jacktellslies: (crow)
I'm doing a bit of midnight cleaning. My house is obviously possessed, so I'm scrubbing its mouth out with soap before forcing it to swallow thirty gallons of holy water the wrong way. A proper storm stalks outside, the thunder breathing heavily on us while it watches. Tom and Erica recently travelled to New Orleans and were kind enough to buy me a bottle of voodoo floor wash. I'd planned to keep it as something of an amusing prop, but fuck it, I'm using it.

I bought a mask in Brussels: a woman made of dark, dark wood and human hair, her eyes narrowed to slits and her smile a knowing sliver, a scar or a moon. I work with that mask, sometimes: I'll ask her questions, or ask her to watch something for me. I moved the mask aside before sweeping, and living behind her face was a spider, a small one, perched in her web. Well hullo, old lady. The mask has a far finer mind than I could ever boast, and the spider has demonstrated superb housekeeping. It's good to know that I've been directing my enquiries to the proper authorities.

(I'm a touch disappointed that Krys wrote what she did tonight, because I'm afraid that she's rather stolen my thunder. Given the sort of woman that she is, I may be forced to admit that the thunder was hers to begin with.)

As I've grown older, I've stopped calling the gods by name. The more one learns of them, the more obvious it seems that one would do best to avoid their attentions as much as possible. But my distrust has never been less than amicable. It's often quite loving. But all this year they've been taking things from me, unravelling my efforts, the things that I have carefully built.

They are old and they are mad and I no longer trust that they have a point to make. If they had something to say, they ought to have said it. Because I have things to learn. I am very busy. And they have been getting in my way. Now I am going to start feeding them to each other.
jacktellslies: (circusfolk)
Pardon my silence. The last while has been painfully busy. I work until I drug myself to sleep so that I can rise and work again. I'm building new muscles, tearing them again before they have time to heal, and gods, they hurt. Shrove Tuesday I was running to work by four thirty in the morning, but when I was done I was racked and cracked, then massaged, then found good liquor and good friends. Our table was strewn with my masks, and we told them our worries and our plans. Tom was newly tattooed, more fatigued with pain and with high ritual than I was with work and with practice. I felt as if I stayed up late, but I was asleep shortly after ten. Today I swore I wouldn't get out of bed, and I haven't. I read. I spoke with my lover, plotting a tricky seduction. I took a bath with candles and a glass of wine. I accomplished none of the personal things that piled up while I worked. It is Ash Wednesday, and I am repentant for nothing. And staying still felt so delicious, so decadent, that my work ethic, one of the American flaws in my temperament, recoiled in horror at my sloth. I start work again in the morning. I suppose I'm ready for it.
jacktellslies: (this machine)


This is the white man's clock. I'm on good advice not to trust it. In fact, last night I had six hours of sleeping down to four, and then down to only three due to all of this trickery and nonsense. Because of that I was fifteen minutes late in getting somewhere, and a half of an hour late in leaving again. It's shameful.

My friends are perfection. Yesterday all of Pittsburgh mysteriously found its way here. We drank drinks and went to a play and had ice cream.

If I had a mask to wear today, it would be a round little half of a skull with jagged teeth. I'm about going where I'm not meant to go. I always am. So soon I'll get a tattoo: two crossed keys on my arm. Meredith will be helping me. Rain, perhaps you'd like to help, too?
jacktellslies: (rasputin)
that was everything it should have been.

so, i'm in love with a boy named patrick magee. patrick makes puppets. he makes worlds happen with his hands and his body and his voice. he makes masks, too. and he's funnier and smarter than you. i told him i wish that i could hang out with him every day, and it was true. i also told him that i name drop his future self, and that is true, too. patrick magee, works for jim henson in a few years? worked on that movie you'll really like when you are older? yeah. i know him.

you see, i love my house. we have this amazing heart connection and stomach connection. my house is my tribe. but i've missed hanging out with the smart kids. i've not been challenged in conversation. granted, this was not intellectually intimidating the way pittsburgh can be sometimes. but it was quick. the threat of it was just under the surface. it caught all of the jokes, and the jokes, for the first time in ages, were new.

oh. this feels like home.

yes. i'm home.

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jacktellslies

August 2009

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