notesinblue: (smoke)
i wrote a cryptic entry in my public journal. saved here, lest i forget, is the translation.

A flash. The sting of a palm across my cheek. Spit in my eye. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows... Whether 'tis nobler... Nobler... Noble. Nobility. Another royal in my crowded house.
i discovered the princess of cups' slander.

Papers written. Papers mid-progress. Papers looming. All but one pushed out through tired fingers. It can wait until morning. It can always wait until morning. So says the weary to the morning sunrise.
i wrote some, but not all, of my papers, hindered by depression and exhaustion.

Restless night. I tell the mouse in my wall everything. He chitters something about Dickinson and leaves birdseed in my laundry. I don't like Dickinson. Or birdseed. I evict him.
i discover a mouse has built a nest in my dirty laundry. Dickinson is also the poet the princess revers the most, and i dislike. we argued about it during our last lunch together.

Dusty orange juice morning. A paper written in haste. And then flying. Muddy road. Squeaky gate. Twisty pavement. Engine roaring above speakers. Foot flat to the floor. Hands looser than they have been in years. A long held sigh released.
i hurry down the mountain to class and the drive centers me. i realize the anxiety i acquired after my car accident has finally dissipated.

A walk through sunlight. Choices weighed. Invisible smoke rising from the depths of imagination. Nocturnes echoing in my ears. Always Nocturnes. My other name means turning point. And I turn. A flat. E major. F sharp. Always F sharp.
i walk to class and consider what to do about the princess as i listen to Chopin. my 'other name' refers to my old journal name, which translates as turning point in German.

A sunspot. A flare. Scales tip. To take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them... Take arms... Oppose... End. A decision is made. Swords must be blocked or parried. Everything I have learned, I have learned through either love, literature, or war.
i run into the princess in Eddy Hall. she avoids me and is cold. i get so angry i shake through the rest of my class. i decide i'm not willing to put up with her anymore, even though it means giving up what was once a dear friendship.

A workshop. The first I've ever been apathetic too. The only. An emptiness. A hollowness. A silence. Words withering on the vine. Overripe or too green? So many words written and still a drought. Such a drought. A dustbowl.
i sit through a workshop in CO301a, but don't absorb anything because i'm still so angry. i feel creatively sabotaged because the princess used to be my main support as a writer but she attacked my words when she became angry. also, even though i've been writing tons of papers my own works have been neglected since the semester began.

Substitution brings rain to end the drought. A Romanian from Jersey. Words reborn. Notes taken. Lecture ignored. I only hear the diction, the colloquialisms. You know? See. Look, look, see. I don't know. Whatever, right?
a substitute teacher in logic reminds me of the main character in my second novel. i take notes on his speaking style and get re-energized to work on revisions.

The creak of leather as arms encircle me. So many I'm sorrys. Always I'm sorrys. From both of us. But this time they are not his to give, nor mine. But they are welcome. They are the only ones I will get. I keep them close. I will stop apologizing.
the emperor stops by to cheer me up. he tells me he's sorry about the princess. i decide i need to apologize less, both to him and her.

Another hug, this one so soft I'm surprised by the feel of it beneath my fingers. Laughter. Seriousness. Talk of the past, the present, and even more of the future. All before the soup is even gone.
i have dinner with the king of disks. we commiserate since our situations are so similar. it feels good.

A proposal. Worded in neutral terms. Yet there is something in it. The veiled question. Are you different? Are you bluffing? Do you want to run? Do you want to run with me? And I'm unsure of my answer.
the king asks me if i want to drive to Boston with him. he seems to be testing me somehow, gaging my response carefully.

A return to the past to see a face of the present. The devil on my shoulder. One of the better ones. One of the true. As opposed to so many of the others. All the angels were liars. The devil speaks the truth. And I leave laughing.
i visit the prince of disks at my former workplace. he suggests i do what makes me happy, even if that means driving to Boston with the king when we are both in no state to be in a relationship. i tell him he's a devil on my shoulder. he has been a good friend since my split with the emperor.

More roads, these dark. The turns hidden but well traveled. I drive from memory. Like playing a now forgotten melody. Brandenburg played through wheels and combustion. My fingers itch for strings and keys. I decide to recover the first and acquire the second.
going home i drive fast and by instinct. Brandenburg concerto was the first piece i really nailed on my cello and could play without the sheet music. i decide to pick my cello up from the house and to finally get off my ass and get a piano.

A place to call home. Better, perhaps, than the last. I whisper French to the glowing city lights, even though I don't know a word of it. Except for cest la vie. Such is life. Such is life my childe. Such is life.
i'm more loved in my current home. i watch a show with the queen of disks about Paris homes. it makes me adopt an accent as we talk. i decide i'm finally getting comfortable, both here and with myself again.
notesinblue: (falling)
for better or worse, i pushed send this time.

Ne -

I was sitting in Clark watching it snow today and I was struck by a sudden spell of missing you intensely. I found myself thinking of a thousand things I wanted to tell you, show you, share with you, and I was nearly overcome with the sense of your absence. It seemed in that moment that you had been gone for years, decades. I suppose it surprised me in large part because it was so random and unprovoked. That and, strange as it may sound, I've gotten used to your absence.

I realized last week that I've gotten used to the absence of a great many things. My life no longer resembles its former self - the only remnant is Monday night, where I feel somewhat detached. It's not the same without you there. It's not the same in general. I've changed and no one seems to have noticed. I humor them by making the same old jokes and keeping my metamorphosis to myself.

The Emperor and I have been getting along well the past few weeks and I'm glad for it. He is unhappy and he seeks my advice and sympathy - I suppose some things remain ever the same. I would worry about him, but he seems determined to make things difficult for himself. I think it's what he needs to do right now. Not even his "distracting fling" with the Queen of Wands makes him happy (which makes me wonder what the point is). These days I sit quietly as he rests his head on my shoulder and tells me he is doomed to remain unhappy. I do all I can, which is to say I offer a kind word, a hug, and go on my way. It is all I can do. It's all I ever could do, except now I'm aware of my limitations.

Most of my other friendships have settled into near stagnation. Since I moved up here, and winter hit, I haven't seen much of anyone. We still have five feet of snow up here and it has snowed every week for two months. The weathermen are beside themselves, as is my poor father. I passed the stir crazy stage a month ago. I'm resigned now to living and breathing snow, textbooks, and solitude. I figure I'll dig myself out next spring.

The Prince of Swords has returned to school (woo!) and remains chained to S at the hip. I'm glad for him, but I miss him as well. I haven't seen him, just the two of us, since October. I only vaguely recollect what being around him without others is like. I miss the side of him that only comes out when there is no one around to impress.

The Prince of Disks and I, on the other hand, have been closer the past few months than we have been in a long time. I edited his book for him and he's excited about revisions. He seems happier than he has in a long time. I think he's finally coming to peace with himself. I think you'd be happy to see how much he's grown this past year.

The Princess of Cups and I have a bit of a falling out. After a couple months of snippy passive aggressive phone calls we finally had an ill-fated dinner that ended in shouting across the table in a busy restaurant. We've since reconciled but things aren't the same. I doubt they ever will be. And strangely I feel nothing for the loss. To much has been lost over the past year for me to care as deeply as I once did about such things. I'm afraid I've become cold. But Disney movies still make me cry, so all is not lost.

It's very dark out tonight, the snow clouds have blotted out the moon and the lights from town. I've lit my room with candles to take the chill off. (It's -7 degrees.) I'm supposed to be typing my paper for tomorrow's lecture on Byron, but as soon as I opened my laptop I found myself thinking about you again.

I've been meaning to write this letter for weeks. I'm not sure why I didn't. I suppose it's just because I have so much to say. And I don't just mean all of the crap I wrote above this. I mean so much more than that. Even now I can't find the words or inclination to write them. Suffice it to say that I have a lot I wish I could tell you. And there is a lot I wish I could hear. I want to hear you describe the ocean in New Zealand, or the cliffs of Ireland. I want to hear your voice. I want to hear your distinct way of speaking, and seeing the world. I suppose I just miss you, as I said at the beginning.

And I do, miss you. I love you, R. I'm not sure what that means anymore, if anything, but I'd be remiss not to say it. Don't worry. I expect nothing in return. I rarely even hope for anything anymore. But I do still feel something every time I hear certain songs or see familiar sights. I think to myself, "once upon a time me and a boy I loved were there, and I was happy", and I'm thinking of you. Strange that despite our lack of a romantic relationship I feel so connected. I'm not sure why I bring it up, except that it has been clinging in the back of my throat, something unsaid and heavy, for quite some time. I've been careful to tiptoe around the words, and I've grown weary with not saying what's on my mind (much to the chagrin of others). So please, forgive my candor just this once, and take it for what it is: an offer of honesty and affection.

I hope you are well. I hope New Zealand is the paradise it seems. I hope you are happy. I hope you dream wonderful dreams. I hope for a great many things, all of them good, for you. Know that somewhere on the other side of the world someone is watching a snowflake melt on a pane of glass and thinking of you. Know that you are, as always, loved.

Love, Me

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January 2013

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