and love, and can't find. I want to go down that road, so badly, but we have to meet up to look at more houses. A sense of a dome, levelled, intricate ceilinged.
Outside of the house, waiting to get on the bus to go look at houses, searching the trunk of my car for a weapon, because sosmemone on the bus is coming at me with a pipe, or some other blunt force instrument. Searching, and I find the Stop Being Fucked Up Stick, which is a steel pipe, about four feet long. He comes at me, swinging, and I block, block again, hit him in the chest, and sweep his legs out from under him.
In the house, reading and waiting for everyone to get ready. We can go to the other houses, from inside this one. But I'm still thinking about Cashell Court, wanting to go down there. I've told people about it, and they said that after we were done. We look at the bedroom, in this house again, reflecting on the ways it might not be so bad. Thinking about the staircases, the railings and over-hangs. Moving furniture, repainting walls. We talk about all off this, and the house starts to become a combination of the wanted parts, the potential that it could be, again.
Walking outside, thinkg about the house on Cashell Court, again, knowing we don't have time. I can't make it down there, and back, on foot, in the minute and thirty seconds before we had to leave. Not and be able to look around. I resolve myself to not seeing the place again, and move on, walking, riding, piling into the car, with the others.
Eight people in a small car. Nate and James, and Crew. Going to the Movies, a concert, something. Feels like a St Patick's Day celebration; all spring and drunken. There are people in the audience who knnow me, from my childhood, cartoon characters who've watched me my whole life. The Simpsons are there. Bart is onstage, drunk, dancing with the performers, burlesque dancers, can-can girls, all wild and organised and glittery. People begin to get upset, and Bart makes a speech. after his speech, everyone cheers, and it's time to leave. I know that Al and Kelly are there, but they haven't seen the same thing that some of us saw. I know that some people were watching movies on the back wall. As I pass, someone snickers at me, laughs at me, and I turn around, kneel down next to them, put my face Really close to theirs, stare at the screen, and whisper in a really creepy and intense voice, "How's the movie? You enjoying it? You having a good time? That's really great. You should keep it up." And I walk away. They all look at each other, and start laughing at each other, with each other, for being assholes.
Leavng the theater, the stairwell becomes the stairs from schools. Trying to get out, trying to be Outside, in the warming night air, it smelss like clean fresh spring, and I don't want to be inside, anymore. Up above, I see
hametsunosaturn, and she's dyed her hair blue. She turns around, on that level, and goes back. The people I'm with don't think I can get up there, don't think I actually saw her, but I know better and am determined to prove it. I trek back up the three levels and now the stairs are a combination of indoor and outdoor stairs, in the way a parking deck or a colleseum is both inside and outside, at once. I walk up to the level she's on, and see her around the corner, around some pillars, talking to a group of people. I leave her to talk, and go back to the stairs.I'm on the top level, and I'm inhabiting the body of a man named Michael, who's addicted to the state of ecstatic trances. When in these states, he can see people, fully, whole, and know their flaws, and the perfections, and tell true things about them. But he can only do it through sculpture. These tiny clay and foil sculptures made of neon-metallic clay and foil, and he weaves their truths and persons into these things, so that anyone who looks at them can see the person, know that person, in that piece of art. There is a woman, and she loves Michael, and wants him to stop, because she needs him, now. Needs him to be there, for her, to help her, because there are major problems coming.
He is imprinting someone, some girl he knows, and blasts her for her empty self-satisfaction and he happiness at being a part of a tradition that doesn't even know she exists. He finally hears the woman in his life. Hears her pleading for him to stop, and he stutters in his creations, loses the thread of a truth, and can look to see the blue, cloud-flecked sky, at the top of the colleseum, the flat terrace garden level, serenity, and the tiny corner in which he has walled himself... He jabs his fingernail three times, into the foil in an arc, a falling ellipises, and he tears himself from the trance state. He stumbles to his feet, having been sitting so long, and runs to the toilet, vomiting up mucous and ectoplasm. He's sweating like a man in detox, and he is shivering, because he's too warm, and they know they're going to be okay. With a distinct start and displacement, I wake up
I need to get drunk. I mean, weekend-party, no-expectations, let-it-all-go, sitting-around-in-a-yard-in-a-house-with-a-bunch-of-people-I-like Drunk. I haven't had that kind of 'carefree,' Just Have Fun kind of experience since around late 2004...
Someone throw a party. Not a punk party, or an eighties party. I just want to go to a party. I want to be comfortable around people enough to get trashed in front of them, again, to not have things peter out or berak down. Just... A nice party...
Hmm...
Time for breakfast.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-03-19 08:09 pm (UTC)Kids, especially, recognize the joy in the perverse.
Not that you should forgive people for ruining your movies, but the pleasure in such ass actions are recognizable for what they are; you're just incidental, the stupidity is the focus.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-20 02:44 am (UTC)