Holy Lagging Journals, Batman!
So it's been almost a year since my last entry was made, a continuation of the Ribald saga which is going nowhere and in every direction all at once. No, avid readers (which is to say: God and assuredly no one else), unless by some unforeseen miracle I am blessed with an epiphany--thus allowing me to unravel a story that was begun with far too many complications and a striking resemblance to a Dan Brown novel--unless I have this realization, there will be no more Ribald. The story will be over before his feet ever left the train platform.
For the record, when I began my mini-incursion into the story, I had not read anything by Dan Brown. However, big clincher here, the mystery of Alestaire's secret life, as well as my mammoth plans for the story, can be readily summed up in his signature, in which was included the initials "TKT." The. Knights. Templar. Yeah, so, we all--and when I say we all, I suppose that I must mean God and I--we all see where I was going with that and it's probably a blessing that I've run out of ideas. One can only enmesh one's characters in impending doom so much before one tends to run out of gas unless a solution can be found. I didn't find one.
So on to bigger and better things! Which in truth are neither bigger nor better than any other Em-rant on any other given day of the week. They are simply to be recorded in this, my Live Journal, because I am bored and doing laundry at my mother's house, enabling me to access that happy memory from once-upon-a-dream: the internet. Go me!
Things are interesting. Things look, at least to me, almost as complicated as Ribald's life. I hope I can find solutions for reality, though I'm not entirely convinced solutions to reality exist. (Barring copious drug usage or suicide, neither of which interests me at the moment.) I feel a little pinched here, having been recently been involved in several conversations that touted the amoral nature of keeping a Live Journal. How much can you say before you've said too much and stepped on someone's toes? Since I think it's safe to assume that anyone actually wading through the garbage I write here is a loyal friend indeed, it would serve to reason that I can say anything I'm comfortable saying to said loyal friends in private. Only, like reverse mathematics, that logic doesn't really apply. Something about recipreversexclusions . . . or something . . .
Not really; I just wanted to say recipreversexclusion. There, I said it twice!
But on a serious note, I'm going to break some rules and step on some toes, since I don't know how else to tell (Oh God, cover your eyes! ::Gasp:: I'm going to . . . say . . . his name!) Corey the things I would have him know. Nothing unpleasant, I promise, and nothing too melodramatic either.
Corey ~
It is against my better judgment that I decide to write this letter, and yet it seems I am unable to contain it. Days pass into weeks, and weeks threaten to leech into months, and all I can think is "This is it, and so the curtain falls." I cannot call you back to me. I would not. Nor do I presume to believe you would even answer that beckons. Only I cannot fathom that the void that is now between us can last forever.
The more I think of you, the more it hurts. And the more it hurts, the more I cannot help but contemplate the us that used to be. It is an endless upward spiral on which I am trapped, and often, now, I wonder how this sadness can be borne. It is an answer I do not have, but fear I may yet discover as the loneliness of missing you grows ever more insistant.
All I can do is wait, and hope that when you took your final bow and stepped from the stage of my life, that it was not to be your final performance. You have for so long been the primadonna of that stage. Ours was a story of such passion and vitality that its equal cannot be found in any book I have ever read. If nothing else can be said, this much is true: the characters were vibrant, and their love a tangible thing, and whatever the critics may proclaim, theirs is a performance that I, for one, will never forget.
My only lament is that its divine author wrote the hero's journey all too well, so that when at last our heroes emerged from the road of trials, the scars they bore were too great to defer to happiness. Time and trial wore them down, and there are some hurts even love cannot overcome.
I will always look back on that story and smile to remember it--though it is a quiet smile, touched by the sorrow of a love lost. I can hope that there may be a reprise--a sequel, a tale of friendship . . . but without your acquiescence, I cannot write that chapter. Time marches on. Life continues. The endless procession of comedy and tragedy dances across a stage worn smooth by the tread of many feet. And yet, in the quiet hours of the night, when the curtain is drawn and the stage dark, it will always be your footsteps that I hear echoing through the silent hall.
I will not forget.
Yours, in any context,
~ Em
"Wheresoever he was, there was Eden."
- Samuel L. Clemens
And so, happy people, I come back to the moment at hand, out of my waller of nostalgia. Things are not so bad, not when it comes down to it. I just needed to get that out of my system, in the hopes that I could begin to move on. Life is waiting! I cannot sit idly by forever, feeling sorry for myself.
I've actually had a pretty good month. Fox was in town, and together we tore up the city a couple of times. Since his return to Japan, he's tracked down a copy of When the Wind Blows, an 80's animated feature that hopefully will make it into the books with Wizards and The Secret of NIMH. Its from the animators of Yellow Submarine, and so looks promising, though I am holding off until Friday to watch it at Justin's behest. Yeah, Fox is a good guy. You hear that, Fox? Yeah, I have a letter waiting to be sent to you. >.<
Ryan, too, has moved back into town. I swear, that boy drives me to drink--seriously. No one can push a third-fourth-fifth beer on an unsuspecting girl better than Mr. Yates.
And! And I made a new friend. Go me! This is a rarity, people, and cause for celebration. Justin F. . . F. . . Forsakus. (::wink::) Coincidentally and ironically, Justin is the fellow I was having the "Live Journals are a breeding ground for drama" conversation with. Out of respect for that sentiment, I will keep the Justin memos to a minimum. But for the record, anything I might have had to say on the subject would have been two thumbs up.
So big dinner this Friday night. AJ and Calais, Rachel and Robin, Tiffany, Ryan, Alex and Jeremy, George Frederick Massie IV and his-girlfriend-whose-name-escapes-me, Justin, and me! Is that twelve? Yeah, that's twelve. That's a big table. Italian cuisine, fine conversation, a little smut? Sounds like a top-o-the-nines evening agenda to me. We're schnazzing it up, too, making it truly a big night out. Christ, if it wasn't for me clinging to the past would these unhappy childhood reunions ever happen? Let's just hope it's not another huge bomb like my "let's all go to the park" excursion. Another pickle bus.
I bet these private jokes are really obnoxious to the untrained reader. What do you think, God?
Speaking of God, I . . . spoke with God. Which sounds funny. But in all seriousness, I had this late-night eureka moment last week where I had a conversation with God. Nothing conventional, don't worry. There was far more swearing than I would have anticipated. The gist of the conversation is that I won't be joining him in the next year and that I'm not about to give birth to the antichrist. Yes, these were legitimate concerns I had; no, I was not on drugs. For all that I'm making light of them and for all their insanity, I was worried. Hey, at three in the morning, when the coffee's perking its second pot and there's nothing but snow on the television, anything seems plausible--and even probable. Don't chalk me up to converted yet, but I think we can safely call it a spiritual epiphany.
Oh yeah, and me mum finally got herself hitched. About bloody time, too, some five years of engagement later. I caught the bouquet, too! Only I'm not sure it can be phrased as such, since the event was actually more to the tune of: "Emilie." No response. (I was purposefully ignoring her.) "Emilie!" No response. (Is she serious?) "EMILIE!" Kerblink. (She's not really gonna . . .)
Chunk.
Whiiiiiiz.
THWAP!
Whew, okay, what exactly is she saying here? Bring it, baby. I'm ready. Any takers? I want a rock the size of the Hindenburg, is that gonna be a problem? Anyway, I strung the flowers up to dry and will give them back as soon as they're ready to be re-bouqueted.
On that fascinating note, I'm beginning to bore even myself. Whatever epiphany I may have had in my religious life, there's still no bright light for Ribald. It looks like A Moment Too Soon is running a year late, and may actually stand me up. I apologize if anyone was interested. Rest assured, it wasn't. Interesting, that is. I'm off to laundry and further distractions from a dawdling day. Until next year . . .
Captain Em of the LDH Fast Sinker, over and out!