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{Dream-logic rarely succeeds.}Archive for Hazael
Damn it All
I’ve been neglecting this journal. It’s entirely my own fault.
Aylin broke down and cried today for the first time in what seems like forever. She doesn’t know what to think anymore, so she comes to me for help, but I’ll be damned if I know what’s going on either.
I am not a hostage negotiator–I don’t even know who is holding who (or if any crime has been committed).
Perhaps this is not something I ought to be committing to print, but sorting things out in my head doesn’t seem to be working, and typing is easier than writing by hand.
Aylin seems so superficial, so preoccupied with her own petty amusements that all she radiates is a terrible emotional distance. She comes across as stupid because that is the wall which is easiest to maintain. She’s afraid of pain, so instead she’s chosen the life of the numb. But this was not always the case.
To hell with it, she loved him, Arjuna, too much for her own good. It ought to have been obvious from the beginning that he did not love her back, that perhaps he did not even like her, but I was not around then and love makes people stupid. I’ve come to terms with the fact that that’s all I’m really good for: objectivity.
He spurned her, twice. Each time she went running back, like a spaniel named Helena, and each time she was greeted with what seemed like open arms (but were really gaping jaws?). And then the shit hit the fan hard enough for Aylin to notice. She cowered and prodded for a while, and eventually gave up trying to get into Demetrius’ good graces (for Helena and Hermia are not friends in this tale).
All the while she loved, and mourned, and tried to forget. Then Helena found her own love and all should be well.
But it isn’t.
Demetrius won’t stop talking, and Helena can’t stop listening (though the words sear her ears) and wondering if he’s talking about her. He was always difficult to decipher, and even more so now that all context has been lost.
She’s started mourning again and helplessly scattering bits of herself about, and it it up to I, Hazael, to put her back together again.
I’m tempted just to go and beg for a sign from our petulant deity, Lord Arjuna. Something, anything, to set myself at ease…
Broken
To be constantly indecisive is,
in most cases, not much of a boon.
But considering this temper of his,
I see the truth comes out almost too soon.
To have known love and lost it rends the heart
in neat little pieces, never repaired.
But lost love, found back again at the start,
is one that is not readily declared.
Chilly spring mornings spent out on the lawn
are perfect for declaring devotion,
but only if words, in between yawns,
can come from the mind and be given motion.
So it’s a wonder, my dear, that we’ve ever spoken,
The feelings are there, but the words are broken.
– – – – – – – –
I don’t suggest ever trying to compress the entirety of the teenage experience (at least of one night, or a series of them) into a single sonnet. Even so, on the whole I’m fairly pleased with this particular one. Aylin never fails to provide adequate fodder for my writing obsession, and Hazael never ceases to enjoy obsessing right alongside me.
The first kiss is always the hardest.
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I had a dream a couple nights ago that I made out, quite extensively, with Kaoru. I am thoroughly disturbed by this dream, ever more so than some that could probably be considered stranger, because I woke up some minutes later completely disoriented. I turned out to be sprawled over a pull-out bed next to, you guessed it, Kaoru. I know for a fact that nothing happened. I was only dreaming, but my minor trauma remains.
Every piece will say “I love you”
Ordinarily on holidays I’d attempt to come up with something at least marginally pithy to say, but as those who know me could attest if asked, I take a rather dim view on love. I like to think it’s a result of my clear mind and analytical nature, but the reality of the matter is really more along the lines of “I’m a jaded teenager with very little reason to be.” I take comfort in the fact that I do actually have more reason than most, but that’s a very long and complicated ordeal to be writing about in a blog off of the top of my head. Though, some years from now when I finally manage to get Aylin, Hazael, and Whitekeys’ sides of the story aligned, I expect it will make a sensational independent film (the sort that no one understands, but they still go to see because it’s expected in some circles).
And yet, despite my incessant teenage angsting and statements of “love is for chumps,” I’ve found over time, as most artists do, that it’s a veritable cornucopia of inspiration.
So, in honor of this most hallowed and annoying of occasions (i.e. Valentine’s Day) I give you a rather short piece of fiction I wrote some months ago on a plane trip home from visiting my grandparents, “Love.” It seems more appropriate than anything I could come up with on the spur of the moment.
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Love lives in a room the color of eggshells which smells cloyingly of pomegranate and bitter almond, even when the windows are thrown wide.The breeze carries those scents and those of our lovemaking (and those most primordial of sounds) over the hills beyond.
And as we lie there, my fingers tracing idle patterns on her back, we speak.
“I would not let your passions grow so fervent, my darling.” she warns me, “For if you do, you will ultimately be as I am.”
“And why would I not wish for that, my love?” I ask her, “I want you, I need you. I would become you if I could.” I smile and whisper into her hair “I love you.”
I do not know if she returns my smile, but she does reply. “Because if does not do to allow yourself to be consumed by your emotions. Especially if you have but one.”
One day she buried me out back in those hills, my body laid to rest in a shallow grave dug with the absentmindedness of one who would much rather be doing something else. I didn’t mind. Though I had to wonder how many times it had happened before. How many others had ended their journey here, and how many more would come.
She’d told me that last night in the room the color of eggshells that she loved another now. That, though she would always have a place in her heart for me, it was time I went away. So I drank the wine she gave me, one last thought coming to me before the glass slipped from my hand. I knew now where the scent of bitter almond had come from.
She poisoned me, and I let her. As I said, I didn’t mind.
Why? Because I loved her.
Forgiveness
I’m not alone in the sloughing off of
biting bonds held fast by genetic dreams.
Baroque ideals, well hidden by modern light,
creep into sight, revealed by the coming dark.
Written in the margin of my math notes the other day, and probably ought to be considered a continuation of sorts of the previous poem. The music metaphors continue. How I got this out of vectors, however, has yet to be reasoned out.
Aylin and Hazael are at odds again.
Evidently the issues caused by Aylin’s incessant worship and Zagreus’ complete ineptitude as a deity (though it raises the question of who is worshiping who) have been worked out. This is particularly annoying to Hazael because Aylin effective swore off this sort of religious hanky-panky forever not more than a week or two ago. Frankly, I’m on Hazael’s side in this matter, but I’m not stupid enough to actually voice my opinion in the presence of her Violence. I freely admit my cowardice.
Last heard Whitekeys had gone off to fight some war or another in a distant land. I wish him all the best of luck in that particular endeavor, but his presence was sorely missed on the home front. Instead of milking his impact for all it’s worth, I opted (partially at the urges of Senor Biggles) to make a speech. I’d transcribe my speech here, but as it was mostly a plea to make decisions about one’s future based on experience instead of hear-say the entire affair was rather boring. The only real high point was when I started listing out the acronyms associated with some of our various activities (CMEA, CBA, etc.) and forgot what all of them actually stand for. Also, apparently traveling to China has become rather commonplace.
We haven’t actually gone yet.
Aside from that there isn’t really much to report.
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