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thestarsmaketwentyone (profile) wrote,
on 1-14-2004 at 12:46am
Music: My muscles are singing to me
Subject: Things are said, and not unsaid
I said I would, and now I did>> Pitchoor of the three. From memory, so likenesses=wrongs. It's the triple goddess fallacy thing, and the MEK thing, which is an unscratchable itch.
Push>> is the falsesmiler. Hardest, in some ways, because I have never talked to the mask behind the mask, but easier also, for the same reason. I understand the mask more, this time. (I did another one I think, at some point. It had wood grain.) Or rather--I applied an understanding to it. I still can't get the shape-relationships right though. The wings I haven't fit in yet. I asked her to dress in a kind of fetish nurse-outfit thing. I don't know if it will stay. I want to think of more things to go on the tray.
Neo>> Damn the perspective and foreshortening problems of spikes! Hopefully I will be able to work up more sense of concentration from he face as she works.
Mimi>> May well be a lightsource, if this goes anywhere. My appearance-memory is wayway back for this, so I am not sure if it is Mimi. The cat's cradle has to be there because of the Fates who were three and their cutting the threads. I must define more what Neo is doing on/in her back. I am at once proud and ashamed at the fucked-up-ness of the hands.

I don’t want to hurt, I don’t want to be hurt. But you can’t have one without the other…how can I ask for a perfection I cannot deliver. LivebythediebytheTRAITORS. Oops.

I think it would be quite simple to fit Midway’s into a chronological point in the past of the MEKworld. The ideas and themes are all so much the same. I will resist for now, because I am trying not to be too much of a cock all the time.

Drug withdrawal is going pretty good, pretty bad.

Is there a 'cut' knid of thing? I dunno. Here's some fragments of prose, most from 'Narcissus', one from something random:


The air tastes stale and worn out. Dried, beaten and antisepticked. Hospital. The left side of my face aches unmercifully, a savage trail of numb red squeezing my blind eye, my bandaged-over eye like a vice with each heartbeat. I don’t want to see where I am. I know where the bandages are because they itch and scrape horribly. I wonder whether bandages are cloth or paper. The air has. I stay still, afraid to disturb the edged coral formations of the sheets. If I move, they will fracture and crack. I stay still, knees crushing against my breasts. Old, cold late morning light nags at me, dyeing my foetal half-sight veinous pink. My brain is bruised and gritty.

I hear the dim underwater-tuba sounds of a television somewhere nearby. The blare refracting around my eye is more a smoke alarm than a fire engine now, so I get up, after a few false starts, and head down the corridor in the wake of the sound. I shuffle slowly along the linoleum floor in my institutional slippers and faded dressing gown, an elderly ice-skating ghost. The corridor radiates cold. The room is long and wide, but a low peeling crazy paved ceiling in nicotine off-white makes the place feel closeted, funereal. The walls look slightly fuzzy. I glare at the teevee myopically, turning my head to one side so I can make out the grainy picture. I must look like some mad, bedraggled pigeon perching awkwardly on the hairy hospital sofa, which is dotted with black tarry chewing gum stains. It smells faintly of wet sheep. The soaps are on.


I sit on my bed, cross-legged. I take the flower down from the windowsill in its terracotta coloured plastic pot. One by one, I pluck its petals off. With each tear, I mutter “Sarlie MacLennon.” in time with the quiet, final snap of plant ligaments. Eventually all that is left is a tentative green lance of stem. I put my denuded flower on the bedside table.

The doctor comes top see me in the afternoon. His breathing is large and considered, soothingly tidal in its pinched regularity. I notice individual silvery wires of hair striking out from his sideburns across his cheeks, perhaps on a march to meet the strands peeking shyly from his nose. We talk about my memory, and that they have a specialist coming. A knock on the head does sometimes do that, he says, like in the cartoons. His smile stands the little hairs to nervous attention. This case, my case, he means, is a very unusual sort of case for such a small hospital. We talk about the sheets and how, of course, nothing can really be done about it so never mind. But he has come to take the bandages off for me. It wasn’t a very deep cut, and having to bandage over one eye was such an inconvenience that he doesn’t think there’ll be need for another dressing. He’s brought a mirror, borrowed it from Mrs. Lewis in reception, in fact, just so I can see.

It’s a compact mirror, the little pea-green frame dusted with fragrant powder. And there she is, in the glass. Sarlie MacLennnon, from off the teevee. That’s odd. I think. I turn the little thing over in my hand, peering at it, looking for a trick. Finally, I look again. A purplish crinkled Cheshire cat’s smile frames the left side of her face, tugging lewdly at the corner of her eye. She looks drawn, puzzled. The long, delicate carmine raggedness of blood travelling from temple to jaw is all that gives her face colour. Her skin seems taut and shiny as a barely healed bruise. I frown, experimentally. So does she. The cut wriggles as if it has been tickled, hurting in mirror image. Oh. I think. I try a few other expressions, or perhaps the same one and I can’t tell. I don’t seem to be able to remember many. Suddenly I feel like someone is hauling by belly up from under the sea in a net. I must be dying. “The scar will fade to almost nothing”, he says. “You’ll only barely be able to see it.” My belly gasps in the raw heavy salty air, desperately flipping ungainly back-flips. “Oh.” I say.

He rises after a little while, uncrumpling himself, and makes to leave. I return Mrs. Lewis’ mirror to him. After he has gone, I gather up petals fallen from the flower and place them in a circle on its bed of desiccated soil. They look like tiny, dried up votive offerings. I fancy that eventually they will rot away, and give the nutrients locked up in them back to the plant. The fish, my belly, is back in water now. I can tell because it makes a long drain gurgle, supplicating. I wonder when the nurse will come around with tea. I sit, and wait. After a while, I remember the name of the flower.


The moon is full, cold and bright as a new coin above a cracked-basalt cityscape. Frayed rags of cloud tumbling down from the mountains unravel thread by thread over the city, tearing themselves to ribbons against a lunar edge milled clear and fine by shadow. The moon remembers a sickle. Behind them, the clouds leave greyish, luminous feathers of snow, trickling down into the tangerine neon of the streets. The old cathedral is a vast, uncompromising spike of dark among the upraised fingers of electric orange tower-blocks. Even the snow adds no colour to its sheer, wind-mottled flanks. The Noh society is coming home, and they are bringing guests. The Circus is coming to town.
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