it's 7:42 p.m., on 2001-08-21 - michael stipe's apologies.
~
No one's home.
I'm thinking about christening the new design here, something about summer, because summer is the happy time and it's raining now.
I have fallen into a mood.
I'm listening to the smashing pumpkins and seven mary three. I'm reading Brighid and Angel, Pommegranetes and Can't Not, and they make me cry.
I am having a Toby moment. Maybe it's a Chris. Who can tell anymore. Who cares.
~*~
I'm listening to David Usher now. I really hope he plays this live.
Doqz wrote something about being in St. Petersburg, and seeing the lamp light, and trying to find something fundamental in his walk but not finding it. It struck me, fast and sharp, and also deep and cool, like a mental double orgasm. Gasp.
He said, --okay, so livejournal is being so fucking bitchy and won't let me go to his journal right now, so I can't tell you what he said. So I'm going to be bitchy and petty and, why can't I be a diva for once.
I could be a diva. Just give me shoes to make me bigger than I am, and I'll be fine.
~*~
Chris doesn't want anyone to know about the time that Vern put him in drag. It speaks too much about who he's not and not enough about who he is -- and the lipstick on his mouth was rosy, and red, and the color of his cheeks, flaming.
--I could continue this, but I couldn't handle watching Toby in drag -- it's the one episode I've never seen -- so I don't know about why Chris would wear a skirt; only that he would feel emasculated, and that would feel good.
~*~
Hah. Got it.
Doqz said: It's like that sometimes. A good book, a good song - it just shifts your view slightly. Redefines, repaints the world. Put it all into the new perspective. You know what I mean, right? Anyone who sometimes in the middle of the night with people you love, as the noise of friendship rages around you sometimes found themselves an island of quiet, simply content for a moment to sit and sip the feeling of being there... Yeah. You know what I mean.
He also said: When I was little, I used to come to visit my grandparents every winter in Sanct Petersburg. I prefer that name so much more to Leningrad. In this instance, at any rate. They both have a charm to them, a style, a history, but Sanct Petersburg is... different. Venice of the North they used to call her. The faint scent of Imperial Russia, not of its iron but the brilliance that shone through the curtains ever so often. But in any case. Beautiful city, then and now. My grandparents used to live on the Nevsky Prospect. The central street, wide and long, running through the heart of the city, past some of the best places. Lighted with those old fashioned street lamps, I used to see on the illustrations to Dumas' novels. We visited it one last time, just before we left for the New World. It was strange.. You know how..., well actually live journals are like that. I suppose it was true of the Usenet. Certainly still holds true for the message boards from what I've seen. When someone makes a serious and smart post and you feel the need to reply. Sometimes to argue, sometimes to agree, but something... The deep and undeniable need to show off. To show that you too are smart and there untapped levels of sheer deepness in you.
And then: So I'm walking there, giving myself airs, searching for that deep hidden meaning everyone starts to search for when they turn 14 and read some poetry. Well, needless to say I did not discover the meaning of life that night. Mostly I remember taking my glasses of for a second and promptly tripping, barely avoiding the signpost. But hey, that's also a good life lesson - always keep your glasses on when it's dark.
I did have one thought though. And that one keeps coming back to me from time to time. I was thinking of happiness then and you know ambling my way down the prospect. And see, when you start, all the streetlights ahead of you seem to merge into this big, bright light. And then you pass them one by one, each one much less bright, but still a light in the dark where you need it. And then you stop and look back, and when you look you don't see each, little light but that very same bright fire you started off for.
And, see, that's his truth, not mine, but he said it in this way that I wanted to lap up. Like cream. I want to taste it. Something to wrap your insides around when you read things like Pommegranetes and feel things like seedlings sprouting.
~*~
I'm listening to So Central Rain, and you know why? Because I'm not sorry and Michael sounds it, so maybe he can teach me how. It's all the music talking. If I put on radiohead, I'll be shifting.
If I put on 'losing my religion' I'll want to drive.
~
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