Happy Hour At The Bar Of Lost Souls
In my head there is a barroom. It is low-beamed, just a little smoky, and it's reminiscent of no particular era. On the wall behind the billiards table, an old oil sign blazoned with a dancing red Pegasus hangs like a shield beside a wolfskin the size of a bear. The décor is eclectic . . . spears and spaceship parts, cowboys and Martians. The bar serves Nehi and kumis out of stoneware mugs and chipped Looney Tunes glasses. The Coke is always ice-cold. The jukebox in the corner plays everything from techno to country, and back again. As you step to the bar, reflections move in a cloudy, golden mirror, and you realize that there are far more people in this room than it appears.
This is where all of my characters hang out between acts, or when the show is over.
They chat, they play darts, sometimes they dance, and sometimes they fight. And if I need them, this is where I go. I walk in through the swingy little doors and stand there like a gunfighter, hand on my hip, and I call a name. Heads come up from tables, voices ring out in welcome, and I see the faces of my friends. People I know as well as I know anyone in the real world.
Let me introduce you to a few of the guys. There, slouching at the bar. The thirtysomething, slightly scruffy fellow with a limp, who drinks his whiskey neat? That is John-Martin. He has scars on his hands . . . he's a trapper. That wolfskin from earlier was his kill. He doesn't look at it much. John-Martin's pragmatism and unrelenting stubbornness got me through a hell of poverty and starvation, and in return I wrote his story. Did he get the girl? Oh, yeah. Why do you think he is drinking?
Over there, the surprisingly quiet big guy sitting at a boisterous table, sketching with a smile on his face; that's Ulysses Kane. Call him Jed. He used to be a criminal, but he's found better things to do with his time. Like drawing naked pictures of his girlfriends (which is probably why he's smiling). At any rate, his determination and essential agreeability got me through 70 pounds' worth of early mornings and tiny meals without waxing psychopathic and murdering those who share my life. (In retrospect, this was not necessarily a good thing, but that's not his fault. It was, at the very least, really something to experience feeling capable for once. - 2010)
One more. The painfully pretty boy over by the fire, with black hair and absinthe-green eyes, wearing the bad-ass black opera coat and $200 shirt? The guy that everyone kind of avoids? That's Damon, the Big D. He's way, way older than he looks. Despite the fact that he practically embodies it, he has no patience with that tormented vampire crap. Damon's unquenchable fire and relentless thirst for the numinous undammed my creative flow when I thought it had all dried up.
Many characters have passed through this place, some fleeting, some so forceful that they linger, years and years later. I name them, I shape them, I give them form, and in return, they speak to me. Each takes their turn in my forebrain, riding shotgun, as it were. My navigator. They are my daimones. They are all distinct parts of my personality.
When I no longer need them, they come back to this barroom and let someone else take over. John-Martin's practicality could not have helped me write a book. Damon's silent brooding would not have enabled me to get up early. They've retired to share war stories and sullen glares, and have cleared the stage for the next player.
It sounds so incredibly geeky to say this, but I would not be able to cope if it weren't for my imaginary people. And now I find myself with guardian angels yet again. Two this time. Twin voices of compassion and capability, snarkiness and strength, of wisdom and . . . trust. I wish you could know them the way I know them. I really do.
Thank you, Argent. Thank you, Stormy. I'm aware you both find the décor in my barroom appalling. Get over it. Have a beer.
This barroom, and the people in it, are why I don't want the rest of you . . . my real friends, my daimōnes online . . . to worry about me. I am not alone. Even if there comes a day when your words can't reach me, if I choose not to listen, I have other people looking out for me. A whole damn legion of them. And they are crazy bastards, all.
And with that, I will / the geeky weirdness and the self-help motivation-speak. I will allow the Willowsongs to go and sit at a table, drink green tea, and write the advice column for my soul; and I will allow you to get back to all the dick jokes and blinky anime icons on your f-list.
I just felt like I had to say all that.
Oh, yeah. And John-Martin would appreciate it if you would share the really funny dick jokes.
link
This is where all of my characters hang out between acts, or when the show is over.
They chat, they play darts, sometimes they dance, and sometimes they fight. And if I need them, this is where I go. I walk in through the swingy little doors and stand there like a gunfighter, hand on my hip, and I call a name. Heads come up from tables, voices ring out in welcome, and I see the faces of my friends. People I know as well as I know anyone in the real world.
Let me introduce you to a few of the guys. There, slouching at the bar. The thirtysomething, slightly scruffy fellow with a limp, who drinks his whiskey neat? That is John-Martin. He has scars on his hands . . . he's a trapper. That wolfskin from earlier was his kill. He doesn't look at it much. John-Martin's pragmatism and unrelenting stubbornness got me through a hell of poverty and starvation, and in return I wrote his story. Did he get the girl? Oh, yeah. Why do you think he is drinking?
Over there, the surprisingly quiet big guy sitting at a boisterous table, sketching with a smile on his face; that's Ulysses Kane. Call him Jed. He used to be a criminal, but he's found better things to do with his time. Like drawing naked pictures of his girlfriends (which is probably why he's smiling). At any rate, his determination and essential agreeability got me through 70 pounds' worth of early mornings and tiny meals without waxing psychopathic and murdering those who share my life. (In retrospect, this was not necessarily a good thing, but that's not his fault. It was, at the very least, really something to experience feeling capable for once. - 2010)
One more. The painfully pretty boy over by the fire, with black hair and absinthe-green eyes, wearing the bad-ass black opera coat and $200 shirt? The guy that everyone kind of avoids? That's Damon, the Big D. He's way, way older than he looks. Despite the fact that he practically embodies it, he has no patience with that tormented vampire crap. Damon's unquenchable fire and relentless thirst for the numinous undammed my creative flow when I thought it had all dried up.
Many characters have passed through this place, some fleeting, some so forceful that they linger, years and years later. I name them, I shape them, I give them form, and in return, they speak to me. Each takes their turn in my forebrain, riding shotgun, as it were. My navigator. They are my daimones. They are all distinct parts of my personality.
When I no longer need them, they come back to this barroom and let someone else take over. John-Martin's practicality could not have helped me write a book. Damon's silent brooding would not have enabled me to get up early. They've retired to share war stories and sullen glares, and have cleared the stage for the next player.
It sounds so incredibly geeky to say this, but I would not be able to cope if it weren't for my imaginary people. And now I find myself with guardian angels yet again. Two this time. Twin voices of compassion and capability, snarkiness and strength, of wisdom and . . . trust. I wish you could know them the way I know them. I really do.
Thank you, Argent. Thank you, Stormy. I'm aware you both find the décor in my barroom appalling. Get over it. Have a beer.
This barroom, and the people in it, are why I don't want the rest of you . . . my real friends, my daimōnes online . . . to worry about me. I am not alone. Even if there comes a day when your words can't reach me, if I choose not to listen, I have other people looking out for me. A whole damn legion of them. And they are crazy bastards, all.
And with that, I will / the geeky weirdness and the self-help motivation-speak. I will allow the Willowsongs to go and sit at a table, drink green tea, and write the advice column for my soul; and I will allow you to get back to all the dick jokes and blinky anime icons on your f-list.
I just felt like I had to say all that.
Oh, yeah. And John-Martin would appreciate it if you would share the really funny dick jokes.
link