in love with a (strict machine)

[star studded]

Liv,

Tokyo is very bright. An epileptic's nightmare. We're staying in the apartment of mister Clark Gable (don't ask, I didn't) and he has these flat screen panels that just flash art all day long. Seven, who I told you briefly about before I took off like a shot, sometimes gets very distracted by them. You have to clap in his face, or snap your fingers at him to get him to look your way.

We've eaten a lot of Japanese food, watched a lot of nonsensical television, and had a strange encounter in the middle of the night, and we still have two days to go. I don't what's going on. I feel like the two of us are completely detached from all the other action that happens around us. It's like he lives in some other world, and I just get sucked into it. I say things that make perfect sense at the time, and then when I think back on them, later, when his hands are far away from me, and scribbling on a pad of paper, I have no idea what I meant.

I went to bed last night with the intention of, if this went well, if whatever happened, if we enjoyed each other's company, I'd ask him to come spend a few days in New York before he had to go back to Greece and teach a bunch of art students about classical sculpture. And now, I don't know. I don't want to come off like I'm some straight-out-of-art-school fan of his, who's just desperate for a piece of whatever it is he's offering (if that's even the word for it), and some company. I think that's how I look when I'm sitting for him, so he can draw me. Soft and warm and fawn-eyed and in awe. I am none of those things. I do want him to like me (and you can take that in whatever context you want to, because even I don't know to what degree I mean it. I think it varies with the hour) but more importantly, I want him to take me seriously.

I'll call you later, and you can tell me something comforting. Your phone will ring before this letter ever gets there.

Parenthetically,
Lucy

[star studded]

Subj: LESBIAN PORN XXX
Date: 7/30/2005 9:46:36 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: <u>[email protected]</u>
To: <u>[email protected]</u>

Liv,

I've been feeling fine, just to let you know. The food isn't so bad here, I guess, if you know where to eat. We're actually going to breakfast in a few, because I don't think we're allowed to eat Clark's food. Actually though, I don't think I'd want to. Jesus.

And, for your information, missy. I didn't come here with Seven just to get laid. Not that I'd really decline if he offered, but it doesn't seem to be on his itinerary. Read: He's either gay, or I repulse him. Or the fact that I'm pregnant makes him keep his distance. Or something else. Maybe he's a CIA agent. But he's the utmost gentleman. Carries my bags, opens doors, pulls out my chair for me, you name it. Anyway. Nothing really exciting happened in our little middle of the night encounter. All clothes stayed on. I did make him touch my stomach, though. It looked like my skin burned him or something. I don't know. He's odd. But in a fascinatingly charming and attractive way.

Maybe I will. We'll see how the next day or so goes, and if I haven't completely offended him, or ... revolted him, whatever, I'll ask him to come. I'm just worried that people (ie, Michael, Harlen, Lani, Asher) will come sniffing around and trying to figure him out, or see what he's doing there, or think I'm a complete whore for being in the middle of a divorce and asking someone to come stay in my apartment, sleep on my couch.

No naked pictures. Soon though, if I have my way with him. Arrrrr. [img]biggrin.gif[/img] I'm KIDDING! Maybe. Really, I'm kidding.

I miss you too. And I'm eating right, and sleeping well, and not doing anything stupid, save for spending too much money and staring at television screens with Seven for three or four hours at a time, even though we don't understand a word. Go give Jude and the babies a hug for me, and grab Chachi's ass if you see him.

Lucy

[star studded]

<center>

You've always got those dark sunglasses
Covering half your face
But if you promise to take them off
I promise I won't squander your gaze
I will be picturesque
I will be nice
I won't do anything you can't tell your wife
I will think before I act
I will think twice
Just let me see your eyes

Each time we've spoken
We've put in a token and ridden the tilt-a-whirl
I was giggling and dizzy
Flirting like a twelve-year-old girl
The carnival of you and me has come into town
Watch how we spin and spin and then fall down
Now we just say hello and head for firmer ground

You are the one-way glass
That watches me
Standing in line at the bank
I always looked into your glasses
Like a cat looks into a fish tank
But all I could ever see
Was the spectre of me reflected
I want a monument to the friendship
That we never had erected
I want it to take up lots of room
I want it to loom

You've always got those dark sunglasses
Between us when we talk
After the party is over
If you want to take a walk
We could just look around
Not do nothing wrong
Try to be at least as brave as our songs
I will bring my heart
I will bring my face
You name the time and place</center>

[star studded]

Staring at Clark Gable's stereo system was like peering at a car's engine. She was sure everything had a purpose and a function, but she couldn't seem to figure out any of it. Cautiously, a skinny finger lifted and pressed a blinking button, forcing mechanisms to whir. To her delight, a CD tray slid out and she settled the disc on it, settling it in place before the button was pressed again. The system ate it up and within a few moments, guitars churned throughout the apartment, music playing from hidden speakers she couldn't seem to find.

The flimsy jersey material had been difficult to find in the culture center of Tokyo, especially in plain white. Here, everyone revelled in design and individuality, and it had taken her time to find something simple and plain. Now, with the material sprawled out over newspaper on the floor, the limited supplies she bought were settled beside her and she hunched down, picking up the fine-tipped, thin paintbrush and stuck it into the black ink-paint. Green eyes narrowed at her makeshift canvas, and without mapping out a game plan or a design, she attacked it. On the front of the t-shirt, she drew vague, detailed designs. A body, cross sectioned. Rather than a red beating heart, she painted an intricate fist-sized intertwining of wires and cogs, set to the face of a clock. It wasn't a heart at all. It was a bomb set to detonate. Other paintbrushes and colors formed the wires, red, green, blue, yellow, each plugging into the mechanism.

The short sleeves turned into cable wiring of all sorts of different colors, visibly crackling and sparking with life, hissing with electricity and an indescribable energy as they traced back to the heart-bomb that fueled everything.

When one side had sufficiently dried, she flipped it over to the back with careful fingers. Poised on her haunches, blonde hair twisted behind her in a careless knot, she drew with violent flicks of her wrist and snaps of the small brush pinched in her fingers. Up from the material, the intricate, interlocking pieces of a steel spine grew, something less human and more machine, set on pivots so that joints could move, seemingly able to twist and bend when the central mechanism dictated to do so. To top everything off, her name was scrawled in tiny script on the lower back hem. Lucy Hart. A reminder.

With the dried, finished piece at hand, she folded it up into something neat and tied it simply with a stretch of black ribbon she had purchased in the heart of the city. Bare and giftwrapped, she scrawled the tag on an index card.

Seven,

You make such an exquisite corpse.

Thine evermore, dear sir, whilst this machine is to her,
Lucy

[star studded]

"Hello?"

"Dad?"

"... hello?"

"Dad!"

"Is anyone there?"

"DAD!"

"Oh! Who is this? The connection is awful, it's all static, like when you leave the television on and the channel goes off the air and you wake up in the middle of the night, and everything's all whisssssh..."

"It's Lucy. Who else calls you Dad? I'm using a calling card, and all the instructions are in Japanese, so I don't know if I did it right. I think I only have ten minutes."

"What're you doing buying Japanese calling cards? Are you using that ebay thing again? I don't trust those internet buying-site-things."

"I couldn't find anything else but Japanese, there all that's around here considering that I'm in Tokyo!"

"What the hell are you doing in Tokyo? Did you get lost on the way home from work?"

"Nope, I went for a mini vacation."

"By yourself?"

"With a friend. We've been wandering around and watching a lot of weird television. We're staying at this guy's place, his name is Clark Gable. Isn't that weird?"

"Clark Gable? Was he the gay one?"

"No, that was Rock Hudson."

"Oh, right. I can never keep 'em straight. So who's watching the store? I wasn't supposed to watch the store, was I?"

"No, I left Kristin in charge, but she probably has already blown something up, or .. misplaced the entire stock. Idiot girl that she is."

"You're the one who hired her."

"I didn't think I'd actually need her to do anything though. I figured she'd just stand there and look cute."

"So who did you go to Tokyo with? And when are you coming back?"

"Seven Thatcher, he's an artist. He has a gallery in Amsterdam, and he did some stuff back in New York awhile ago. We'll be back in another day or so, I think. Can you go by the apartment and make sure Liv remembered to feed my cat?"

"I hate that cat and she hates me. She'll claw me to death. You'll come home and see me dead on your floor and your devil cat standing happily over my body."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. Oh, another thing. Can you make sure that I have peanut butter?"

"Jif? Smooth?"

"Whatever, just something."

"Sure."

"Listen, I gotta go, some woman is yelling at me in Japanese on the phone, and I don't know what's going on."

"I'll see you in a few days then?"

"Sure Dad. Remember. Cat and peanut butter. Not.. together, but.."

"..I know what you mean. Take care. Don't eat anything you can't identify."

"You got it. Bye Dad."

"Bye Lucy."

[star studded]

Part One.
Full Name: Lucille Hart
Goes by: Lucy
Current location: New York City, New York
Description: Chachi Donovan's old bachelor pad.
Occupation: Fashion designer, owner of Filth.

Current age: Twenty-six.
Date of birth: June 1st.
Birthplace: White Plains, New York
Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of parent(s):

Michael Hart - 55. Postman in New Rochelle. Lauren Hart - 48. Professional bitch.

Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of sibling(s):

Lola Hart - 20. Bitch in training.

Height: 5'9.
Weight: 120 and climbing.
Hair color: Blonde.
Eye color: Green.
Left-, right-handed, or ambidextrous: Righty. Left handed people aren't fully evolved.

Heritage/Nationality: German/British.
Religion: Guccism.
Education: The streets, bitches.
Marital status: Divorced.
Children: One on the way.

Part Two.

Likes: Sun, clothes, fashion, martinis, music, old movies, swearing, cigarettes, sleeping in late, shopping sprees, sex, being cooked for, conversations at three in the morning, dance parties, bondage, shots, makeup, costumes, travel, Tokyo, correspondence, solitude, comfortable silence, sewing supplies, art.
Dislikes: Whatever I didn't list up there.
Phobias: Heights, small spaces, hospitals, dark empty places.

Part Three: Do you...

Smoke: Yes. The habit's just on pause.
Cuss: I invented the f-word.
Sing well: Does loudly count as well? I let Liv do the singing.
Sing in the shower: Not if I can help it.
Talk to yourself: Not necessarily.
Believe in yourself: Of course I do.
Play an instrument: Heartstrings.
Want to go to college?: Not really.
Want to get married?: Haha. It's not my thing, I don't think.
Want to have children?: Well, that question is a little late.
Think you're a health freak?: Lately.
Get along with your parents?: 50% of them.
Get along with your siblings?: Not a stitch.

Part Four: Current...

Clothes: T-shirt and skirt. Very casual.
Mood: Creative.
Music: Ani Difranco - Jukebox
Taste: Pineapple.
Make-up: The ever-necessary lipgloss.
Hair-style: Down.
Annoyance: Paperwork.
Smell: Fabric dye.
Book you're reading: The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath. Rereading it. I'm picky.
CD in CD Player: The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill is down here, and Blondie is upstairs.
DVD in player: I don't have a DVD player yet.
Refreshment: I lack refreshment.
Worry: I'm not too worried, for once.

Part Five: Favorites:

Food: Fruit and dip.
Drink: An extra dry martini. Or, maybe just a milkshake lately.
Color: It's my green season.
Album: Madonna - The Immaculate Collection. Hands down.
Shoes: My pair of "Let Me Teach You A Lesson" boots.
Candy: Life Savers.
Animal: Cats. Low maintenance.
TV Show: Trash talk television.
Movie: Saved!
Song: No clue. Too many.
Girl's name: Grace Elizabeth.
Boy's name: Holden Michael.
Vegetable: Uh.
Fruit: Strawberries or pineapples.

Part Six:

If I were a month, I'd be: January
If I were a day of the week, I'd be: Saturday.
If I were a time of day, I'd be: 1 AM.
If I were a planet, I'd be: Venus.
If I were a sea animal, I'd be: A giant squid. I don't fucking know.
If I were a direction, I'd be: Down.
If I were a piece of furniture, I'd be: A lazy susan.
If I were a sin, I'd be: Lust.
If I were a historical figure, I'd be: Betty Page.
If I were a liquid, I'd be: Wine.
If I were a tree, I'd be: A birch tree.
If I were a bird, I'd be: A canary.
If I were a flower, I'd be: A lily.
If I were a kind of weather, I'd be: Thunderstorm.
If I were a mythical creature, I'd be: A siren. Because I am loud and I scream for attention.
If I were a musical instrument, I'd be: Electric guitar.
If I were an animal, I'd be: A cat.
If I were a color, I'd be: Seaweed green.
If I were an emotion, I'd be: Determination.
If I were a vegetable, I'd be: A carrot?
If I were a sound, I'd be: The sound of one hand clapping.
If I were an element, I'd be: Fire.
If I were a car, I'd be: A BMW.
If I were a song, I'd be: the ABC's.
If I were a movie, I'd be: The Little Mermaid.
If I were a food, I'd be: Ice cream.
If I were a place, I'd be: Times Square.
If I were a material, I'd be: Steel.
If I were a taste, I'd be: Salty.
If I were a scent, I'd be: Gasoline.
If I were a religion, I'd be: Seventh Day Adventist? What the hell kind of question is that.
If I were a word, I'd be: Fuck.
If I were an object, I'd be: Clothes.
If I were a body part, I'd be: Do you really want me to answer that?
If I were a facial expression, I'd be: Sticking out my tongue.
If I were a part of a house, I'd be: The bedroom.
If I were a subject in school, I'd be: Independent Study.
If I were a cartoon character, I'd be: Jessica Rabbit. She was hot.
If I were a shape, I'd be a: Diamond.
If I were a number, I'd be: Two.

[star studded]

Through the haze of early New York morning, Lucy was sprawled out like a damsel awaiting her prince. Throat lodged with an apple, or a poisonous finger prick, something had set her deep into sleep, ticking time away. When she woke, it was with the flutter of lids and insistent stretch of the impatient, squinting bleary eyes at the digital read out of her alarm clock. The morning had swept past ten already, igniting in something summer-hot and unbearable. The thin stretch of sheets had been kicked off, pushed away to reveal the pale and skinny stretch of her legs, toes curling against the mattress.

Pushing up, legs swung over the side of the bed and she combed fingers through her riot of blonde, twisting it up and knotting it in a mess behind her head. Sleepy footsteps stumbled around her room, towards the bathroom in the hallway where teeth could be brushed and the taste of something foul flushed off of her tongue. It was a new taste she woke up with each morning. It was discontent.

This morning was a shade different, she swore. Instead of the all too familiar of not fitting in this new skin, there was something rightly settled into place. She didn't quite know what to attribute it to, but there it was, a new sort of settling. Water smeared across her face in an attempt to clear up the fuzzy feeling that had settled over her, and she peered through it into the mirror. Distractedly, one green eye wandered off course just slightly. Her lack of makeup made it more pronounced, unable to hide it with the strategic use of black liner and shadow. Pushing back from the sink, she blotted face dry with a towel and marched towards the stairs, thudding lazily down towards where she knew she'd find the number artist in a fetal position, asleep on her living room floor.

"Rise and shine, let's go get something for breakfast, I'm--"

Cutting herself off, there was no sign of him in the living room, or the hectic sprawl of her now-cluttered kitchen. Peering around the corner and down into the hallway, there was again nothing. In a bolt of movement, she nearly leaped towards the other side of the couch, searching for where his lone bag was kept. Nothing. Gone.

Instead, the evidence that he had once been there proved to be a sprawl of blue paper shards and discarded construction paper that spilled from its pack. Across from them were spoons and forks used with their take out dinner, discarded napkins crumpled in still life, a half-finished sketch. All that was missing was the shadow of the man, his frame sinking into the couch cushion, poised with a pair of scissors, cutting useless paper spirals out of her favorite color of slate grey.

For a moment, she stood stupefied. What was she supposed to do now? Pick up? Carry on? Check her mailbox?

In a newly necessary movement, she launched into her kitchen and stood amidst the cracked glass she hadn't bothered to pick up last night. Confusedly, a hand lifted and tangled in her hair, her jaw hanging open, scrambling for sound even though there was no one to hear it. Her motions came in quick, inspired bursts, a sweep of arms, a kick of her foot against cabinets. The small, central island that substituted a kitchen table was wiped clean with a few solid pushes of her hands against coffee cups and plates, clattering them to the floor with muted clunks and pieces that flew off in a spray of shrapnel shards. The counter was no match for her, a sugar bowl launched magnificently against the fridge. Cupboards were thrown open, glasses torn out and whipped away, regardless of the bare soles of her feet. In her tornadoing through the kitchen, she left everything in more of a mess than it had been from the night before.

Maybe it wasn't just from the new empty space she had acquired. Maybe there was more to it than that, a riot of frustration from paperwork and transition, from a lack of everything once familiar, and then a removal of the newest things that felt semi-constant. There was no shuffling second set of footsteps in her apartment anymore. Briefly, for the first time in ages, she wished for the phone to ring, for someone unexpected to knock at her door and offer breakfast, or company, or the act of breathing annoyingly down her neck.

It took a moment to realize that her throat was raw. She had been screaming, and she hadn't heard a stitch of it.

Exhausted, she slipped from the kitchen, avoiding shards of porcelain and glass, just to trudge heavily up the stairs again. A hand swept at her forehead as she ambled into her bedroom, a vanity mirror staring at her head on, with a square of something unfamiliar tucked against it. Marching closer, she squinted down at the mirror and plucked up the glossy square. Staring up from it was Seven, all coal eyes and lack of readable expression. Lucy stared at it a long moment and then tossed it against the crumple of her sheets and pillows before settling onto the floor, sprawled back and staring up at the ceiling. Spine shifted against the flat of floorboards and she let shoulders slump in a lazy droop. Fatigued, she tried her hardest to let it all seep into the floor beneath her.

[star studded]

Seven,

Enclosed is a picture of my kitchen at 11:00am, August 8th, 2006.

Better that every fiber crack
and fury make head
blood drenching vivid
couch, carpet, floor
and the snake-figured almanac
vouching you are
a million green countries from here

than to sit mute, twitching so
under prickling stars
with stare, with curse
blackening the time
goodbyes were said, trains let go,
and I, great magnanimous fool, thus wrenched from
my one kingdom.
S. Plath, 1956


I can't believe you.

You're unbelievable.

Lucy

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ August 10, 2005 04:09 PM: Message edited by: godawful champagne ]</font>

[star studded]

Seven,

I don't know what to say. I'm too tired to be any more angry at you than I already am. I understand we had an arrangement. Maybe that's what you used to justify it. But you have a really terrible sense of timing. You could have given me at least another day. And then again, I don't even feel justified in saying that. You don't owe me anything.

That's a lie. You owe me something. I won't be forgotten so easily.

If you think you can get away from me, you're wrong. I'm in every crack of plaster, I'll assault with letters, I'll follow you. It's what I do. I claw in and hang on, and even when I'm leaving you alone, you'll think of me, because that's what happens to people. That's what's supposed to happen.

I could have come to Greece, flailing like a madwoman, hunting you down across oceans and seas, and continents, in planes and boat rides. I could have blown your house down. I could have hacked you apart until you were dust. You're lucky. You're so lucky that I think better of you than that.

I miss you. It's sick. Please write.

Lucy

[star studded]

Seven,

Oh. Time. Like the kind on clocks. Between letters. In veins. Tick tick tick. The bomb goes off. Time and I don't really get along. We had a falling out way back and everytime we're in one another's presence, the feeling is just really awkward. Like hanging out with your ex and his new girlfriend or something.

I'm not mad. I don't know what I'm talking about. I don't know what I want. You don't owe me anything. If you have to ask about apologies, maybe they're best left unsaid. Everything is just really out of sorts right now. If none of this makes sense, I promise, the next letter will be better.

I miss you because you're not here. That's why people miss each other, from my experience. Maybe miss is the wrong word. Maybe I just am hypersensitive to the fact that you are clearly not here.

Hope all is well in Greece. The weather here is shit.

Lucy