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December 29th, 2004, 09:12 PM
#1
HB Forum Owner
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December 31st, 2004, 10:48 PM
#2
HB Forum Owner
Sunlight split in through the cracks that curtains and shades made, streaking white light across a darkened hotel room. He had done everything possible the evening before to shut out any and all light sources, so far as to clench the pillow around his head, with just enough room to breathe the non-stale air. Blankets and sheets that had been properly turned down by housekeeping were now ruined, hospital corners untucked and all linens wrapped around him at the hip like a spiral of thread around its spool. The twist and turn motions that sleep brought had pulled his spine into a slight bowed curve, arms dangling over his head to keep the nicely fluffed pillow in place. In the background, an electric turntable played a barely audible swell of Madama Butterfly to accompany sleep.
He didn't distinctly remember the sound of a slamming fist against a door in the middle of the libretto. It pulled him from sleep gradually. The music crescendoed, the knocking grew louder and quicker, and he pried eyes open to greet darkness. Sighing, he pulled the pillow tighter around his head and groaned. "I don't need any towels!"
It persisted, nevertheless.
"I'm busy fucking the bellboy!"
More knocking. Angrier this time.
"Alright, alright, alright. Jesus." Rolling onto his back, Harlen swung legs over the edge of the mattress and stuck them into the denim jeans he had deposited on the floor the night before. Hoisting them up over hips, he was fastening his belt in place when his hand wrapped around the doorknob. He paused a moment, a clear image of the person on the other side of the door starting to buzz from memory.
"Be gone, devil woman!"
"Open this door, Harlen!"
"Nevaaaah!" Smearing a hand over his face, he tentatively approached the window. Swinging the curtains back, he managed it in one swift jerk like tearing a bandage from tender skin. The bright blast of sunlight almost made him stumble back like a vampire. Glancing across at the clock, bleary eyes focused in on the time. 12:25.
"I'm tired of this, Prophet! The Messenger is wandering around lost, and you've forgotten your--"
"His name is Asher, Moira. Asher Malachi Stanton. He's a person. He's a person who eats food and goes to the bathroom and has sex with his fiancee and is getting married. He is not your little poppet to play with anymore. No more titles!"
"Harlen!"
"Go away, I'm getting in the shower!"
"I'm finding the source of this nonsense, you know! I'm finding it, and soon enough, you won't have any distractions in this city left to derail you!"
"Okay!"
The sounds of her feet storming down the hallway were enough to satisfy him as he suddenly became quite aware of the date. Settling down on the edge of the mattress, he slumped shoulders over and reached into his pocket for a piece of paper. The handwriting scrawled all over it screamed out messages from a busy, logical brain. The clairvoyant came in handy for more than company, it seemed.
Picking up the reciever, Harlen dialed numbers quickly and searched for a copycat cigarette in the interim.
<font color="#000000" size="1">[ December 31, 2004 08:11 PM: Message edited by: pretty things ]</font>
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January 3rd, 2005, 09:56 AM
#3
HB Forum Owner
In the safety of his own bed, tangled up in sheets, Harlen arched his spine against the mattress as he turned over onto his stomach. The side of his face went buried in the pillow, and the room was a heavy pitch black, silence broken by the faint arias of Carl Orff that he set rotating in some silly tribute to an upside down afternoon. Something about his nerves had turned jittery upon arriving back at the hotel. It was a telltale sign, the speeding up of an already erratic heartbeat. He could feel it barelling for him like a freight train, and the scary part of it was the purity of his blood. No pills, no powders, not even a drop of caffeine.
Moments like these flashed him back to teenage years. Autumns spent in Western Massachusetts, decked out in blazer and tie for class. There were those moments where he felt like this, like everything was speeding up around him. After that he rarely remembered anything else.
In a crash of light and erratic snapshot motion, there was something behind eyes. No longer the normal comforting blackness that he could slide effortlessly into. No, this took much more work. After the intial snap and flash of it all, he found himself roused on the floor of his hotel room, still in a tangle of sheets and now with some phantom ache in the back of his head.
He had heard voices. He had seen faces.
Clawing at memory, he knew how important it was for him to remember them. For some reason, they slipped and faded off into some space between. Harlen hunched over his knees and beat his brain. Remember. Remember. Fucking remember. The strain of it all had his stomach tying itself in knots, and soon the familiar feeling that he could no longer attribute to too many pills or lines started to waver in his stomach. A slow, warm, steady rising. Shuffling to clumsy feet, he barelled forward and fell into the bathroom, collapsing on knees and using a hand to brace himself on the sink. The contents of his stomach were emptied in a few rough, heaving chokes forward. Left with the sting of it all in his eyes and searing at the back of his throat, he collapsed back and attempted to catch breath. Still his heart hammered. His pulse raced. He could feel his eyes twitching behind their lids when he closed them. Slow down. The important part of it all was to just slow down.
There had always been someone to explain. Someone to tell him what to do next. Now, he was without her. Without the guide, there was nothing. He had to tell himself what to do, what step was next on the list, what he was supposed to get out of this.
What would Moira do?
No. He couldn't think like that anymore. What would Harlen do? Harlen.
Swaying, he stood, his stomach still fragile and his nose and throat tender from the entire ordeal. A handful of water was scooped into his mouth from the sink's faucet and spit back out again. Contents were flushed away. Leave it be. Let it settle for now. In the morning, he could try to sift something out. In a shuffle of heavy steps, he collapsed weakly back on the mattress and yanked the covers over his head, groaning into the pillow. He had no interest in greeting the morning.
'Morning' sounded too much like 'Moira' for his liking.
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January 6th, 2005, 01:26 AM
#4
HB Forum Owner
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The Life Cafe was a staple in Manhattan social structure. Located right across from Tompkins Square Park, the black awning with yellow lettering and scrawl signaled some sort of portal into a new, hip world. The East Village was somewhere alive with color and art, structured in taboo -- the back drop to performance art, protest, riot, youth and revolution. It was somewhere Asher Stanton would feel uncomfortable, which was exactly the reason Harlen chose this place instead any stuffy uptown bistro with waiters dressed like funeral mourners. Here, the place boiled with anticipation and excitement. The chalk board propped outside announced the day's specials, and inside, Asher and Harlen sat across from one another, one looking around in suspicion, the other deciding to flirt shamelessly with the waiter.
"He's cute.."
"Hn?" Asher looked up from studying the pattern of the tabletop. Some painting covered in glass that he didn't recognize. Too modern.
"The waiter, I mean."
"Oh. If.. yew say so, I suppose." Shrugging, he pulled open the menu and decided to do his best to avoid the awkward subject altogether, preening eyes over a selection of food.
"Do I make you uncomfortable, Asher?"
"Wot?" Peeking back up again, he laughed the matter off and stared back down.
"Me. Do I make you uncomfortable?" Harlen's hand reached forward and placed itself over Asher's menu, blocking his vision from any further menu selections and forcing him to look back up, if only to tell him to knock it off.
"Well. No. No, yew don't make me uncomfortable. You're just.."
"Just what?"
"You're just very fast! And loud! And.. I don't know. I don't know wot to do with that! But I'm not uncomfortable. I'm very comfortable." Whether or not the Ecstatic was lying had no real bearing on Harlen. He couldn't quite tell, through nervous tics and slow speech what his true intentions were, so the subject was left wide open and waiting for a more appropriate time. "So wot did yew want to talk to me about?"
"Well. I take it you already know what happened with Moira and I."
"I do. I don't exactly understand why, but.."
"The why isn't important." Sipping from a glass of water, Harlen tapped his finger against the base and cleared a still-groggy throat. Sleep had weighed on him the night before and facing the morning was never an easy task. "The important thing is that she's now uninvolved."
"I thought yew were the uninvolved one."
"I am. But.. she is. It's.. well, it's difficult. Just because the Dynamic Duo of Moira and I have disbanded doesn't mean that the events we're dealing with here are just not going to happen. She wants to face them one way, and I want to face them another. So it's ... in all simple terms, really up to you what side you're on." Harlen stared across at Asher's blank and confused expression. It was still taking the prophet time to realize that the Messenger had been left in the dark, for the most part.
"Wot events."
"We don't know. Big ones. But.. the thing is, Moira wants to face them head on. She wants all humanity surrendered by the three of us. She's given up her life, and she expects us to do the same. And I don't want that. You, most certainly, don't want that. And you can't have it, I mean.. you have too much going on that you just can't ignore. You tried ignoring it, it doesn't work." Reference to the past seemed to turn wheels in Asher's brain. He remembered an emotional caesura, a pause in the music until it lifted back in and took time to get used to again. Harlen's voice rescued him from regret, a call back to shore. "And I'm just too goddamn self-absorbed to give my entire life to some stupid cause that makes me look more Buffy the Vampire Slayer than Harlen Prior, prophet at large. What I'm saying is, she'll come to you. She'll want you on her side, she'll want you adhering to her ideas. And I'm not here to make your choice for you, I'm just here to tell you what those ideas are."
"And wot are they?"
Harlen inhaled and used the loose motion of hands to illustrate as he spoke. "Our visions, our experiences, our episodes, whatever you want to call them. They're brought on by triggers. Broad triggers, certain states. Mine come when I'm sped up. Way too much coffee, too much sugar, too much anything. When I'm wired, they come, and the more wired I am, the clearer they are. Amphetamines, cocaine.. anything to speed me up was used whenever Miss Moira wanted something. You, on the other hand. Have you noticed when yours happen?"
"I can't say I have. There's no real pattern."
"But there is. Your visions, though few and far between, they.. they react to you being slowed down. Dramatically relaxed. Asleep, even. And when Moira wants them from you, she'll convince you that that's what you need to do. Be slowed down by any means necessary. Sedated."
The very notion seemed to only outwardly jar Asher slightly. Inside, there was a rush and tremble of contemplation and a stretch for memory. "I suppose so."
"She makes a good case, Asher. She'll do anything to get what she wants. But let me tell you, this isn't the fucking Matrix, and your fate is not reliant on a pill. There's not much else I can do but tell you that. There's no power in the artificial that she tries to sell you. Her intentions are good, but her methods are shit. There are other ways. More human ways for us to do this."
"Alright."
"Just take it.. just take it into consideration."
"I will, I will."
Glancing down at the menu, Harlen let a moment of silence hang over them before he chimed in again. "So. Miso soup or seaweed salad?"
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January 7th, 2005, 06:52 AM
#5
HB Forum Owner
This is not my bed, but that's never mattered before. The mattress is warm and indented with the shape of a body that I don't fit into. It's empty. I'm used to this too. I've already assumed my morning pose, someone else's pillow crunched over the back of my head as I stare face down into the sheets and squeeze my eyes closed. Even in the dark, there are annoying splotches of light. I can never get it dark enough. So instead of admitting defeat and facing the light of the morning (or early afternoon, depending), I stretch out, all limbs pointed in whatever direction I can manage.
I ache. But not in a bad way. In a very, very good way. In that way that reminds you exactly where you are, and what you did and what you're going to blush about later when you're telling your friends about it. Sadly enough, I've got no friends to really tell. That's the great part about all of this. It's a secret, a big hush hush affair. It's dangerous. It's all about stolen moments and the in between, which is consequentially what the two of us have always been hesitant about and tentative with. The in between always leaves you with questions. You can explain the then. You can make a rough sketch of the later. It's the in between. In between conversations, rooms, people, suspicions..
I realize that some of this ache is hangover ache. Motherfucker. Wine always socks it to me a la Aretha Franklin and I end up groaning and prancing around like Elizabeth Taylor in pearls and a robe. Be a lamb and fetch me my morning coffee, darling, because I'm absolutely spent. Sliding out of his sheets like the lump of bone and skin I am, I yank on jeans (and why, I'll never know, because no one's here. Something about wandering naked around someone else's house just seems too dirty for even me.) and make my foggy, stumbling way to the bathroom to stare at my face in the mirror for a moment. And good God. I look like a hag in the morning.
The shade of the previous day has settled over my face. My hair is wild and mismatched, sweeping in whatever direction it goddamn pleases. Turning, I make sure there's a lock on the door. I turn it and it clicks the outside world away.
On second thought, I unlock it. Things get interesting when you leave things unlocked. Jeans are kicked away and I crawl into the shower like I own the place, fumbling with water until it's not turning me into a lobster or an eskimo. There's a line that's been tossing around in my head since last night, a stretch of invented melody. I'm willing to settle with a fucking electric keyboard right now, if only because I need a piano like I need this shower. My fingers want to move along keys, black and white. I want to hammer strings until they break. I want to sing, even if no one is listening.
"Pretty things, so what if I like pretty things." My morning voice, though a notch lower than it should be, is still surprisingly on pitch. "Pretty lies, so what if I like pretty lies.. from where you are to where I am now, I need these pretty things.." Words and melody come out of nowhere, instantly inspired. It's like talking in tongues sometimes. I don't really understand all of it, and I know there are bits and pieces that I've missed, but they'll come later when I sit down and put it on paper.
I sing louder, if only because this way it'll be pressed onto my memory and I won't forget it by the time I'm done with this awful, generic shampoo. "Be a star, and fall down somewhere next to me." Something something. I'll put more lines in there later. "... and all these pretty things." Oh God, this is perfect, perfect.. "..and don't say you don't notice them."
That bastard made me write my first song.
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January 13th, 2005, 12:01 AM
#6
HB Forum Owner
<center>I'm a good kisser, and you're a fast learner
And that kinda thing could float us for a pretty long time
Then one day you'd realize you've memorized my phone number
And you'll call it and find it's a disconnected line ...
--
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By all accounts, I should be having a wonderful time. I've whirled around the dance floor with an attractive man, humiliated another in the bathroom and kissed the bride more times than I'm sure her new husband is comfortable with. And I am. I'm having a good time. Sitting here at the bar, my attention is focused heavily on the fact that I'm having a drink that's almost the same color as the scheme of the reception. If I don't, I'm going to give us away. Every now and then, I stare up from the bar and across the floor at the reluctant best man, who's being dragged into a dance by some ancient relative. Poor darling. I can only imagine what Paris will be like with the two of us. Me hunched over my piano and pounding out notes like Beethoven with an ear pressed to the floor, frustrated with strings and staff paper. And him, scrawling in a far too expensive notebook by electric light. No. Wait.
I should tell him I have a tendency to light candles instead of flick on the overhead lights at night. In the apartment, they're far too fucking bright for my tastes.
All of this instead of the things I should be concentrating on. Like the fact that I haven't packed nearly a damn thing, or that I just got back from what seemed to those paying attention to my whereabouts like a fifteen minute disappearing act.
"He's not going to go anywhere, you know." A strange voice, low and effeminate, breaks me out of my bout of rude staring and snaps my attention to her. She's small. Not too terribly tiny, but smaller than I am, with dark hair and a fabulous choice of a dress. Blue and watery, an A-lined skirt that makes her look more like a Spanish dancer than an actress. It matches her eyes. And those are what make me recognize her.
My "oh shit" alarm goes off somewhere deep in my head and I plaster a smile to my face like this is all some big coincidence. "Who?" I ask, laughing out over my drink and trying to perfect the professor's method of playing dumb. I have a feeling I don't pull it off with the flair and assurance he does.
"You know who." She rolls eyes and plucks her glass up off of the bar as soon as it's set down. Her drink is identical to mine. "I was going to the bathroom when you two lovebirds slipped off into that little room--"
"--hallway." I correct her out of a need to bring the control of this conversation back around my way. Not fair. Bad form. Being attacked from all angles.
"Hallway. Whatever. I saw you, and it all makes sense now. The staring. That's an 'I've slept with Dr. Michael Donovan' stare. You know, like you're trying to figure him out, or predict what he's going to do next." She's gutsy, for her age, a gauche twenty-two if my talent serves me, and it usually does. After a swallow of her drink, she goes on, but only because I haven't stopped her yet. "My advice? Whether or not you've asked me for it, because hey, that's just how I am. Is to not worry so much. Worrying gets you in trouble. Don't try to figure out what he's thinking. It spooks him, and that's when he's at his most unpredictable."
"I'll make a note." I shrug, trying to smile at her in a way that doesn't come off as being too cocky, though I know that I'll fail miserably. "It's not what you think it is. We're not.."
"I'm sure you aren't. We weren't either." She cuts off my sentence and completes it. Not fair. My talent.
"Well. Then you understand how it goes. I wasn't worrying, by the way. I don't ever worry." Another interesting tidbit about myself slid on the table like a full house in poker. I don't worry about things. Not even when I should. It just seems useless to me, worrying about the outcome of things, or the rationality of them, the consequence. The few, rare times I've worried, it's been for someone else. Not about them. And it's made me sick to my stomach each time.
"Cheers to that, then." She lifts her glass and clinks it against mine. "I'll give you one thing though. He's probably the most attractive guy that either of us have ever slept with. I'm Althea."
At our little toast to whatever, we both take a long swallow. Clearing my throat, I continue on. "I'm Harlen. And .. I don't know about that. For all you know, I could have slept with Patrick Swayze."
Blue eyes go wide. "Patrick Swayze? I love him! How'd you know that!?"
I don't reply. It'll ruin my allure, of course, which we must keep in tact at all times and by all means. Sometimes, it's good to just inherently know things and keep them secret, whether they're as small as an eighties obsession, or as big as a French skyline.
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January 13th, 2005, 09:38 PM
#7
HB Forum Owner
Most memories of family and the past were either hidden away in closets of a Paris apartment, or forgotten altogether. All that physically remained as a reminder was a closet filled with paintings he never looked at, draped over with a white sheet, propped up against the wall from biggest to smallest in a neat line. The rest was a piece of paper, a letter addressed to him but never read, tucked away between the pages of a book that he stuck on the shelf and left alone. Before that, it had been carried around in a wallet, and before that, stuck under a pile of cotton shirts in a dresser drawer. Untouched. Unwanted.
There were just some things that Harlen Prior chose to forget. A father he hadn't known, dead before he was born. A chance heart attack for the doctor who was supposed to know bodies better than the common person. There had to be signs and signals. There always were. Though as hard as Harlen tried, he couldn't seem to misplace the face of his mother. It wasn't the face of hers that he wanted to remember. It was a face that made him feel small again. Four years old and hiding behind her legs. Five years old and offering a helping hand in the garden that made more of a mess. Six years old and finger painting with her, sprawling tiny palms across her precious stretched canvas. Six years old and remembering her advice. "Everything strong in you comes from your father. Your art and your folly. That is from me. That is my gift to you."
So Harlen drew. Bright crayola scenes, waxy suns and blossoms from their garden, the tall, proud structure of their house standing behind it. She hung each up on the refrigerator, and when that ran out of room, they were clothes-pinned to a string that she stretched down the wall of the hallway. A display of both of their crafts. Her ingenuity and his creativity in one silly homemade art display.
In his small blazer and dress slacks, Harlen made the quick walk home from school, a plain backpack over his shoulders, his hair the same unruly mess it would be years later. The front door to home was always open, so he pushed his way inside, shoes deposited immediately, bare feet scampering across hardwood. His backpack went left in a chair. He'd attack spelling homework later with a white-knuckled pen and his mother's advice. For now, he sought her out to ramble about his day, about how a boy had brought in his snake for show and tell, about a rowdy recess and an exciting forty-five minutes of music once a week. Despite his shouting, there was no answer. It wasn't all that uncommon. Anna Prior tended to find herself lost in midafternoon naps, and sometimes it was impossible to hear anything in her studio, with the door closed and opera being played as loud as the volume would go. But there was no opera that Harlen could hear, so instead he lifted feet up the stairs and rounded the hallway towards her bedroom, the door pushed open.
The face he remembered was one caged in plastic. A bag over her head, barbaric but peaceful. His mother's fierce and flawless beauty was clouded out by a layer of steam, condensation inside the bag, her warm breath having stopped some time ago. He remembered her closed eyes and wet lashes, his hands clawing at her, tiny fists slamming into the flat of her chest and jostling her shoulders until he was convinced she wouldn't budge.
When the police happened upon the scene (a neighbor had heard the boy's wailing and no efforts to calm it), they found the shivering thing had tucked himself under the weight of his mother's arm, hooked to her and asleep, a knit blanket covering them both. Prying him away took effort. Convincing him to tell them what had happened took even more. The letter she had scrawled to him was handed over almost immediately, but never read. It went tucked in a drawer. In a wallet. Between the pages of a book in a Paris apartment.
Harlen was six years old when he promised himself he would never be helpless again.
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January 14th, 2005, 09:10 AM
#8
HB Forum Owner
Hey, ask me why the fuck I'm sitting in the lobby of the Lourve, by myself. No, really. Go ahead. Ask me.
I don't know.
I woke up, and he was gone. I saw that one coming like a train in the distance. I thought of a million things to get him to go ahead of time. I wanted to pick a fight and tell him to get out. I wanted to tell him his sister needed him and he should stop pussyfooting and just go. I wanted to stare at him and assure him he didn't need to preserve some stupid fucking feelings I didn't have for him. I wanted to be harsh and cruel and flippant. It's easy for me. Hell. Sometimes I like it.
And other times I find myself in bed, fighting sleep because I know it's going to all spiral out of control as soon as I drift off to La La Land. But I did fall asleep, and he got up and he left, and I woke up and didn't give a shit. I showered, walked around, ate breakfast downstairs, pounded out half of a new song on my piano. The usual morning ritual. I got dressed and I went for a walk. I wandered all the way down to the Lourve, and I wanted to see the fucking Mona Lisa. It's a week day and tourists usually only come in springtime, or on winter weekends. So fuck. I'd go see it. I've seen it a million times before, but something about it is intricately drawing. It keeps you coming back for more. If I could love a woman, I think it would be the Mona Lisa.
Scratch that. If I could love anyone, it would be the Mona Lisa. Or Verdi. Or both, in a twisted three-way swinger sorta relationship.
I got about as far as the fucking lobby. And then I sat down. And realized it was stupid to see it without him being here. Because who was I going to babble to about it? Who was I going to philosophize over it with? Who was I going to joke with about hack books like the Da Vinci Code? Who was I going to tease about the nude statues with? Shit.
And I can't make myself just go back home. Because I know that as soon as I do, I'll start pacing and worrying. I hate worrying. It makes me nauseous and touchy. I'll worry because I know what happened. And I know what's happening. And I know what's being said and how people are feeling. It's useless. Knowing. Sometimes it does nothing but make you puke.
I take comfort in one thing. And that's that he'll be back. And things, eventually, will straighten themselves out. There might be a few leftover kinks, but nothing we all can't deal with.
What?
Don't look at me like that. I'm not getting fucking attached. And no. I don't need him, if that's what you're getting at. A stupid idea. I got up, didn't I? I got dressed and ate a good meal and went for a nice walk.
I just want him here. Because no one should live to thirty without seeing the Mona Lisa.
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January 19th, 2005, 09:21 PM
#9
HB Forum Owner
Prior: One of my ancestors was a ship's captain who made money bringing whale oil to Europe and returning with immigrants -- Irish, mostly, packed in so tight, so many dollars per head. The last ship he captained foundered off the coast of Nova Scotia in a winter tempest and sank to the bottom. He went down with the ship -- la Grande Geste -- but his crew took seventy women and kids in the ship's only longboat, this big, open rowboat, and when the weather got too rough and they thought the boat was overcrowded, the crew started lifting people up and hurling them into the sea. Until they got the ballast right. They walked up and down the longboat, eyes to the waterline, and when the boat rode low in the water, they'd grab the nearest passenger and throw them into the sea. The boat was leaky, see; seventy people; they arrived in Halifax with nine people on board.
Louis: Jesus
Prior: I think about that story a lot now. People in a boat, waiting, terrified, while implacable, unsmiling men, irresistably strong, seize ... maybe the person next to you, maybe you, and with no warning at all, with time only for a quick intake of air you are pitched into freezing, turbulent water and salt and darkness to drown.
I like your cosmology, baby. While time is running out, I find myself drawn to anything that's suspended, that lacks an ending -- but it seems to me that it lets you off scot free.
Louis: What do you mean?
Prior: No judgement, no guilt or responsibility.
Louis: For me.
Prior: For anyone. It was an editorial "you."
-- Tony Kushner, Angels In America, Part One: Millennium Approaches, Scene VIII
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January 22nd, 2005, 02:21 AM
#10
HB Forum Owner
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little breakdowns in coastal towns
they come suddenly
crashing over you
they come easily
falling through the sky
and frozen places
oh no, there you go
looked away and missed the show
how much wasted time will you survive
oh yeah, fooled again
don't know how and I don't know when
not much else to blame but wishful thinking
and I try to realize that I needn't look any further
the whole of the universe is plain to see
and I try not to rely on another world or the future
the whole of the universe is a mystery
and it gets me over
it gets me over you
and it gets me over
it gets me over you
Duncan Sheik - Wishful Thinking</center>
<font color="#000000" size="1">[ January 21, 2005 10:29 PM: Message edited by: pretty things ]</font>
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