(no subject)
Undressing Rooms
PG-15
Daniel Radcliffe/Elijah Wood
the rest.
Part Seven.
Some little hole in the wall beatnik coffee shop place with open mic nights and poetry readings, interpretive dances with no music and espresso that will prick your brain to life with a heroin needle. Black and blue velvet drapes line the stage and there are aquariums with fireflies inside, Christmas twinkle-lights dangle in vines from the ceiling painted with a whirlpool that Elijah says, “will make you go blind if you look at it too long.”
Daniel feigns being cross-eyed and Elijah laughs. “So what’s the name of this place again?”
“La Chambre des Rêve. It’s French for The House of Dreams.”
“That’s a bit spooky.”
Elijah shrugs and leads him over to a black couch set beneath a fishing net tangled with various paraphernalia -- old Barbies, scarves, fake flowers, slinkies, men’s ties, women’s lingerie, broken watches and glow stars. The menus are set beneath the glass coffee table, pressed with dried flowers and dead butterflies, illuminated by the twinkle lights, the fireflies and the amethyst candles that have small mirrors gripped by melted-and-dried wax.
Elijah’s fingers are surreptitiously delving beneath the hem of Daniel’s shirt, tracing a finger along velveteen skin. He whispers into his hair with a smirking-tone, “The only thing this place is missing is a banana tree in a bathtub.”
Daniel laughs, “I’ll hold you to that statement,” and Elijah ducks his hand innocently into his lap as the waitress comes.
Daniel orders a chai latte, which, even before Elijah samples it, tastes like incongruous kisses and clove cigarettes. Elijah sips his espresso contentedly, cat-like, all the radiance, all the obscure shadows playing across his face, Daniel places a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth and the room dims suddenly. The spotlight on the stage comes on, blue, a figure -- no, a girl, draped in what looks like his mom’s Egyptian cotton bed sheets, stands beside a stool and addresses the room.
“Child.
“Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
“Whose names you meditate --
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little
“Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical
“Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.”
The room is silent, and she smiles, places her palm on the stool and adds, “Juice squirts across your table taste the distance of age and skin in your grapes of wrath and darkest hours flicker delicately you want the things you no longer possess; to corrupt the innocent is to kill a mockingbird.” The stage is black, her blanketed figure disappears into the shadows and Daniel can feel the subconscious divide between their pairs of knees.
He breaks the silence with, “I read that book a long time ago.”
“I love Sylvia Plath.”
“You read poetry?”
“Yeah.”
Oh the strangeness irrevocable now, and Daniel wants to punch that girl, wants to rip the sheets off her frame and burn the white, white, cotton, threads and bare. She reminds him of a pacifist Klu Klux Klan member, yes so wrong to be gay in the world, why don’t you just keep it to yourselves, boys, take your young lovers and wait at the burning gates. Nothing’s worse than to kill a mockingbird, nothing’s worse than to steal innocence, hey, boy, we can save you, trace my girl-palm, flesh, bite, blood, taste the purity not the evil misfortune sacrifice.
Yeah, his cheeks are burning with the wood with her eyes still penetrating the room, still gripping his reality with her sweet feminine fingers. Why don’t you just keep it to yourself, girl? Just take your mockingbirds that I’m not killing and take off your white hood, you’re no angel girl, just shivering in your wake, waiting for your Bible to tell you it’s okay to be you. The bleeding pitchfork scratching the ground as you fall, fall, hit the concrete, relax, you can’t win now.
“Hey, let’s get outta here.” Elijah jumps to his feet and strides towards the door, Daniel follows quietly. He glances back at the stage and thinks, I’m not really a child. I’m fifteen. Practically an adult, and, I can make my own decisions and learn from my own mistakes, thanks.
Elijah’s already got his lighter fixed to the end of another clove, cupping the flame against the wind, when he pulls his hand away Daniel sees there are two cigarettes. Elijah hands him the second and Daniel takes it gratefully. He can taste the espresso now, faintly, amongst the sugar, cinnamon, clove, Christmas, Elijah. He watches Elijah flick ash off the end, and Daniel tries to copy his movements. Just a little strike of the thumb across the filter, finally, he gets it, feels satisfied, takes too big of a drag and coughs.
“I fucking love these things,” Elijah says into the smoke, he grins into the night, and it’s only then that Daniel wonders--
“Where are we going?”
He shrugs, smiles. “We’ll find out when we get there.”
PG-15
Daniel Radcliffe/Elijah Wood
the rest.
Part Seven.
Some little hole in the wall beatnik coffee shop place with open mic nights and poetry readings, interpretive dances with no music and espresso that will prick your brain to life with a heroin needle. Black and blue velvet drapes line the stage and there are aquariums with fireflies inside, Christmas twinkle-lights dangle in vines from the ceiling painted with a whirlpool that Elijah says, “will make you go blind if you look at it too long.”
Daniel feigns being cross-eyed and Elijah laughs. “So what’s the name of this place again?”
“La Chambre des Rêve. It’s French for The House of Dreams.”
“That’s a bit spooky.”
Elijah shrugs and leads him over to a black couch set beneath a fishing net tangled with various paraphernalia -- old Barbies, scarves, fake flowers, slinkies, men’s ties, women’s lingerie, broken watches and glow stars. The menus are set beneath the glass coffee table, pressed with dried flowers and dead butterflies, illuminated by the twinkle lights, the fireflies and the amethyst candles that have small mirrors gripped by melted-and-dried wax.
Elijah’s fingers are surreptitiously delving beneath the hem of Daniel’s shirt, tracing a finger along velveteen skin. He whispers into his hair with a smirking-tone, “The only thing this place is missing is a banana tree in a bathtub.”
Daniel laughs, “I’ll hold you to that statement,” and Elijah ducks his hand innocently into his lap as the waitress comes.
Daniel orders a chai latte, which, even before Elijah samples it, tastes like incongruous kisses and clove cigarettes. Elijah sips his espresso contentedly, cat-like, all the radiance, all the obscure shadows playing across his face, Daniel places a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth and the room dims suddenly. The spotlight on the stage comes on, blue, a figure -- no, a girl, draped in what looks like his mom’s Egyptian cotton bed sheets, stands beside a stool and addresses the room.
“Child.
“Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
“Whose names you meditate --
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little
“Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical
“Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.”
The room is silent, and she smiles, places her palm on the stool and adds, “Juice squirts across your table taste the distance of age and skin in your grapes of wrath and darkest hours flicker delicately you want the things you no longer possess; to corrupt the innocent is to kill a mockingbird.” The stage is black, her blanketed figure disappears into the shadows and Daniel can feel the subconscious divide between their pairs of knees.
He breaks the silence with, “I read that book a long time ago.”
“I love Sylvia Plath.”
“You read poetry?”
“Yeah.”
Oh the strangeness irrevocable now, and Daniel wants to punch that girl, wants to rip the sheets off her frame and burn the white, white, cotton, threads and bare. She reminds him of a pacifist Klu Klux Klan member, yes so wrong to be gay in the world, why don’t you just keep it to yourselves, boys, take your young lovers and wait at the burning gates. Nothing’s worse than to kill a mockingbird, nothing’s worse than to steal innocence, hey, boy, we can save you, trace my girl-palm, flesh, bite, blood, taste the purity not the evil misfortune sacrifice.
Yeah, his cheeks are burning with the wood with her eyes still penetrating the room, still gripping his reality with her sweet feminine fingers. Why don’t you just keep it to yourself, girl? Just take your mockingbirds that I’m not killing and take off your white hood, you’re no angel girl, just shivering in your wake, waiting for your Bible to tell you it’s okay to be you. The bleeding pitchfork scratching the ground as you fall, fall, hit the concrete, relax, you can’t win now.
“Hey, let’s get outta here.” Elijah jumps to his feet and strides towards the door, Daniel follows quietly. He glances back at the stage and thinks, I’m not really a child. I’m fifteen. Practically an adult, and, I can make my own decisions and learn from my own mistakes, thanks.
Elijah’s already got his lighter fixed to the end of another clove, cupping the flame against the wind, when he pulls his hand away Daniel sees there are two cigarettes. Elijah hands him the second and Daniel takes it gratefully. He can taste the espresso now, faintly, amongst the sugar, cinnamon, clove, Christmas, Elijah. He watches Elijah flick ash off the end, and Daniel tries to copy his movements. Just a little strike of the thumb across the filter, finally, he gets it, feels satisfied, takes too big of a drag and coughs.
“I fucking love these things,” Elijah says into the smoke, he grins into the night, and it’s only then that Daniel wonders--
“Where are we going?”
He shrugs, smiles. “We’ll find out when we get there.”