a songstress in the making : camilla st. john

[cajun_songbird]

<center>as your rapturous voice escapes, i will tremble in prayer
and i'll beg for forgiveness.
your sins into me, oh my beautiful one.

----

</center>


Tape Transcript
Session 12
January 30th -- 3:45 p.m.


"Good afternoon, Camilla, how are you today?"

She eyed Dr. Bartholomew oddly over the rim of her glasses, smoke trailing up into her eyes from the cigarette hanging from her lip.

"Who body snatched you?"

"Just exchanging pleasantries, Cam. Is it so difficult to simply reply back?"

"You're odd."

"Mhm.."

Words trailed off as he jotted something down in his notebook. ( has trouble accepting common courtesy; acts suspicious right offhand )

"Anyway, we're going to do a word associate game today, just with a little twist considering your musically influenced background. How is that with you?"

".... whatever. Let's go."

Another moment of writing. ( seems to have reverted back to the un-emotional stage )

"You writin' a book or analyzin' me? Pick one, I got shit to do."

"Fine. I'll say a word, you tell me a song lyric that comes to mind. Alright?"

"Cool. Get it over with already."

Silence.

"As you wish. The first word is 'childhood'. And please state the artist and song title."

"Nothing's ever wrong, but nothing's ever right. Burning Bright, Shinedown."

"I see you've upgraded to a lot of .. modern music."

"Yup, keep goin'."

Jot.

"Love."

" Everything falls apart, even the people who never frown eventually break down. Pushing Me Away, Linkin Park."

"Anger."

"And I wonder day to day, I don't like you anyway. I don't need your shit today, you're pathetic in your own way. I feel for you, better fuckin' go away. Whatever, Godsmack."

She smiled a little towards the doctor, the expression not pleasant.

"Sadness."

"Everytime we say goodbye, I wonder why a little. Everytime We Say Goodbye, Ella Fitzgerald."

"Happiness."

"I know the breakdown, everything is gonna shake down someday. Breakdown, Tantric."

Another not so pleasant smile directed his way. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Abandonment."

"Wouldn't that tie in with sadness?"

"Song lyric, Ms. St. John."

He was perturbed; went back to the Ms.

"Fine. Tell me you've had trouble sleepin', that you toss and turn from side to side. That it's my face you've been seein' in your dreams at night. It's Not Just Me, Rascal Flatts."

"Empowerment."

"The record shows, I took the blows, and did it my way. My Way, Sinatra."

He finished writing in his little notebook and shut it promptly, hands clasping in front of him as he glanced her way.

"Thank you, Camilla, that will be all for today."

"Mhm. Hey, Doc, can ya do me a favor? Won't take but two seconds, I promise."

Silence.

"If I can. What is it?"

"Tell them I said hi, would ya?"

With that, she turned and walked out of the door, leaving behind one very confused, very nervous psychiatrist.

[cajun_songbird]

<center>looking back at me i see that i never really got it right
i never stopped to think of you
i'm always wrapped up in things i can not win

----</center>


( One )

Full Name: Camilla Violet St. John
Goes by: Cam
Occupation: Jazz/blues singer
Current age: 22
Date of birth: November 9th, 1921
Birthplace: Lafayette, Louisiana -- Bossier Parish

Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of parent(s):
Harris Michael St. John.: 42, unknown
Analee Beatrice St. John: 40, unknown

Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of sibling(s):
Samuel Michael St. John: 24, deceased

Height: 5'2"
Weight: 115 lbs.
Hair color: Brown
Eye color: Blue-violet
Heritage/Nationality: Cajun-French
Religion: Catholic
Marital status: n/a
Children: n/a

( Two )

Likes: music, piano, sheet music, edgar allen poe, and alcohol
Dislikes: closed mindedness, rudeness, stalking
Dreams: to wake up every morning
Phobias: cats, technology, and pumps.

( Three: Do you )

Smoke: Nope, the cigarette does.
Cuss: The hell kinda question is that?
Sing well: That's how I make a living, so I hope so.
Sing in the shower: Great acoustics.
Talk to yourself: Sometimes.
Believe in yourself: I only believe what I see. I can see myself in the mirror.
Play an instrument: Piano.
Want to get married?: No.
Want to have children?: Hell no.
Think you're a health freak?: Chocolate is a food group.
Get along with your parents?: If hoping they'll kick off is getting along with them.
Get along with your siblings?: He doesn't talk back, doesn't put up a fuss. Dead siblings, the way to go.

( Four: Current )

Clothes: Black cotton pajama bottoms, dark red t-shirt
Mood: Blank
Taste: French Vanilla coffee and nicotene
Annoyance: Cell phones
Book you're reading: Collected Works of Edgar Allen Poe
CD in CD Player: Frank Sinatra; The Voice
DVD in player: n/a
Refreshment: French Vanilla coffee
Worry: Learning these new songs by Friday

( Five: Favorites )

Food: Cheese wonton
Drink: Coffee, any kind
Color: Red
Album: Anything before 1940
Candy: Gummy bears
Animal: n/a
TV Show: n/a
Movie: Casablanca
Girl's name & Boy's name: n/a
Vegetable: Celery
Fruit: Apple

( Six )

If I were a month, I'd be: December
If I were a day of the week, I'd be: Tuesday
If I were a time of day, I'd be: Midnight
If I were a planet, I'd be: Saturn
If I were a sea animal, I'd be: Underwater
If I were a direction, I'd be: That way
If I were a piece of furniture, I'd be: Comfortable
If I were a sin, I'd be: Gluttony
If I were a historical figure, I'd be: Dead
If I were a liquid, I'd be: Bourbon
If I were a tree, I'd be: Leafy
If I were a bird, I'd be: Canary. Har.
If I were a flower, I'd be: Camilla. Har again.
If I were a kind of weather, I'd be: Stormy
If I were a mythical creature, I'd be: Not believed in.
If I were a musical instrument, I'd be: Piano
If I were an animal, I'd be: Hunted
If I were a color, I'd be: Vibrant
If I were an emotion, I'd be: Bi-polar
If I were a vegetable, I'd be: Eaten
If I were a sound, I'd be: A Gershwin composition
If I were an element, I'd be: Worshipped by Pagans
If I were a car, I'd be: Wrecked
If I were a song, I'd be: Melancholy
If I were a movie, I'd be: A silent film
If I were a food, I'd be: Vegan-friendly
If I were a place, I'd be: Desolate
If I were a material, I'd be: Silk
If I were a taste, I'd be: Lingering
If I were a scent, I'd be: Aromatic
If I were a religion, I'd be: Catholic
If I were a word, I'd be: A curse
If I were an object, I'd be: Collecting dust
If I were a body part, I'd be: Handy
If I were a facial expression, I'd be: Indescribable
If I were a part of a house, I'd be: Cluttered
If I were a subject in school, I'd be: Useless
If I were a cartoon character, I'd be: Drawn
If I were a shape, I'd be a: Round
If I were a number, I'd be: Infinite

<font color="#ad865d" size="1">[ February 01, 2005 02:27 AM: Message edited by: quarter notes ]</font>

[cajun_songbird]

"She knows."

"Knows what? How the hell would she know?"

"I don't know how she knows. She came in for a session, and before she left, she told me to tell you hello. The smart ass bitch."

"Now now, she's your patient."

Amusement floated over the line.

"What do you want me to do about it? She's due here in ten minutes."

"When she gets there, speed dial me and make sure the speaker phone is on. I'll mute mine. Don't fuck this up."

With that, the line died.

On the other side of the door, she smiled to herself and headed back for her chair as the receptionist returned from a coffee break.

"Are you ready for your session, Ms. St. John?"

The woman was mousy-- non-descript with a sunny disposition. Cam glanced up from the magazine she was pretending to read and mirrored the other's bright smile.

"Oh yeah. I'm ready."

That was the understatement of the decade.

[cajun_songbird]

[ modified log ]


The magazine was out of date. They were always out of date. As much money as these people charged, you'd think there'd be a current issue of People somewhere. Glancing up as the receptionist led the way into the office, a smile was offered as she followed. Hand smoothing down the black material of her skirt, she spied the shrink hanging up the phone as time as she walked in. Convenient. "Busy day, Doc Bart?" Cheerful tone. The nickname irked him. "Always, Ms. St. John. Have a seat." Settling into the hard back torture device aka a chair, a look was given to her watch.

Quiet, unobstrusive, pressing within with the uneasy demeanor of the habitually neurotic soul. Quiet words with the secretary, mainly seeing if there was any open appointments with the good doctor. He went so far as to make an appointment, however, under the name Zip Manning. As quietly, looking at his hands, urg. Stranger-cooties. He slid towards the bathroom. Quietly to get into the toilets workings, deft as any three year old with rocks, to make the toilet bubble over.

She looked to her watch, he looked at the phone. Doc Bart was counting on the fact she'd be too busy driving him crazy to notice the red light. No mention of her parting words the other day; he was breathing a little easier. Two people, three sets of ears-- he wasn't accustomed to working like this. The tape recorder was started. "Session 13 recording started. We'll skip the name stating. How are you feeling?" Quiet browns watched her carefully as she lit a cigarette. "I'm doin' well, thanks for askin', yourself?" Pleasantries from the ice bitch. He was getting nervous. "Fine. I notice you keep checking your watch. Have a later appointment?" A smile from her. "I'm expecting company later." Let him mull that over. Dead silence from the phone.

Simple and effective, he merely swept up one of the chairs to neatly brace it against the doorknob. Tilting his head carefully to gauge the effect, it should take the woman at least ten minutes to figure out the door hadn't just swung closed behind her. He paused, ludicrously taking the moment to adjust his cuffs before stepping to the doctors door. Gloved hand rested to the door, head tilting to listen.

"Company?" The question in his voice almost matched the wariness. He had learned not to let his guard down around her. She was tricky. "Mhm. You keep lookin' at the phone, expectin' an important call?" Serenity from her side. "All my calls are important." Bland. Dry. "Of course they are." Up to her feet she went, smoke trailing over her shoulder like a scarf. "Really important, dependin' on who's there." Another look to her watch, lethargic movements. She wasn't in a hurry. Poor ol' Doc Bart looked kind of pale.

A faint draw of smile fleeted across the quiet features, faint, unpleasant. As if enjoying listening, willing to let the mind game continue.

He pulled at the collar of his shirt. "Yes, of course." A nod for her words. "Have you been having any more problems?" Pen was lifted to begin jotting down notes. Or to start drawing cartoons-- whatever he did. "Nope, it's been quiet." She turned to face him fully. "I wonder why that is." Feigned-confused brow arch from his direction.

Slow turn of the handle. Very slow. It was for effect.

Cue horror movie music. "I have no idea. Please have a seat." Voice as dry as the Sahara. "I prefer standin'. Makes things easier." Head tilting, eyes sliding from her watch to the door, then back down. The Doc looked ready to keel over.

Careful, he pushed open the door. Hardly an imposing figure, his head lowered, apologetic seeming through the fall of bangs. A step within, quietly ineffectual, to push the door closed behind him. "I'm sorry, I think I'm a bit early."

Doctor Bartholomew nearly fell out of his chair when the door opened. Imposing, no. Unexpected, very. Cam glanced up with a wry smile. "Nah, just on time. Doc Bart, Des. I've told you about him." Nodding with that, he tried smiling at the youth. "I've heard a lot about you," trying to come across as sincere. She was wandering around to his side of the desk now, absently.

A glance upwards only fell back to the floor, hopelessly shy, even his voice was little more than a series of rolling whispers. A nod and a slight shrug, self effacing. A slight movement of his wrist, almost sharp, as if getting the cuff to settle properly. He knew, however, to hide the gleam of steel in the cage of his fingers for the moment.

Eyes were on the phone now, the corner of her mouth uptilting. "Fais dodo, Colas mon p'tit fr?re," quietly singing as a hand dropped to the Doctor's chair. One of those roller kinds-- it was given a slight push forward, then a tug backwards. Testing. He had bypassed nervous now. "Ms. St. John, if you'll return to your seat. You as well, .. Des." No formality, he didn't know the last name. Sweat beaded on his brow.

"But she's singing." He lifted his gaze finally, his voice smoothing, silked, a widening of his eyes that was sheer insanity pretending to be gentle.

"Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo. Maman est en haut." Voice fading a little as she pulled back, fingers still on his chair. "I know what you're doing." Pretenses dropped, his hand darted for the phone, only to have the chair pulled back abruptly. She didn't like interruptions during a solo. Blue-violets lifted finally to glance to Des. Flat, emotionless. Sociopathic. The doctor was silent. For right now.

A swing of steel in his fingertips, a scalpel held in easy veiw; sweetly tremulous the smile in the glide foreward to place himself at the doctors knee. A tilting of his head and silence. The throat-level hover of the scalpel spoke for itself.

Now that the good doctor was finally quiet and had Des' rapt attention -- returning it with an unblinking stare to the scalpel, she continued. "..qui fait des gateaux.." Fingers gliding towards the phone, lifting it from its cradle. Mouthpiece adjusted appropriately. "Papa est en bas.. qui fait du chocolat.." The voice on the other line sounded abruptly, more of a curse than an actual word.

His gaze remained steady, dark, with an empty curiousity of a cats watching a mouse hole.

"You think yer funny, dontcha?" Her first conversation with her admirer. She was agog. "I know I am, how are you?" Cordial tone. Doc was still alternating his gaze between the boy and the scalpel. "You don't want to do this, son. There's an easy way out of this." Cam rolled a look to the two.

"Of course there is." Warm. Hideously warm.

"Honestly, there is. He's.. he's not far from here..." Apparently, the Doc favored his health-- didn't mind spilling his guts ( figuratively ) to avoid it happening literally. "Tell that quack to shut the fuck up." She glanced to the almost blubbering shrink. "He said shut the fuck up. If you need help, Des will be more than happy to volunteer." Smile. Static on the line for the now.

"Where?" Soft, purring depth of tone as he slowly crouched to gaze within the doctors eyes.

Cam placed the call back on speaker phone. It was rude to not include people in a conversation, if they needed to hear it. The rough voice sounded abruptly. "If you open your goddamn mouth, I swear, they'll be pickin' pieces of you up off the sidewalk..." She rolled her eyes again. "You sound like a broken record," was all she had to say before ending the call. Expectant look to the Doc. He was crying-- crying. "We've had a break through!" Couldn't help herself. "He set up a place four streets over from where she lives. It's called... fuck.." He was scouring his brain for the apartment building name.

His gaze never shifted, never wavered. Patience itself in an expectant silence.

He was about to wet himself. She smiled. "....Yorkshire Apartments. Top floor, penthouse. John Marseau." His eyes turned imploring; the kid looked compassionate, even while holding a scalpel. "Don't kill me." Don't mind her making violin motions just behind the Doc's head.

"You're dead either way, you know." It sounded compassionate. "But are you telling the truth?"

His hands were clasped against his chest now. A grown man crying-- begging. It touched her, really. "I swear. It's the truth. I swear.." His thought pattern; I knew this broad was gonna be the death of me.

"We have to get out of here." Quietly noted to Cam as he straightened, though his gaze remained carefully on the cornered man.

"Yeah, I'm figurin' a goon squad will be here shortly." She was already gathering up her purse, no second looks to the doctor. One day soon, she was going to find out why Des was so good at this stuff. Doc Bart had his chin tucked to his chest-- still blubbering.

It was remarkably swift, powerful, backhanded to avoid the inevitable, but he did have a clean shirt and jacket just in case. A slash of the mans jugular before backing away and stepping after Cam as calmly as ever. Easy glide, already removing a handkercheif to wipe the blade.

The blubbering cut off immediately, but she didn't look back. Read the Bible, see what happened to Lot's wife because of that. "It's hard to find good shrinks in this town," was all she offered as the door was pulled open, a sideglance to the blade cleaning. Poor broken marionette psychiatrist. Somebody cut his string.

The handkerchief tucked away, pausing again to fixate on his cuffs. Actually, to press the scalpel back into the slender hilt stitched into the cuff. A slight lift of brow and faint fade of smile with his shrug. He snagged his coat and trailed out after Cam.

<font color="#ECE6CA"><font size="1">[ February 04, 2005 02:59 AM: Message edited by: quarter notes ]</font></font>

<font color="#ECE6CA"><font size="1">[ February 04, 2005 03:02 AM: Message edited by: quarter notes ]</font></font>

<font color="#ECE6CA" size="1">[ February 04, 2005 03:06 AM: Message edited by: quarter notes ]</font>

[cajun_songbird]

<center>

I found a window in the kitchen and I let myself in.
Rummaged through the refrigerator, poured myself a beer.
I can't believe I'm really here and she's lying in that bed.
I can almost feel her touch and her anxious breath.
I stumble in the hallway, outside her bedroom door.
I hear her call out to me, I hear the fear in her voice.
She pulls the covers tighter, I press against the door.
I will be with her tonight.</center>

( tyler ; the toadies )

[cajun_songbird]

<center>When I was only just a friend to you.
All I wanted to do was get to know you better.
Now I wanna give my heart to you.
Tell me do you feel like I do when were together.

Cause I come alive with your touch.
Your touch it always sets me free .
I can't get quite enough.
Too much of you is what I need.
Yes I know you're the one.
Cause love has come alive in me.

Tell me am I out of line.
Tell me if I'm wasting time, I don't mind.
Giving my love to you.
I can't help it baby.
If I asked you would you say I do.

Cause I come alive with your touch.
Your touch it always sets me free.
I can't get quite enough.
Too much of you is what I need.
Yes I know you're the one.
Cause love has come alive in me.

Tell me why do I always have to tell you how I feel.
Can't you see you're the one, the only thing.
That ever meant something to me.
And I need your touch.
To come alive.

Nothing else is like the way you make me come alive</center>


( touch ; jonny lang )

[cajun_songbird]

<center>she isn't real.
i can't make her real.

----</center>

Life was starting to feel like a figment of her own imagination; nothing real, everything insubstantial and ready to fly away like so much ash in the wind. The news was playing on the television-- muted background noise in a world of white static and distortion.

"Body found earlier today.. office... throat slit... no details.... receptionist locked in..."

The fragments didn't seem to want to make sense. A broken faerie tale with no beginning, middle, or end. Random verbiage slapped on a white sheet, stated in a monotone voice. That's all someone's life was anymore. Tragedy, switch cameras, good news.

The television screen exploded into a million tiny fragments. Smoke from the end of a barrel -- ears ringing -- hand tingling -- eyes unfocused.

What sort of life were people living? Were they really living or simply waiting -- year after year -- to die? Rumpled clothes and coffee mugs, the cacophony of non-sound littering her living room.

The radio was playing.

".. a chance to think am I drinkin' too much? Should I keep goin' or lose the life that I love.."

It ended abruptly with the force of ceramic shattering the silicone and plastic. More white static to fill the overflowing, empty room. A hitching sob was the only real music here; nothing more left to show, nothing more left to give.

Another crashing sound. More ceramic, this time hitting glass and causing prized pictures to fall vacantly to the floor-- stoic faces gazing up to a ceiling that wasn't there for them, and wasn't visible to the dead eyes.

Destroyed, like everything else. Useless, like she was becoming. Unimportant, like everything outside her world was. Sheet music turned to razor edged snow in a physical avalanche. Flurry of movement leaving nothing untouched-- nothing except for one thing.

The centerpiece of the room tucked away in the corner. It was silence, but the presence was well-known and always there. A foot lifted just enough to send it, in all it's silent glory, to the floor on its side.

With its partial destruction came her downfall, a muted cry as knees gave out-- forehead pressing to cool, bare wood. Nails digging in towards palms, the blood starkly trailing against the floor. A price paid.

An overworked delusion birthed and slaughtered in the same breath.

<font color="#ECE6CA" size="1">[ February 05, 2005 04:55 AM: Message edited by: quarter notes ]</font>

[cajun_songbird]

<center>you got it, you got it bad, when you're on the phone.
hang up and you call right back.
you got it, you got it bad, if you miss a day without your friend,
your whole life's off track.
you know you got it bad when you're stuck in the house,
you don't wanna have fun.
he's all you think about.
you got it bad when you're out with someone
but you keep on thinking 'bout somebody else.

----</center>

Fuck you. Do you like that? Fuck you, fuck your people, fuck your vendetta, fuck your cause, fuck your poison, fuck your job, fuck your city, fuck your everything.

Just fuck you. You can take this whole goddamn thing and shove it up your ass crossways, because you know what? I'm fucking tired of you. If I ever see you, or catch you alone, I'm going to rip your goddamn head off and shove it up your goddamn ass.

How's that? Is that good? Fuck you and everything you've ever mother fucking stood for, and every mother fucking thing you're ever going to stand for.

Just. Fuck. You.

[cajun_songbird]

<center>there's such a sad love, deep in your eyes
a kind of pale jewel, opened and closed within your eyes
i'll place the sky within your eyes
there's such a fooled heart beating so fast
in search of new dreams, a love that will last within your heart
i'll place the moon within your heart
as the pain sweeps through, makes no sense for you
everything thrill he caused wasn't too much fun at all
but i'll be there for you as the world falls down

----</center>

In the midst of the new wreckage, there sat a woman alone. No ties to the world, no thought in her head, and no care in her eyes. A self inflicted disaster in a crime scene that held no crime.

.. all her fault, all her fault, all her fault ..

The phone had been plugged back up, but when it rang, the hollow noise filled the room-- given no notice. The answering machine had about fifty messages on it, all the same thing.

.. time running out.. coming soon .. bitch .. killed doctor ..

Arms wrapped around her knees. Chin dropped to her arms. Eyes leveled on the bottom of the phone cord. Incomplete thoughts for an incomplete woman. The voice just kept coming over the line-- over and over again.

The blood was still on the floor.

The piano was still dying.

The television was still shattered.

The radio only played static.

She wasn't real anymore.

<font color="#ECE6CA"><font size="1">[ February 06, 2005 01:13 AM: Message edited by: quarter notes ]</font></font>

<font color="#ECE6CA" size="1">[ February 06, 2005 10:55 PM: Message edited by: quarter notes ]</font>

[cajun_songbird]

the shadows on the wall spell your name
drivin' me crazy, yeah, makin' me not know what to do
the secondary glances that you cast my way
those i can't take, baby, i'm through

fendin' for a light that i know ain't there
got sparkles in my eyes and dewdrops in my hair
stretch out my hand only to keep reachin'
all those lessons learned that i wish that you weren't teachin'

all my words don't mean nothin'
kinda like breathin' in a room full of dust
you speak to me like magic
but it's those spells you weave that i can't trust

holdin' on to a dream that you know ain't there
it kinda makes you wanna scream, but i ain't got the air to spare
gotta glass full of bourbon and an ashtray full of smoke
mystical hands around my throat, feels like i'm gonna choke

<font color="#ECE6CA" size="1">[ February 06, 2005 02:04 AM: Message edited by: quarter notes ]</font>