(no subject)
How fortunate I am to know others of my kind. For so long I shunned them with disdain, arrogant in my thoughts that my little coven was entitled, priviledged, and more. We are of course - there's no doubt that all of us, from Maharet to Daniel, are the predominant, infamous souls of the immortal world. Celebrities among the dead, how novel. Yet there are others who at this juncture of my existence I'm relieved to know as companions and friends. Immortality as it is written and revealed, is a lonely experience and I'm too needful to be lonely for long.
So Northward I came, away from destruction and dismay and what did I do? Why I looked up an old friend. Oh, probably Christopher is more of an acquaintance, but he didn't reject me when we met up on that darkened street outside of Boston city limits. Of course, he was right in the middle of one of those long drinks, the kind where the vein pulses right against your lip and the final breaths linger on your cheek. A rude time for me to interrupt, perhaps but it was oh so fun to watch. Me, standing under the halogen glow of a street lamp, propped up against it like some secondhand comedian waiting to deliver the punch line. When he sensed another immortal presence, imagine the looks we exchanged. It wasn't just any immortal. It was me. You know, that celebrity among the dead.
Aside from being a bit miffed that I'd witnessed his feeding (it's a very sacred moment), he was at once thrilled and puzzled by my presence. So I insisted we find a more private abode in which to discuss what I wanted - for you know there's always something. I'm never without motivation, and who can blame me?
We went to his house, which pleased me greatly for it was an old mansion done in dramatic, over-the-top New England Victorian. Wainscoting everywhere, and the only thing that saved it from being too much of a dollhouse was the fact that he or someone paid quite well had decorated the interior in dark burgundy shades with bold furnishings not unlike those I'd been rumoured to have in those movies made about me. For hours we sat and caught up on the intricacies of our time, and it was clear that he presumed I was merely passing through. Unfortunately I had to correct his logic and inform him that I was imposing upon his hospitality. Now don't look at me as if that's such a horrid thing for a Southerner to do. Come on. I'm a Frenchman at heart, and I'm a self-serving Frenchman at that. I do as I please and after all, Christopher owes me. I won't give in to the how or why just now, but that's hardly important. What is important is that I cannot tolerate the oppression of the South just now. Walls were closing in, if not in come cases being blown in upon me figuratively and literally. I'd written to Louis, to Quinn and Mona, to Rowan even, and all I got in return was empty promises. Well to hell with all of them I say. Despite the fact that I love them with all of my eternity, I need more. Haven't I always? God knows I'm not going to sit around a battered Mississippi farm house waiting for someone to think, "Gee, I wonder what Lestat is up to these nights?" and pop in for a spot of conversation. No way. I'm tired of it all, and here I am. Christopher of course conceded to my request and gave me full run of the Eastern wing. I have my own entrance, my own room, a parlor of sorts, and a library. What more could I want? I'll tell you what I want. No I won't. It's a secret, and I damn well don't have to give them all away. I've been babbling to the public for far too long based on their perceptions and invocations. I'll write secret words and leave them to be decoded with a special ring available for only $19.99 in this special television offer. Then again, maybe not. I'm tired of making sense and living predictably. Who the hell is that? Not Lestat of old, I'll tell you. What happened? He fell in love and lost his passion? Such irony would plague me, I'm sure. So to hell with convention or passivity. Forget the tenderness I might have if only… forget that a time may come… Ssh, Lestat, just let it go okay? Relinquishing all of that isn't so much a bad thing. It's liberating. I just have to find the beat again.
So Northward I came, away from destruction and dismay and what did I do? Why I looked up an old friend. Oh, probably Christopher is more of an acquaintance, but he didn't reject me when we met up on that darkened street outside of Boston city limits. Of course, he was right in the middle of one of those long drinks, the kind where the vein pulses right against your lip and the final breaths linger on your cheek. A rude time for me to interrupt, perhaps but it was oh so fun to watch. Me, standing under the halogen glow of a street lamp, propped up against it like some secondhand comedian waiting to deliver the punch line. When he sensed another immortal presence, imagine the looks we exchanged. It wasn't just any immortal. It was me. You know, that celebrity among the dead.
Aside from being a bit miffed that I'd witnessed his feeding (it's a very sacred moment), he was at once thrilled and puzzled by my presence. So I insisted we find a more private abode in which to discuss what I wanted - for you know there's always something. I'm never without motivation, and who can blame me?
We went to his house, which pleased me greatly for it was an old mansion done in dramatic, over-the-top New England Victorian. Wainscoting everywhere, and the only thing that saved it from being too much of a dollhouse was the fact that he or someone paid quite well had decorated the interior in dark burgundy shades with bold furnishings not unlike those I'd been rumoured to have in those movies made about me. For hours we sat and caught up on the intricacies of our time, and it was clear that he presumed I was merely passing through. Unfortunately I had to correct his logic and inform him that I was imposing upon his hospitality. Now don't look at me as if that's such a horrid thing for a Southerner to do. Come on. I'm a Frenchman at heart, and I'm a self-serving Frenchman at that. I do as I please and after all, Christopher owes me. I won't give in to the how or why just now, but that's hardly important. What is important is that I cannot tolerate the oppression of the South just now. Walls were closing in, if not in come cases being blown in upon me figuratively and literally. I'd written to Louis, to Quinn and Mona, to Rowan even, and all I got in return was empty promises. Well to hell with all of them I say. Despite the fact that I love them with all of my eternity, I need more. Haven't I always? God knows I'm not going to sit around a battered Mississippi farm house waiting for someone to think, "Gee, I wonder what Lestat is up to these nights?" and pop in for a spot of conversation. No way. I'm tired of it all, and here I am. Christopher of course conceded to my request and gave me full run of the Eastern wing. I have my own entrance, my own room, a parlor of sorts, and a library. What more could I want? I'll tell you what I want. No I won't. It's a secret, and I damn well don't have to give them all away. I've been babbling to the public for far too long based on their perceptions and invocations. I'll write secret words and leave them to be decoded with a special ring available for only $19.99 in this special television offer. Then again, maybe not. I'm tired of making sense and living predictably. Who the hell is that? Not Lestat of old, I'll tell you. What happened? He fell in love and lost his passion? Such irony would plague me, I'm sure. So to hell with convention or passivity. Forget the tenderness I might have if only… forget that a time may come… Ssh, Lestat, just let it go okay? Relinquishing all of that isn't so much a bad thing. It's liberating. I just have to find the beat again.