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I filled out a questionnaire about myself, it was supposed to give me the insight to eternal life, it just gave me a headache instead.
First name: Marlowe
Last name: I won't tell yooouuuu. Or anybody.
Gender: I'm all man.
Date of birth: January 8, 1978.
Age: Old. Twenty six.
Height: 6'1"
Weight: Uh. I have no idea.
Eye color: Brownish-greenish. Hazel, maybe?
Hair color: Brownish.
Favorite color: Black. Ish. I couldn't help it.
Parents: None. I'm an orphan-baby. Aw, pity me and my fucked up life. Hurhur.
Siblings: Don't you read?!
Marital status: Widower. Leave it there.
Children: Uh, none that I know of.
Sexual preference: What a question! My preference is not to care anymore.
Hometown: Paris, France. Don't ask me where my accent went, I worked long and hard on that.
Occupation: Professional bum with money.
Virtues: Prone to committing random acts of kindness, pleasant, easily talked to, not condescending, able to play many instruments, artistically talented to a splendid degree, appreciating the finer things in life, able to read people accurately, never taking anything for granted.
Vices: Alcohol, women, smoking, tattoo addiction, forgetfulness, laziness, tendancy to up and leave and not come back, tendancy to up and leave and come back thinking everybody will be welcoming, restless, too quick to get into relationships, too easy in falling in love, hard to get to know, a liar.
http://www.hometown.aol.com/iostcolor/images/0148.jpg
<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ July 02, 2004 08:07 PM: Message edited by: you make me shallow ]</font>
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"I think it might be best if we don't see eachother anymore, Marlowe... no, don't say anything. Just listen-- okay? It isn't that I don't love you, God knows I do. You're the only man who's ever...ever...you're the only man I've ever felt this way about. That isn't what scares me. What scares me is that you don't talk about yourself, it's like you never existed before me and I know you did. What don't you want me to know? What went so wrong that you can't even tell me about it? I don't understand. I've heard stories about you though, from people that I've never met before. They know who you are, they know where you are. What's wrong, Marlowe? No! You can't leave, you can't go-- you aren't! Please! Just listen, please just sit down and listen."
Relationships never lasted with Marlowe. He was either too clingy or too aloof, too romantic or too blaise, too Marlowe or not Marlowe enough. There was a clause somewhere, written in the law of universe, that he did not know about... and it obviously stated that he was never to be happy in his lovelife--or maybe that he was never to have one at all.
"No, Marla. It always ends this way."
He never meant to be as cryptic as he came off, but the way of the world was the way it was supposed to be and not even Marlowe could change it. All he could do was paint it and watch as the portrait decayed with age and got lost to time. Marlowe himself was timeless, though no one ever seemed to notice that. He never aged, he never fell ill (except that one time, but it was a rather long story), he never came into bad spirits. There was nothing to be sour-spirited about in the world, nothing was ever so damning that a smile couldn't waiver it. He knew, by now he had to know, or all of this time would have been worth nothing.
In the fray, along the line somewhere, Marlowe had lost many things about himself. His age, his last name, his hometown, his accent, his mind. They were strewn behind him, like a popcorn trail gone wrong, and he couldn't backtrack to pick up the pieces because the bridge was out and it was a ten million foot drop. It didn't matter anymore, he didn't need to tell people where he was from (Iowa was his answer if they insisted), he made up an age and never pretended to have any semblance of sanity left in his body. The way he operated, the pictures he painted-- neither made sense, but everyone adored them. It was easy to come across as flakey instead of worn out. It was easy to smile all the time, even when he wanted to collapse on the spot. It was better to make people comfortable, easier to get them to open up, if he was just Marlowe The Crazy Wandering Artist; a man with no worries, who lived for the present and left the past (though unintentionally most times) behind him.
"You're so refreshing to be around, Marlowe! All you ever do is smile. Nothing ever gets to you, does it?"
"It isn't worth my time to let it get to me." He'd just shrug away his worries, plaster on an easy smile, and pretend that there weren't ten thousand proverbial little demons trying to eat him alive.
That was the way of his world and he didn't want to change it.
<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ May 17, 2004 10:42 PM: Message edited by: like neon lights ]</font>
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A typical entry in Marlowe's journal:
I miss my hair. I miss Millisa and our walks. She was the best dog ever. I miss being in love. I miss having someone to talk to.
I miss making sense.
A typical letter written by Marlowe:
Hi, how are you? I'm fine. I don't know what town I'm in, but I'm doing all right. I was thinking about you all day and decided a letter would be best. I'm sorry for the paint smudges, I just got done doing a splatter thing and it got all over. I can't remember why I decided to, but it's great. I hope you're well. Write back, please.
After thorough analysis of his various entries and transcripts, Marlowe had come to one conclusion-- but he couldn't remember what it was.
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"Mister...Marlowe, is it?"
"Uh yeah. How is she?" His fingers were bruised, contorted from the hours spent wringing them between his knees. From the expression on the lab rat's fat, he could tell. Right away, he could tell.
"Unfortunately, sir, we were unable to resuscitate your wife. The knife entered at such an angle that it ruptured her diaphragm and the internal bleeding it caused was just...uncontrollable."
"Are you kidding me?"
"No sir, I'm sorry. I wish I was."
"...I wish you were too."
The world around him washed out into white fuzz, television static that lodged in his ears and behind his pupils. His knees buckled in a catastrophic display of despair and even when they cracked with the cold, alabaster tile, the bruises took days to cause him any pain. There was no hurt in the world greater than the one that enveloped him a sickening hug, that forced out the air in his lungs and brought tears to his eyes. This was the kind of pain that never left a person. It was going to stick to the bottom of his shoes, a perpetual gummy sorrow, hampering his progress for the rest of time.
"It's important to know that this isn't your fault, though. This could happen to anyone." The doctor lent him a shaky hand to still a sobbing shoulder, like it would make any semblance of difference.
What could change the facts now? He was alone. A jinx was meant to be alone, to suffer through a world that never understood him for the rest of time, to know that he had killed the only thing in his life that had ever brought him joy. Be it accidental or not, it was entirely his fault.
They always said Marlowe was normal before Lindsey died... that afterward, he was half a soul with only half of his sanity left intact.
He didn't argue.
http://www.hometown.aol.com/brightcoiors/images/jd.jpg
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Excerpt of Marlowe's journal-- six years prior.
[i]I am lackluster in a world full of shiny diamonds. I am chipped, cracked, unpolished, unwanted, and of no value. I am Marlowe, and though many believe it to be my name, (thusly they call me that) they are mistaken. Marlowe was what they called me at drama practice in highschool, Marlowe was what they called me in soccer practice. I am only half of a person, with only half a name... the latter half. Though no one ever does catch on, I suppose it's hardly worth it to waste my breath in telling them. I wouldn't want anyone to call me anything different, it's been my label since (what feels like) before time began.
They say I didn't kill Lindsey, that she should have been paying more attention to what I was doing before she flung herself at me. I remember watching the shock on her face as she watched the horror on mine. I don't think I had ever hurt anyone before that, not physically anyway, intentionally or otherwise. I shouldn't have been using a steak knife to cut an apple, but it's a habit I've got, because they're sharp and it's easier that way. I still shouldn't have been using it. Or maybe she should have known that I always eat my apples that way... I can't decide. Whatever it was, she crumpled and bled all over my feet. Looking back on it, she ruined my best shoes. She ruined everything, in the next three hours, why not my shoes?
Poor Lindsey. I can't even bring myself to visit her grave and it's already been six months, I keep hoping that maybe she'll come back in some random turn of events. Jesus doesn't resurrect people like us. I wonder if she hates me. My therapist says I need to move on and I will, someday I will, she would want it that way. But it's so hard to imagine what moving on will feel like. It's kind of hard to imagine not having this pressure on my head, like my skull might pop and shoot my brains out in an atomic mushroom cloud at any second-- just like the cartoons, except my scalp won't restitch and I'll push up daisies for the rest of my afterlife.
I will get over this. I will get over this. I will get over this. It's only a stitch in time, it should not define the entire rest of my life.
At least, that's what the institution's telling me. Maybe I'm being brainwashed. Oh well. It's better than whatever I am right now.
<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 09, 2004 09:25 PM: Message edited by: you make me shallow ]</font>
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Cotton-mouthed and fuzzy-eyed, Marlowe stumbled into consciousness with a pounding headache and churning stomach. Carpet inprints on his face, his shirt strewn randomly somewhere-- it took him a minute to realize that he didn't know where he was, or how he'd gotten there. It took him another minute to realize that he did know how he'd gotten there, but he still didn't know where he was. He bumped and muttered his way to the bathroom, filled up the sink with cold water, and stared at himself in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes closed out the world and he immersed his face into the makeshift bucket of icewater (which was really just the sink, but he liked to pretend he lived back in the West when sinks were silly thoughts.)
Jaunty hips bumped against the wall once or twice, as he tried to quietly find his shirt and the pack of cigarettes that'd fallen out during his stupor of sleep. He scrawled a random thanks on the back of a piece of pocket paper with a fragment of left over pink oil pastel (sometimes he forgot he put stuff in his pockets) to "Whoever's house this is" and forced himself through the front door and down into the blazing sunlight. It didn't do anything for his hangover.
Halfway disoriented and always Marlowe, the artist finally figured out where he was and shuffled for his house. There was a picture that needed painting and a Solomon that needed finding. They were drinkin' buddies now, man.
http://www.hometown.aol.com/brightco...mages/0195.jpg
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A few summers ago...
Jolene, my therapist, says I need to start keeping a journal again because it'll subdue my subconscious. It isn't because I'm crazy (or so she says), it's because of the "semi-recent tragedies" that've occurred in my life. After Lena blew her face off, I painted. I had to paint. I saw the whole thing, it made an impression that I needed to throw on the canvas and Jolene paled when she saw them. I remember her face, like it just happened yesterday, when she came into the house. She looked at me like I was crazy, like I had no right to be painting the scenes that bled from my brush; like I could help it. There are corpses burned into my skull: Lindsey's, Lena's, Mark's. I'm a walking fucking parade of pain, that's what I am. One who sings and dances and diverts your attention away from the whole reason with marching bands and giant floats. The reason is that I'm fucked up, too mentally incapacitated to function. The verdict is that I'm all right, because there are shiny instruments playing in the foreground, blocking out the background.
No one ever looks beyond the foreground, not with me. Not even Lindsey. It's always face value, I am always face value and there is no more to me than that. There used to be, but it's gone now. I'm too hollow to have a background, I'm a shell with confetti and smiles obstructing the view into the great abysmal depths.
I'm also apparently a drama queen. I will make a conscious effort against that and work toward moving on with my life. I'm going to move into the house that Lindsey bought before she died, the one we never got around to living in. She loved that old place, I think I owe it to her to live there and plant flowers in the yard and remember her. Not that she's in danger of being forgotten, but I need to move on and stop dwelling on the people who have left me.
Marky overdosed about a week ago, or maybe two now, I can't remember. I'm kind of lost to time again, floating around space in a completely timeless little bubble.
I am a jinx, hexed to outlive the ones I love and never see the light of happiness but in very short intervals.
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<div style="text-align: center;">Ice-age heat wave, can't complain.
If the world's at large, why should I remain?
Walked away to another plan.
Gonna find another place, maybe one I can stand.
I move on to another day,
to a whole new town with a whole new way.
Went to the porch to have a thought,
Got to the door and again I couldn't stop.
You don't know where and you don't know when,
but you still got your words and you got your friends.
Walk along to another day.
Work a little harder, work another way.
Well uh-uh baby, I ain't got no plan.
We'll float on maybe would you understand?
Gonna float on maybe would you understand?
Well float on maybe would you understand?
The days get shorter and the nights get cold.
I like the autumn but this place is getting old.
I pack up my belongings and I head for the coast,
it might not be a lot but I feel like I'm making the most.
The days get longer and the nights smell green,
I guess it's not surprising but it's spring and I should leave.
I like songs about drifters - books about the same.
They both seem to make me feel a little less insane.
Walked on off to another spot,
I still haven't gotten anywhere that I want.
Did I want love?
Did I need to know?
Why does it always feel like I'm caught in an undertow?
The moths beat themselves to death against the lights,
adding their breeze to the summer nights.
Outside, water like air was great,
I didn't know what I had that day.
Walk a little farther to another plan.
You said that you did, but you didn't understand.
I know that starting over is not what life's about.
But my thoughts were so loud I couldn't hear my mouth.
My thoughts were so loud I couldn't hear my mouth.
My thoughts were so loud.</div>
[i]Can only women be spinsters? I'm going to be a spinster, maybe I'll have a sex change. It isn't because I want to be, it's because I have to be. I don't know what it is lately. I'm tired of seeing everyone in love, I'm tired of hearing about all of the problems people are having with their relationships. I'm tired of people not taking the chances they're given. Life is too short to suppress everything.
I shouldn't talk, that makes me a hypocrite. I haven't worked toward anything even remotely resembling something more than casual in a long time. It isn't that I don't want to, it's that I haven't found anyone who consumes me yet. I might be off kilter a little (a whole lot) but I know what I want and what I want is not what I'm going to get. I always thought things would be all right, especially after Linsday and Lena and Marky. Especially since I survived them all relatively intact. My sanity isn't as frayed as everybody thinks it is, I just know when it's worth it to invest thought into processes and when it's not. Usually it isn't.
I don't know what I'm expecting to happen, but I feel like an angsty sixteen year old boy who should be writing lame emo poetry about how bad he has it. I don't have it that bad. I don't have it great, but it isn't terrible. I've got friends who care about me. I'm financially secure, I have a house and I'd have a car if I could get a license. I shouldn't complain just because of a few tragedies. Everybody has something that fucks them up. Maybe mine are all over and done with now and it'll be sunny skies from here on in.
Maybe I'm delusional. But at least my hair is growing back.
I need to smoke.
http://www.hometown.aol.com/brightco...mages/0244.jpg
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It was mid-July and the only reason he even remembered anymore was because of the way the leaves looked. In mid-July the leaves were crisp and burnt; a shade of decay-brown instead of spring-green. They never called it the most beautiful time in the year, not in the desert, because everything died in the summer. It was just so damned hot.
"I can't get up, I'm stuck to this fucking seat." Such vulgar words spilling from a pretty bow-tie mouth never ceased to amaze Marlowe. Lindsey had always had an attitude that he was attracted to, it only seemed fitting that now he was relishing in what he had recently married.
"Should I get a crowbar..." Musing idly, he bent at the waist to lean inside the fast rising car-oven to peck a gentle kiss against her lips. "Maybe a bucket of water--if your sweat leaves a mark, or something gross like that, on my upholstery I'm going to divorce you. I hope you're aware of that."
"Please." Her pouty lips curved into one of her luscious smiles that hypnotized Marlowe everytime she used them. "You wouldn't know what to do without me." Finally peeling her snow white skin away from the black leather interior, she stepped into the hot Nevada sun.
"Be careful, you might melt like a snowcone in Phoenix, you pasty little..." But he trailed off the insults, opting instead for a flirtatious smile and offered hand. "I hope we get to do this forever."
"We will, baby." Her reassurance qualmed every fearful butterfly circling his stomach and placated every doubt that spiraled in his brain. "Soulmates always live happily ever after..."
-------------------------------------------
It struck him as almost funny now, when he sat alone in the near-empty mansion, sprawled across the floor in one of the many barren rooms... how was it that he had depended so heavily upon her in the first place? She always made life without her seem impossible, irrelevant. But it wasn't impossible and it wasn't irrelevant; because here he was. Living. Breathing. Eating. Sleeping. He wasn't counting down his days anymore or considering what the bite of a bullet might taste like. He wasn't wondering what might have happened if things were different anymore, he wasn't worried about what the future might hold because he knew it was going to come someday.
Marlowe was done avoiding the inevitable and what the inevitable consisted of now was opening his eyes to see that Lindsey had never been the perfect person he'd made her out to be. Or that she had made herself out to be. It was a sickening thought, one that made his skin crawl and veins prickle-- maybe it'd never really been love at all... but those were thoughts that he was ill-equipped to deal with. Thoughts that didn't really matter anymore because she was gone and being upset with a dead girl didn't make much sense.
It was finally time to just let go.
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[i]It's humid and sticky, but the sun isn't shining. In the middle of the afternoon, three o'clock to be exact, I finally forced myself out of my bed, but only because I decided that I was hungry. There isn't any food here, I had to walk down to the deli a few blocks away and I wouldn't have minded so much if I'd remembered where I put my shoes. But I didn't remember and I cut the smallest toe on my foot with the biggest piece of glass known to mankind, and I never saw it coming.
I am consumed with thought. Ones that range from good to bad, some that are like hyperactive children who bounce up and down and run to the front of the line. (The kind you just can't ignore, no matter how fucking hard you try.) Some are dead and festering, reminding me that they're still around when I catch their decaying scent in the breeze. And even yet, there are some thoughts that just stand patiently and wait their turn--and a few who jump out from behind random doors and scare me when I realize that they're there.
I am consumed by one thought, one that is gigantic compared to all the rest: did I make a mistake? Should I call him? Noel came and left last night and in the span of a few short hours, he managed to turn me upside down and shake out all of my fears. He left because he said he wanted to make me happy and I think that might be one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for me.
I shouldn't have let him leave.
I'm going to paint him and offer it as an apology for exposing him to all of my frustrating insecurities. I doubt he'll want to see me after last night, anymore.
I don't blame him.
http://ds180.net/rachey/johnny1.jpg
I really wish I wasn't such an asshole sometimes. It would make life that much more easy.
<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 10, 2004 08:44 PM: Message edited by: you make me shallow ]</font>
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His eyes felt sticky, like someone had crept into his room that night and glued them shut. His thoughts were cluttered, forced from their quiet recesses into the spotlight, where they pulled a Carrie manuever and killed the rest. The quiet thoughts, the ones he always pushed away, those were the ones that were always the most dangerous. He swore he could feel his brain matter melting into a slushy goo, ready to rush out of his ears at any given second. Marlowe would lose his mind again, like he had lost it so many years before. He'd vaulted right into a catastrophic cacophony of pain and regret, countered only by the actions of one writer during one evening.
Maybe Marlowe couldn't handle being happy. Such a foreign and eerie thought for an artist that had spent the better part of his life mourning lovers and facing the rejection that came from people who could never truly understand him. The constant state of worry fell over him when he realized that there was more to his friendship than he let on, when something ran deeper than he thought it had -- the worry embedded like a plague, front and center in his mind (coming out of it's recess), painting gruesome portraits of the way it would all end up. Nothing was ever just happy and he had trouble believing anything otherwise.
Red paint smeared the white canvas as Marlowe broke from his catatonic state. It had been well into the afternoon when he finally emerged from the cocoon of his blankets. Demitri's insisting went unheard until something snapped inside of his head and the urge to paint suddenly overwhelmed him. Now smeared in the plethora of color that had engulfed his imagination, the canvas took shape. Large as it was, the message was disturbingly poignant: Nothing will survive. Words scrawled in black over a burning cityscape, it's demise so meticulously sculpted by the painter's steady hand. Locked in the room with his work, he steadied himself in the corner and slid into a sit.
"It isn't fair..."
The only words that had left his mouth since the institution and he hadn't let anyone in to hear them.
<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 26, 2004 12:22 PM: Message edited by: you make me shallow ]</font>
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http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...1374796/408269
The expression on his face was self explanatory and he wouldn't be providing answers either way. Sealed in a vault of silence, swimming amongst his inner premonitions, Marlowe succumbed to the stinging fear with a sickening apathy. Everything he knew would one day be lost, he realized, and everything he loved would never love him back. Certainly to a degree, but never with the same ferocity and conviction that he felt. Nobody would ever love the way Marlowe loved, running so deeply beneath his skin, boiling his blood and clogging his arteries. In more cognizant times, he would have acknowledged the epiphany earlier but these were not them and he was not ready to lay at the feet of the supreme knowledge, but merely ready to bow. He could not accept that there was no other to love him thoroughly, though the doubt lingered on the tailend of every affirmation. He did not pretend to think that his soul possessed a mate, but perhaps a fair fit would do.
Marlowe longed for someone to prove his doubts wrong, but neglected to notice who already stood before him.
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Healing is the hardest part...
I can't regenerate another limb, I can't regain a sense if it's lost and I can't imagine living without his tender touch or facing old age without him.
I don't know if I can heal anymore. I wish I never had to do it again. I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish.
If wishes were fishes I'd have an aquarium.
Marlowe scribbled little lines of nothing across a little notebook that he kept tucked in the backpocket of his favorite pair of jeans. His hair was longer now, the ends lingered near his eyes and obstructed most of his view. He sat perched upon a railroad line, staring off into space -- lamenting the world, lamenting what he would soon lose -- feeling so sorry for himself.
There was nothing else he could do.
Maybe if I found a train, I could get it to come down the track, I could get it to leave me deceased.
<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ July 26, 2004 09:09 PM: Message edited by: you make me shallow ]</font>
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Somebody that I haven't seen in a very long time told me that I looked thinner than before and a lot older than twenty six. I know I look older than twenty six because I feel fifty three and I know that I'm thinner than I used to be because I'm a malnourished artist. The starving artist imagery is what you have to keep in mind when going for a certain type of look. She didn't laugh when I told her that because most people don't think they should laugh at me anymore. Maybe that's what pushed me over in the first place -- the lack of laughter, the way people felt bad smiling around me. I've lost a lot in twenty six years but I haven't lost my sense of humor.
I believe I have misplaced my sense of style though, as black has become my passion. Perhaps I'm expressing myself in more physical ways now? Something the psychiatrists sit around and debate about for hours, no doubt. "Why does Marlowe wear black now? Does he feel unclean? Does he feel unworthy of white?" No, I just like black. "Why is he growing his hair out? Does he want to cover his face? Does he want to hide from the world?" No, I just like long hair. I was tired of being jealous about the way everybody else's hair looked, so I decided to get some of my own. It's taken a while, but it's so long that I can pull it back now -- I like that. It makes me look sexy, some girl at the bar said so. I believe random girls when they say so.
I wonder how this is all going to end, this little mess I've gotten myself into. I wonder, I wonder, I wonder, I wonder...
I have decided to take up smoking again, in the meantime. It calms my nerves.
http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...1591764/408269
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Marlowe sat in his bed, hovering over the old photographs that lay scattered haphazardly before him. Yellowed and decaying, their brittle edges threatened to crumble beneath even the most gentle pressure of his fingertips. These were the portraits from his childhood; photographs from the past that lingered in front of his eyes like purple spots after accidentally glancing into the sun. France had always been full of sun, the Southern area around Nice where he was from. The warm climate and cool autumns reminded him yet that the cycles never changed, that he himself would never change. It was the cycle of life, though his was slower than most. Much slower. His fingers still quaked after the impulsive conversation with Demitri, the pictures magnified the effect -- it was like everything came rushing back when he opened up that box, everything that he'd always wanted to forget but never allowed himself to. There was no erasing the past and perhaps a visit to L'Atreaux would put these demons to rest.
This was something he had shared with only two people in the entire world now, the sort of secret that would get taken to the grave and now Demitri knew. He deserved to know. The writer deserved the entire world for the things he had been through, the things that Marlowe himself had put him through. Words would never be enough to thank the Russian and no amount of paint in the universe would fill the canvas worthy of the praises that should have been sung for Demitri Petrov.
But Marlowe wasn't going to give him a canvas and he wasn't going to sing him a song -- none of that would do. The artist was going to give Demitri what he wanted...
A ring and words that meant eternity.
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http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...2026901/408269
<div style="text-align: center;">September 17</div>
Demitri...
I haven't left you, I'm only losing my mind. I don't know if I can live the life of a domestic anymore, I don't know if I can just settle down and be stuck in one place for the rest of my life. I don't want to do that, but I feel like I've done so much already, this is the final frontier. I bet that doesn't make any sense, but in my head, it all fits so perfectly. But I haven't left you, Demitri, I'm only taking an extended walk -- not even a vacation, just a little jaunt. I hate to say that it isn't you, it's me; it really is me, though. I feel like marrying you, having a real life and not being flakey is the absolute right thing to do. But my bones are urging me to run, trying to get me to explore the places I haven't seen -- even if they're few and far between.
But I'm tired of running, I'm tired of listening to my every whim. They're stupid, most times, I realize that. However, part of me believes, truly, that I won't be able to give you what you need. You offer me constant stability, unconditional love -- and do I give you that in return? Love, I do. In boundless amounts, for everyone to see. But stability, I do not. I can't even pretend to offer you that because tomorrow my mission might be to see Tahiti or climb to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. That isn't something you wish to do for the rest of your life, I know it isn't. Nobody wants to.
I'm not leaving you, I'm only going away for a little while. I need to gather my thoughts and experience things that mean nothing to me. You have been the greatest experience of my life thus far and I don't wish to lose it -- but the part of me that screws things up (I believe it's a defect in my brain) is telling me to leave it behind so that I can remember it as a good time, not something that I eventually lost.
I love you Demitri and I hope that you can love me after everything that I've put you through.
But I understand if you can't.
Marlowe.
-
He knew what he was supposed to do, but the motivation had left his fingertips hours ago. The artist in him was screaming, dying to get it's hands on a paintbrush or piece of charcoal or even a pen -- anything to make the pain go away. But this pain was the only tangible thing that linked him to this world, it was the only thing that made him feel like he was a human being. If it weren't for the dull ache in his chest and the guilt pounding against his skull, Marlowe wasn't sure that he'd even know whether he was awake or if this was just another nightmare woven by his unstable subconscious. There were things he knew, fears that pulled on his heartstrings and picked his brain, that he could never tell Demitri. The Russian would never understand, he knew because he could never explain it correctly, and even if he was willing to try... well, Marlowe was sure that Demitri wouldn't want to go on anymore. Not with him.
There were so many words that needed to be exchanged, so many scenarios that could have been played out -- but the writer was unwilling and the only option left in his brain, he decided, was to retreat to France. He had to talk to the priest. Father D'Leancre. Surely, he would know what to do. For so many years he had mentored the young artist, sculpting him into a specimen worthy of the Louvre. Disappointment would crease his oldened (wisened) features, Marlowe knew, but the swell of the old man's heart would outweigh any resentment. He would help, he would know what to do -- and even if he didn't know for sure, he would give Marlowe the strength to do what Marlowe himself knew was right.
Back to France, back to France... the words echoed deep in the hollow walls of his chest, rattling his self esteem. Could he really go back? Could he really handle all of the faces from his long-forgotten past? Marlowe had turned his back on the city once, turned his back on Lindsey's grave, and to return would admit defeat. But he was defeated, he was broken. There were higher powers at work here; powers that were going to determine the rest of his life. Could he really get married again? What if Demitri tired of him? What if he tired of Demitri? The fickle ways of his restless heart were unbeknownst to most (for the man seemed so genuine at first glance -- if only people knew) and he would keep it as such. But what if there were circumstances beyond his control? Was he willing to give himself to the writer for all eternity and everafter?
He didn't know for certain, but the fact that he boarded the plance for France spoke volumes. The man who had taken and left many lovers in the gutter was determined to resolve this issue for one -- determined to truly live, without regret. Or at least to try.
http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...2026900/408269
The Communist was going to be the death of him someday, he would laugh; love would be the end. All it would take is time.
-
Do I deserve this? Do I deserve his forgiveness? Do I deserve a second chance? Is the world going to tilt off of it's axis if I'm happy? Am I allowed to be happy, even after everything that's happened? Has he really forgiven me? Will he keep his promises? Will he come back to L'Atreaux with me? Is he going to enjoy the gift the sleepy town will bestow upon him? Is he really going to love me, is eternity really what we're going to have?
http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...2026902/408269
"I don't care."
Vocal words for fears that were not vocalized and Alexei cast him a sidelong glance, hardly pausing to wonder what kinds of things were running through the artist's head. His brother had informed him, so long ago, that Marlowe was slightly off -- and if he hadn't, he would have known moments after making his acquaintenance anyway.
"Demitri?" The artist was padding down the hallway. "Demitri? Come on! Show me around Moscow." He so hoped things could go back to the way they used to be... even though he knew everything was different.
On a day like today
I looked at you and I --
Saw something in the way
you stared into the sky.
I saw you were sick
and tired of my wrong turns
If you only knew the way I feel,
I'd really love to tell you.
But I could never seem to say the words I needed to.
On a day like today no other words would do.
I saw you were sick
and tired of my wrong turns,
If you only knew the way I feel
I'd really love to tell you.
But I can never find the words to say and I don't know why...
I can't find the words to say and I don't know why...
-- Keane ``On a Day Like Today``
-
This was not regret. He kept telling himself that it was, by no means, any form of regret. He had done the right thing, there were no doubts in his mind about that. But France... he wasn't sure he wanted to be here anymore.
There were things about Marlowe that Demitri did not know. It wasn't intentional, just couldn't bring himself to share them. He couldn't bring himself to share a lot of things. What was it about his past that he was so afraid to reveal? Very few knew. He supposed those that did weren't even alive anymore. That wasn't a bad thing.
It was the middle of the night when he finally made up his mind. Insomnia had plagued him for days on end until this realization struck -- he didn't waste a minute either, leaping onto the sleeping Demitri and poking him awake. (The writer loved him.)
"We need to go home, France is making me crazy."
...right. Like it was France...
-
Isn't it funny how things can go so wrong, so fast?
http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...3413539/408269
Shaving your head is not a good thing. It might seem like it, but it's not. Those are my words of wisdom to pass along to future generations.
That, and don't become a painter. It's only purpose is to torment you, if you have the gift. It's painful.
andimissmyhair.
-
Marlowe was gripping the phone, trying to keep himself standing upright when Demitri called. This was all very shocking and he felt like his knees would give at any second.
"No! Nooo -- ohhh I'm sorry, okay. I know it isn't funny, I know! Demitri, I'm sorry, I promise I won't laugh anymore--" But the promise was quickly broken when he dissolved into more hysterical laughter and ended up on the floor. "Demitri-- ohhh God, okayokay. Okay. Yes, I'm fine. Are you okay? How much is bail? I'll bring it right down. Okay. I promise I won't laugh. No, I really mean it this time. I'm serious! I won't laugh, I swear to God. Unless they have you in an orange jumper. Then I will. But if not, it's okay. OKAY I'm coming, sorry. Love you, bye."
Poor Demitri. He really did marry a lunatic.
-
They say that the decent into madness is slow, usually, and that the person descending more often than not is aware that they are, indeed, failing at life in sanity. I do not feel as though I am failing in sanity, but I do feel as though I may slowly be driving myself mad with the domestic routine, if you can call it a routine, that I have currently prepared for myself and Demitri. I have never been one to travel extensively --
No, that's a lie. Now I've become a liar.
I have traveled far and wide, I have never stayed in any one place for as long as this. I know Demitri's heart is the same way, though his is seemingly belonging to me and he says he is content in whatever we choose to do. I make it hard for him to love me, I am aware of this, and I make it even harder when I get this way. But I cannot help this, as it is the way I have always been, and only one person that I have ever met has been able to try and understand me and my slow descent. I married him. While I do not feel that this is a mistake by any means, I feel that I should have loved him more than to bind him to a life at the side of a lunatic. It isn't fair to anyone, my mood swings are horrendous and I cannot control them, not even with medication. Medication never seems to do anything for me and I really wish it did. Then I might be normal.
In my abnormality, I find solace in my painting. At least, usually. Lately the art of smearing a canvas with color (or a lack thereof) when things get fuzzy in my head has not proved to be therapeutic so much as it has irritating. I do not wish to paint anymore. Not at the present time, I should say, but I do not feel as though this is a mental block, like the writer's have, but maybe a state of mental maturation. Perhaps I have grown past the inability to cope with my emotions but on canvas and have graduated into sharing them with one person --
Problem being that I do not confide often in Demitri, as I fear he will regret the decision to love me and will revoke it fully and wholeheartedly. I don't know why I feel that he can do that so easily, as I could never do that to him, but I do. I feel that he could leave me at any given moment -- it isn't fair to think that of him because I do know that he would not. At least I hope that I know that.
Writing this down provides no relaxation for my tense nerves anymore either. I don't know what will, but I think it's time to move on... maybe just a vacation. An extended stay somewhere --
I really wouldn't mind going back to Russia. Maybe Demitri would like to see his brother again. But since the choices have always been mine and he has always been the support net for me, I believe I will begin to let him choose. I am not so unstable anymore: I will not fall apart if things don't go the way I think they should.
Demitri has taught me so much.
http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...3621635/408269
-
http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...3781653/408269
"Demitri! Are you there? Answer the phone if--oh wait, this is voicemail, isn't it? Fuck. Uh. I just wanted you to meet me downtown... some guy has a gallery and wants me to put my work in it, but I'm not sure what to do... if I should or not. I don't knooooow, I need you to make up my mind for me.
I couldn't find my shoes today either. Did you hide them? I think it was the gremlins.
I'm going to call you in ten minutes, until you answer. Please? Love you."
-
<center>http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...657459/1118953
"If You're Gonna Jump"
I got a short attention span
Can't sit around couch potato land
I wanna do all kinds of stuff
Talking about it's not enough
I wanna go to the extreme
I wanna stretch my limousine
I wanna take it way off road
Go where I'm not supposed to go
Life is music, play it louder
If you're gonna jump, then jump far, fly like a sky diver
If you're gonna be a singer, then you better be a rockstar
If you're gonna be a driver, then you better drive a race car
Cause I'm looking for a guard dog, not buying a chihuahua
I like my food with chili in
I like to laugh til it turns in
I wanna stare fear in the face
I wanna take it all the way
Life is music play it louder
If you're gonna jump, then jump far, fly like a sky diver
If you're gonna be a singer, then you better be a rockstar
If you're gonna be a driver, then you better drive a race car
Cause I'm looking for a guard dog, not buying a chihuahua
If you're gonna jump, then jump far,
If you're gonna
If you're gonna hit the high notes, you gotta be a diva
If you're gonna play a guitar, you gotta play til you blister
Cause I'm looking for a guard dog not buying a chihuahua
No happy apples for my tea
It's hot or cold no in between
If you're gonna jump
If you're gonna jump
If you're gonna jump
If you're gonna jump, then jump far, fly like a sky diver
If you're gonna be a singer, then you better be a rockstar
If you're gonna be a driver, then you better drive a race car
Cause I'm looking for a guard dog, not buying a chihuahua
If you're gonna jump, then jump far,
If you're gonna
If you're wanna hit the high notes, you gotta be a diva
If you're gonna play a guitar, you gotta play til you blister
Cause I'm looking for a guard dog not buying a chihuahua</center>
<font color="#FFFFFF"><font size="1">[ August 10, 2005 11:49 AM: Message edited by: track marks ]</font></font>
<font color="#FFFFFF" size="1">[ August 10, 2005 11:50 AM: Message edited by: track marks ]</font>
-
He started with the living room first. The mural that had once been such a testament to life, to color, was painted over in blackness until he could clear his head enough to create again. Contemplating the empty palette (as black was the absence of all color) with a handful of goldfish crackers systematically feeding his mouth, he wondered how funny it would be to paint an underwater theme. Like a cruise ship gone wrong. But goldfish didn't live in the ocean, he supposed, and they weren't as cute as the crackers were anyway.
Then he contemplated painting crackers and decided that he'd had enough eating for one day and moved on to the stairwell, with it's black and red tones, muted like the red light district, the colors stretching all the way to the top of the staircase. He was going to paint over his classy bordello creation with stark whiteness and he continued that whiteness into the kitchen and over the cabinets and table and appliances -- everything he owned would be a customizable potential piece of artwork and as a blank canvas was the only way he could create, painting over it was logical.
Upstairs, all of the rooms and the hallways, were infused with his own concotion of redness (God bless Sherwin William) because he had an idea for that which may have been more twisted psychotic than creative genius, but what did he care? There wouldn't be anyone around to see this anymore, other than a one night stand here and there, because out of everything in his unnaturally long life, ONE thing was made abundantly clear:
Marlowe was destined to be alone and alone he would remain, unwilling to fight it any longer.
All of his possessions were given away to charities and homeless people, traded in for something newer, something that didn't remind him of anything.
All of his clothes were tossed until he was left with only the jeans he'd worn for years now (too many holes and paint stains and frays to wear in public and he did it anyway), a pair that were newer and less paint spattered and a few sweaters he couldn't part with. Other articles were given to museums because he didn't need them anymore and they were absolutely delighted to have them.
What worried Marlowe most, though, was that he couldn't decide what to paint. Themes or no themes. Pollock, Picasso or Marlowe?
Maybe a few more walks in the park, barefoot when it was nearly freezing, and maybe a few more glasses of whiskey at the bar downtown where he knew a few people and maybe a little more vicodin would help him out of his reverie and into the world of the working, living, breathing, painting.
Maybe it would kill him.
Either way.
<center>http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...220036/1228515</center>
-
Article: November 2005.
The enigmatic artist known as Marlowe, and only Marlowe as he will correct you when asked, has finally agreed to present a new gallery of artwork.
Many have been waiting with bated breath for the next production from this mysterious man out of who-knows-where, and though personal secrets are well guarded within him, the certainty is that the man can paint. Paint with a passion unrivaled in today's artistic society, or so many experts have said.
Though unsure the date and time and place of this new gallery opening, the fact that this event is even taking place is the newest diamond in the art industry's crown of jewels. Although cliche, there is not one ear to the ground who is not listening for coming news of the impending brilliance of Marlowe.
http://gom.woto.net/gq_new.jpg
-
There has been nothing that has moved me to write in quite some time, though I cannot say that I mind this. The less that I have to write, the better, I am no writer nor am I an artist or sane person, I only play cleverly at them all.
Nothing of me is original. I heard that once, or read it in a book, I'm not sure which. Nothing of me is original. I have repeated it over and over until I realized that yes, it is true and no, I cannot change this fact. I do not wish to be argued with though the arguments have come fiercely without invitation, maybe I am not so less as I think, but then why would I think it? Silly thoughts.
Phonecalls are becoming more and more frequent, I find it disturbing. I may have to fake yet another death and take on yet another alias and move to another country yet again, though I do not wish to. I do not wish to have this fame either, I never wanted my work to be discovered but all good things come to an end and I should be more happy that I am selling paintings, though I am no starving artist I think that everyone thinks I am. They call me bohemian, a free spirit. How little they know.
They they they, this all sounds so cryptic and it needn't be. I make myself cryptic when I needn't be. I make myself a lot of things when I needn't be, I wonder what the point is. I wonder what the point of being blessed with such an obnoxiously long life is if I cannot do anything with it due to my own sick fears.
I wish I knew what I was instead of playing at this guessing game all of the time. I am much too old of a man to feel this unsure about everything. I am much too old of a man to feel this pathetic and lonely, I know that. I shouldn't feel like I need someone near me at all times -- maybe I can call myself a social creature and leave it at that, though I am intolerable and my own husband cannot even stand me, though I do not know that he is my husband any longer.
http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...5485167/408269
I suppose I don't know anything anymore and maybe I will move to Iceland. I hear it's lovely there this time of year.
-
I think I may be dead.
I hope that I am dead.
I think I may be gone.
I hope that I am gone.
I think that I am rotting.
I hope that I am not.
I think that I am wasting away.
I hope that no one will notice.
-
I heard a song today. I want to find my one, the only one -- I need to share this life with someone, even if I have no life to share.
Something needs to change... something needs to change or there will be nothing left of me but a shell.
I fear I am the shell already, like a giant lobster. Only not as tasty.
<center>We'll do it all
Everything
On our own
We don't need
Anything
Or anyone
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
I don't quite know
How to say
How I feel
Those three words
Are said too much
They're not enough
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life
Let's waste time
Chasing cars
Around our heads
I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life
All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see
I don't know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?</center>
-
I heard a song today. I want to find my one, the only one -- I need to share this life with someone, even if I have no life to share.
Something needs to change... something needs to change or there will be nothing left of me but a shell.
I fear I am the shell already, like a giant lobster. Only not as tasty.
<center>We'll do it all
Everything
On our own
We don't need
Anything
Or anyone
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
I don't quite know
How to say
How I feel
Those three words
Are said too much
They're not enough
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life
Let's waste time
Chasing cars
Around our heads
I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life
All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see
I don't know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?</center>
