Just remember what she does when you're asleep.
The following was written just after midnight between Saturday and Sunday on paper and in my own blood during a tempest that destroyed every reasonable pen in the world and tore at the electric lines and thwarted the telegraph machines through which I usually deliver my little epistles to you. Please remember that some things are only true just after midnight, and will never be true again.
I've just received a package from Heronnoire, and the Decemberists are amazing. I loved them at the first note. They sound like the dirtier streets and subways in the dirtier, older, more romantic cities to which I've been. And I met up with Fin and Marn and some of the polyamorists of Philadelphia and the surrounding areas, and it was Fin's birthday, and they gave me a mask. My room is full of masks (it is full of eight, and now nine of them, anyway) but this one is different: it is red, for one, and it is a devil. It has horns and teeth and a tongue, and I think it makes my room mean something different than it did before. Some things fit well enough that they change things; do you understand? Tomorrow is for Jeanne Mammen prints, as the devil demands Jeanne Mammen almost as much as I do, and if I move quickly, sheets and curtains. I love this room, or what it will be.
Am I a cat, then? Can wolves behave this way? Can crows? Crabs can. And yes. Yes, we can. I'm not used to defending what is mine, but only that which belongs to others. But there are limits. And I will be a cat if I must, wondering if I feel bad about the fact that I do not feel very bad about it at all. I have always been one to forgive much, but as I grow slightly older I find that I have less and less tolerance for irresponsibility. I am sorry. I'm not always the best of creatures. And I am too honest, and I am too much of a liar, but almost never in the ways that she sometimes thinks.
I ate snails the other day. I ate much of everything. My appetite comes in waves, and I eat nothing for weeks before gorging myself. I've gotten used to my face being thin, though, and I think even my hips are waning (although they are certainly still there, the bastards) and it is possible that I look more the boy now than I ever have, which is most likely little more than disappointing. I've been at least trying to be pretty again, though. I'd gotten out of the habit. How could such a thing happen? May I ever call myself a dandy again? Am I lost? I'll make myself worthy of you again, beauties. I'll work off what I owe. I'll be a very martyr to aesthetics. Let us never be severed again, my caprices: fabrics, and foolishness, and sheer determination. I adore you too much.
I miss my little transatlantic cables and telegraph wires and oracles more than I'd like to admit. I'd like to know the price of things. I'd like to know the answers to questions. I'd like to be speaking to a friend. So you'll get more of this than you want. Thank the imaginary storm.
I want books and candles and teacups on the windowsill next to my bed. I want hours and hours up here reading and scrawling, and I don't want it taken away. I was born in July, and I am an eater of snails. And I am a heathen thing, and I will act as such when I must.
I've just received a package from Heronnoire, and the Decemberists are amazing. I loved them at the first note. They sound like the dirtier streets and subways in the dirtier, older, more romantic cities to which I've been. And I met up with Fin and Marn and some of the polyamorists of Philadelphia and the surrounding areas, and it was Fin's birthday, and they gave me a mask. My room is full of masks (it is full of eight, and now nine of them, anyway) but this one is different: it is red, for one, and it is a devil. It has horns and teeth and a tongue, and I think it makes my room mean something different than it did before. Some things fit well enough that they change things; do you understand? Tomorrow is for Jeanne Mammen prints, as the devil demands Jeanne Mammen almost as much as I do, and if I move quickly, sheets and curtains. I love this room, or what it will be.
Am I a cat, then? Can wolves behave this way? Can crows? Crabs can. And yes. Yes, we can. I'm not used to defending what is mine, but only that which belongs to others. But there are limits. And I will be a cat if I must, wondering if I feel bad about the fact that I do not feel very bad about it at all. I have always been one to forgive much, but as I grow slightly older I find that I have less and less tolerance for irresponsibility. I am sorry. I'm not always the best of creatures. And I am too honest, and I am too much of a liar, but almost never in the ways that she sometimes thinks.
I ate snails the other day. I ate much of everything. My appetite comes in waves, and I eat nothing for weeks before gorging myself. I've gotten used to my face being thin, though, and I think even my hips are waning (although they are certainly still there, the bastards) and it is possible that I look more the boy now than I ever have, which is most likely little more than disappointing. I've been at least trying to be pretty again, though. I'd gotten out of the habit. How could such a thing happen? May I ever call myself a dandy again? Am I lost? I'll make myself worthy of you again, beauties. I'll work off what I owe. I'll be a very martyr to aesthetics. Let us never be severed again, my caprices: fabrics, and foolishness, and sheer determination. I adore you too much.
I miss my little transatlantic cables and telegraph wires and oracles more than I'd like to admit. I'd like to know the price of things. I'd like to know the answers to questions. I'd like to be speaking to a friend. So you'll get more of this than you want. Thank the imaginary storm.
I want books and candles and teacups on the windowsill next to my bed. I want hours and hours up here reading and scrawling, and I don't want it taken away. I was born in July, and I am an eater of snails. And I am a heathen thing, and I will act as such when I must.