Alone Again ... Naturally (NYC, March)
Back in New York, after escaping Boston yet again. Everyone back in their various and sundry abodes. Well, that's not exactly true any longer either. Nights have gone by, and the call of a gathering in New Orleans has extracted a few bodies. Felipe, of course, with his need to tread old stomping grounds once more. Marius, simply for the fact of going, I guess. I'm not certain as to whom else in the city may have gone. Hell, at this point, I'm not certain who does or doesn't reside here anymore. The faces change with the frequency of pages flipped on a calendar. And still there is always a face or two that crop up unexpectedly. New additions, not unlike Leap Day showing up.
And still I find that as I look around the 'Lodge', that there are so few that I either recognize or know. Still others that I do not know well. And further more that I care not to know at all. 'Lodge'. The word strikes me as odd. In the ever changing world of Kindred politics, on the unending merry-go-round of changing leadership that seems to occur every so often (and certainly with a greater frequency of late here in the Northeast), New York finds itself with a Native American at its helm. And so the lexicon changes yet again to fulfill and accommodate his needs and desires. Thusly, we end up with words like 'Lodge' to represent the hallowed halls of Elysium or 'Sachem' as a moniker for Seneschal. The Prisci have no place in his world. With him, as so many others, the focus remains on Covenant alone, with little or no regard to Clan. His 'Elder Council' consists of the varied leaders, spiritual guides and voices of the local Convenants, as well as the appointee positions. And they too have been given the new entitlements of 'Pathfinder' and the like. How ... charming.
Yet once more, I find myself still saddled with the position of being the voice of the Dragons here. As I've said before, certainly such thing is not unfamiliar to me, but its hardly a position that I desire. Raven got me roped into this spot. Why am I not surprised that she is not at court this eve? Not exactly like she'd still be licking her wounds at this late date. But none the less, here I am. Alone at the brownstone. And seemingly alone here at court as well. Don't get me wrong. Evelyn and Knicknack are here, and I do enjoy their companies greatly. As well as the ever charming Sugah. And of course, Rebecca circulates about the room with her latest accessory ... Antonitus, the paramour du jour. All in all, not unlike any other court that I've visited of late, save for perhaps its slightly scaled back proportions.
Much like most other courts, we discuss business with the Chief. The dispensation of territorial properties for hunting exclusivity. Which surprisingly was less argumentative and confrontational than I would have anticipated. Herself had claimed the largest property for her Covenant ... quel suprise! And with her 'departure', the Lancea are reduced to a scant one. As such that property was divvied out to the others, adding to what was already theirs. However, the Chief's decision regarding former 'personal properties' took me a bit by surprise. Jurisdiction over those reverts to the Covenant of its 'former holder'. So thus, Coney Island reverts to the Crones and JFK Airport to the Invictus. It's all words in any case. Truth be told, each of those Coventants will still leave it in the hands of Marius and Simon respectively to manage as they always have been. So like so many other things political, its all rhetoric and simple formalities. In the end, little changes.
Still, there are a few new faces that stand out among the crowd. Some tall, willowy brunette with a mouth whose volume control begins at 6. Attractive, but annoying. An 'actress' supposedly. My my, I do wonder how one manages such a thing. Such a concerted must be made on her part to acomplish such a task. What a foolish waste of time and energy. And she's Carthian to boot. Oh the shockof it all. Pish! But then again, one has to wonder how a member of the NYPD in also among the 'fanged' set. And then there is Mr. Head. A malformed Nosferatu, with a cranium like a fallen souffle or an askew mirangue. My my, how this boy does blend in well. Yes, that's sarcasm. An information broker, he says. Best in the business, according to him. More's the pity when one considers that that is the stock and trade of well over half of this room already. As always, just another minnow in the pond ... albeit in a 'Finding Nemo' sort of way. Mr. Head ... our resident clownfish.
Knicknack is on edge. One of her childer, the Prince of some Vermont burg, has been killed. And according to the Chief, the killer was among us tonight. So it goes that various other Princes of the region allign with the Chief. That an attack against one is an affront to them all. How very Musketeer-esque of them. And so various parties are sent to detain the malcontent, to torpor him for futher dispensation later. Such are the best laid plans of mice and men. For in the end, it seems that the blow that would have completely incapacitated him, did in fact kill him. Pity that.
The night itself dragged on everso otherwise. Save perhaps for a cute little banter session between Sugah and Rebecca. It seems that the ladies postulated that men who garnish a rather long title as part of their personal address, are usually compensating for a certain 'lacking' elsewhere. To which Rebecca pointed out to me and the others gathered that 'Julian' was a rather 'average' name. Surprising, since she never complained about such averageness before ... either in Saratoga, or later in wartorn Europe. In fact, I seem to remember her enjoying such 'averageness' rather fondly. Nonetheless, I let such remark pass ... atleast for the moment. I allowed some time to pass and then I simply walked up to her and said 'I'm truely sorry, Rebeccca.' Her puzzled look begged me to continue and explain. I pointed out to her that 'Antonitus' was a much longer name than 'Julian', and thus, by application of the proposed theory, ... well, you know what was inferred. I must admit that I've never seen her face quite take on that look before. Slightly frozen in place, as she was taken aback. It was truely priceless, and well worth it to behold. Immediately, she jumped to the defensive, telling me 'It's not his real name.' To which, I simply smirked and replied 'They never are, m'darlin'. They never are.', in that lilting long-forgotten brogue that she should recall from the bedroom. Such little pleasures one can derive at times. It just goes to show that the old saying is quite true ... 'Timing is everything.'
And still, as the night draws to a close and I retreat back to the brownstone, such moments only serve to reinforce the harsh realities of my situation. I am alone in the brownstone, until the others return. And though others have returned once more into my life, I still find myself very much alone. Surrounded by people, and yet so very alone. Certainly a situation of my own creation. I am one who has so often pulled away. I am one who has made 'Never get attached' a rule of the trade. And therein lays the ultimate of jokes and the biggest of rubs. That this man ... who so many see simply as a gigalo and cad, that the preceived rogue and rake who has bedded more than his fair share of parties ... is eternally alone. Don't get me wrong. When such encounters occur, they are most enjoyable and lucrative most often. I do so enjoy the lust and the passion, the avorous and the ecstasy of it all. the exhileration of beholding a sculptured body standing before you, that only moments later will be pressed against your own, wrapped in the throws of sexual release. It does fulfill certain needs and desires, as well as some business ones. And I've always thought of them as means to an end. Afterall, it's only sex, and business at that. But occassionally it gives one pause to consider if that is simply enough. Is there not more that I am missing out on by simply continuing as I have? Is this how I want to find myself at the end of my days on the face of this plane? Have I shortchanged myself in the long run? And I have to ask myself ... What is it that I truly want? Does my need to sate my desires outweigh a security and happiness that I've never experienced? ... And am I actually willing to give up and compromise myself for such a thing?
No, no. I can't begin to think like that. It's far too dangerous. And still, I can't seem to shake it from my mind.
___________________________
(Yes, folks. Following this is where the previous post "Hard Habit to Break" occurs ... dated March 20.)
And still I find that as I look around the 'Lodge', that there are so few that I either recognize or know. Still others that I do not know well. And further more that I care not to know at all. 'Lodge'. The word strikes me as odd. In the ever changing world of Kindred politics, on the unending merry-go-round of changing leadership that seems to occur every so often (and certainly with a greater frequency of late here in the Northeast), New York finds itself with a Native American at its helm. And so the lexicon changes yet again to fulfill and accommodate his needs and desires. Thusly, we end up with words like 'Lodge' to represent the hallowed halls of Elysium or 'Sachem' as a moniker for Seneschal. The Prisci have no place in his world. With him, as so many others, the focus remains on Covenant alone, with little or no regard to Clan. His 'Elder Council' consists of the varied leaders, spiritual guides and voices of the local Convenants, as well as the appointee positions. And they too have been given the new entitlements of 'Pathfinder' and the like. How ... charming.
Yet once more, I find myself still saddled with the position of being the voice of the Dragons here. As I've said before, certainly such thing is not unfamiliar to me, but its hardly a position that I desire. Raven got me roped into this spot. Why am I not surprised that she is not at court this eve? Not exactly like she'd still be licking her wounds at this late date. But none the less, here I am. Alone at the brownstone. And seemingly alone here at court as well. Don't get me wrong. Evelyn and Knicknack are here, and I do enjoy their companies greatly. As well as the ever charming Sugah. And of course, Rebecca circulates about the room with her latest accessory ... Antonitus, the paramour du jour. All in all, not unlike any other court that I've visited of late, save for perhaps its slightly scaled back proportions.
Much like most other courts, we discuss business with the Chief. The dispensation of territorial properties for hunting exclusivity. Which surprisingly was less argumentative and confrontational than I would have anticipated. Herself had claimed the largest property for her Covenant ... quel suprise! And with her 'departure', the Lancea are reduced to a scant one. As such that property was divvied out to the others, adding to what was already theirs. However, the Chief's decision regarding former 'personal properties' took me a bit by surprise. Jurisdiction over those reverts to the Covenant of its 'former holder'. So thus, Coney Island reverts to the Crones and JFK Airport to the Invictus. It's all words in any case. Truth be told, each of those Coventants will still leave it in the hands of Marius and Simon respectively to manage as they always have been. So like so many other things political, its all rhetoric and simple formalities. In the end, little changes.
Still, there are a few new faces that stand out among the crowd. Some tall, willowy brunette with a mouth whose volume control begins at 6. Attractive, but annoying. An 'actress' supposedly. My my, I do wonder how one manages such a thing. Such a concerted must be made on her part to acomplish such a task. What a foolish waste of time and energy. And she's Carthian to boot. Oh the shockof it all. Pish! But then again, one has to wonder how a member of the NYPD in also among the 'fanged' set. And then there is Mr. Head. A malformed Nosferatu, with a cranium like a fallen souffle or an askew mirangue. My my, how this boy does blend in well. Yes, that's sarcasm. An information broker, he says. Best in the business, according to him. More's the pity when one considers that that is the stock and trade of well over half of this room already. As always, just another minnow in the pond ... albeit in a 'Finding Nemo' sort of way. Mr. Head ... our resident clownfish.
Knicknack is on edge. One of her childer, the Prince of some Vermont burg, has been killed. And according to the Chief, the killer was among us tonight. So it goes that various other Princes of the region allign with the Chief. That an attack against one is an affront to them all. How very Musketeer-esque of them. And so various parties are sent to detain the malcontent, to torpor him for futher dispensation later. Such are the best laid plans of mice and men. For in the end, it seems that the blow that would have completely incapacitated him, did in fact kill him. Pity that.
The night itself dragged on everso otherwise. Save perhaps for a cute little banter session between Sugah and Rebecca. It seems that the ladies postulated that men who garnish a rather long title as part of their personal address, are usually compensating for a certain 'lacking' elsewhere. To which Rebecca pointed out to me and the others gathered that 'Julian' was a rather 'average' name. Surprising, since she never complained about such averageness before ... either in Saratoga, or later in wartorn Europe. In fact, I seem to remember her enjoying such 'averageness' rather fondly. Nonetheless, I let such remark pass ... atleast for the moment. I allowed some time to pass and then I simply walked up to her and said 'I'm truely sorry, Rebeccca.' Her puzzled look begged me to continue and explain. I pointed out to her that 'Antonitus' was a much longer name than 'Julian', and thus, by application of the proposed theory, ... well, you know what was inferred. I must admit that I've never seen her face quite take on that look before. Slightly frozen in place, as she was taken aback. It was truely priceless, and well worth it to behold. Immediately, she jumped to the defensive, telling me 'It's not his real name.' To which, I simply smirked and replied 'They never are, m'darlin'. They never are.', in that lilting long-forgotten brogue that she should recall from the bedroom. Such little pleasures one can derive at times. It just goes to show that the old saying is quite true ... 'Timing is everything.'
And still, as the night draws to a close and I retreat back to the brownstone, such moments only serve to reinforce the harsh realities of my situation. I am alone in the brownstone, until the others return. And though others have returned once more into my life, I still find myself very much alone. Surrounded by people, and yet so very alone. Certainly a situation of my own creation. I am one who has so often pulled away. I am one who has made 'Never get attached' a rule of the trade. And therein lays the ultimate of jokes and the biggest of rubs. That this man ... who so many see simply as a gigalo and cad, that the preceived rogue and rake who has bedded more than his fair share of parties ... is eternally alone. Don't get me wrong. When such encounters occur, they are most enjoyable and lucrative most often. I do so enjoy the lust and the passion, the avorous and the ecstasy of it all. the exhileration of beholding a sculptured body standing before you, that only moments later will be pressed against your own, wrapped in the throws of sexual release. It does fulfill certain needs and desires, as well as some business ones. And I've always thought of them as means to an end. Afterall, it's only sex, and business at that. But occassionally it gives one pause to consider if that is simply enough. Is there not more that I am missing out on by simply continuing as I have? Is this how I want to find myself at the end of my days on the face of this plane? Have I shortchanged myself in the long run? And I have to ask myself ... What is it that I truly want? Does my need to sate my desires outweigh a security and happiness that I've never experienced? ... And am I actually willing to give up and compromise myself for such a thing?
No, no. I can't begin to think like that. It's far too dangerous. And still, I can't seem to shake it from my mind.
___________________________
(Yes, folks. Following this is where the previous post "Hard Habit to Break" occurs ... dated March 20.)