it's 4:05 a.m., on 2001-05-31 - invisible subreality.

~

Sitting here, trying to reconcile myself to the fact that Buffy, really, is over.

She's dead and gone and buried, and I desperately want to mourn. But I don't know how.

I guess, none of them do.

Listening to 'wish you were here', and wishing River was around. I wrote a little bit about plants eating people, and I wrote a bit that might be Willow, but I don't really think so. Someone mourning the death of a man I was thinking was Giles.

Jenny, perhaps, but it's too scattered to be Jenny.

I reread Walkabout, by Dex, and felt full to brimming.

I'm playing the I miss Ricky playlist.

I'm also trying to mourn Buffy as best I can, but I can't seem to do it. The whole futility thing is standing in the way-- that death seems so futile. Wasteful. Riv, you know the kind of loss I'm talking about.

Apparently, according to Sylv, there's going to be a musical episode of Buffy next season. It probably won't be very good. But it should be interesting, to say the least.

~*~

I'm fucking around with livejournal, reading all the people from comics that I know and adore, and Obie happened to mention, 'friendship and anger aren't exclusive things for me.'

And, I think they are, here.

See, I don't get angry. I might, y'know. Get annoyed from time to time. I might get pissed off. But, like Hank, I don't get angry and forgive. That's why, maybe, I take it so much to heart when people get angry.

Y'all know that I cry when people yell at each other.

I'm trying to think of someone I've gotten angry at that isn't Will. Will's different, I yell at him and stuff. But I can't think of any one else that I've gotten pissed off at, really well and truely mad, that I've actually made up with afterwards.

Monika and I haven't spoken in months. It takes a hell of a lot to make me angry. I think.

~*~

It's three o'clock in the morning, and I'm hungry... but dad's downstairs sleeping so I can't go eat. Maybe I will anyway, but I'll feel guilty about waking him up.

Tired. Wanting Ricky.

My spirit animal's out for a smoke.

~*~

It's so hot in this room that I'm sweating all down my legs. Sticky patches are making my sweatpants stick to the back of my knees. I don't feel like much of a protest singer right now. I feel like a melting marshmallow.

Got an email from Kate just now on the ficgrrls list. Yo. Go join, be grrly.

I just resubbed to fourcolororgy, too. I'm thinking, I should finish that invisibles story I worked on. Fanny and Dane was what I was writing, if I remember correctly. I don't even know anymore.

I think they were in Subreality, which is as much a mindtrip as a Matrix/Fight Club crossover. Neo/Jack. They're similar. Fanny, doing shamanism in the middle of Subreality.

It went something like this:

The truth is, most people see nothing beyond the lights of the Cafe and the street around it. Even the biggest mind keeps itself caged into that ten city block radius, afraid of the things they might find miles and days and thoughts away. I know the subways of this place, the tunnels. There be the gateway to another world.

They're where old Mad Tom, here, *came* from, after all.

And, Fanny:

This batch of minds are more arrogant than the ones that came before. Their literature, that makes up the very fibre of the land I'm sitting on, they've all but forgotten. The head of John the Baptist doesn't fuel these technophiliacs, that leave their semen all over the ground to sprout up flowers each proverbial spring.

And:

I know that, somewhere along the lines, the earth didn't end. Because here we are, aren't we? And we're not slaves to control, because I feel like giving the world a finger, and nothing's come out of the ground to swallow me or anything. And Robin's okay, and I guess this is a lot better than things could be...

But the fact that no one's around is starting to bother me.

Another vaguely disquieting spectre goes past us on the leeward side, and I pull my cap down over my eyes more. Green eyes get to me. It's the leeward side, because it feels like it is, and the Marquis de Sade could have written her and her eyes. She was naked. She is naked still.

Robin is eating an apple. She offers me a bite, and I take it. Somehow, it tastes salty. She shrugs at me, and I shift around on the bench. We're sitting under an apple tree, in a park across the street from a big office building. She wants to ransom a Muse off to a Writer to get us the fuck out of here.

And, finally, Boy, on the whole situation:

See, none of my martial arts comes in handy here, none of my experience, and none of my brain cells, either. If I ever meet God, I'm going to kick him in the balls. It's irreverent sure, but why should I believe in Grant if he didn't believe in me?

~*~

~

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