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Love's garden of thorns, how it grows

[NOTA BENE: THIS IS NOT CSI!CANON. This is purely for rachelm's and my personal amusement.]

My flight's late, and I'm not back until midday. His key's in my pocket, but I still think about going back to my own place, sleeping it off. Dealing with it all later. But at the last moment I tell the cab his address.

The concierge must recognise me by now, because I'm not stopped, tired and sweating and disreputable as I am, dragging my suitcase. Look at myself in the mirror in the lift up to the penthouse; I look a wreck. I've lost weight, and my eyes are so sunken they look like pissholes in the snow, dark-shadowed. Managed to shave, but managed to cut myself, too.

So fucking relieved when I get into his place. All I want to do is sleep. Go to the fridge, drink half a litre of water, and then climb the stairs painfully. Pass out full-length on his bed, shoes still on.

Open to Al.

Hold my head love, I'm sick tonight

It's raining when I arrive, hot close drizzle. Stare out of the cab window; it's not the city I remember, and it is. Gives me a tight sick sort of feeling, like the beginnings of a hangover.

His apartment's in a better building than I expected, a solid middle-class neighbourhood. The super, short and broad and scowling, lectures me as she takes me up there, gives me the key: Everything paid up, she says, as if it's an insult, until the end of next month, and how can I let it? Who will rent it when a man has died there? When all his goods are there, still? I shut the door firmly in her face, lean my back against it as if she's going to break in.

The sparseness of it's too familiar, too like my own place. Nothing of the boy, the young man, that I remember. He was always neater than me, and he's gone about this like he went about most things, methodical, respectable. No clothes discarded on chairs, the kitchen clean. The fridge empty, though that could have been someone else. Bed against one wall, sofa against the other, tiny kitchen and bathroom. Almost a hotel room.

The bed's made up, hospital corners like my mother taught us. I feel my jaw clench hard.

I drop my suitcase to one side, my carry-on on the sofa. I'm tired and stiff from the flight, and I just want a fucking drink.

[continued in comments]

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Late afternoon, a weekend

It's a cold afternoon, and grey. Nothing like the last afternoon Al and I spent in the woods, but it doesn't matter - we're not out here for the weather. In the rucksack on my back the whiskey bottle is buried under a blanket and torch and matches. Our winter coats have been brought out of storage now, and I think later I'll be glad to have mine, though now wearing it over my blazer is rather too hot.

"Is this right?" I ask Al, looking around to recognize the place we'd agreed to meet Syl.

[Open to Syl and Al]

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Remember, my boy, there's nothing natural in nature. When it seems natural to you, it'll be the end. Something else will start. Goodbye sky, goodbye sea. What a beautiful sky! Close...happy... Don't you think that just a little piece is natural? That it could be possessed by a god? The sea too. On this day, when you're 13 and fish with your feet in the water, look behind you...what do you see? Anything natural? No. What you see is an apparation. With clouds reflected in the heavy, still water at three in the afternoon. Look at that black streak on the sea, shining and pink like oil. The shadow of the trees and the reeds. A god is hidden everywhere you look. Even if he isn't, he's left traces of his sacred presence: the silence, the smell of grass, the chill of fresh waer. Yes. Everything's sacred. But sanctity is also a curse. Whilst the gods love, they also hate."

Feb. 26th, 2009

Leland: “And so all was, and is, in sorcery a kind of wild poetry based on symbols, all blending into one another, light and darkness, fire-flies and grain, life and death.”
You who wish to conquer pain,
you must learn what makes me kind;
the crumbs of love that you offer me,
they're the crumbs I've left behind.
Your pain is no credential here,
it's just the shadow, shadow of my wound.

I have begun to long for you,
I who have no greed;
I have begun to ask for you,
I who have no need.
You say you've gone away from me,
but I can feel you when you breathe.

Do not dress in those rags for me,
I know you are not poor;
don't love me quite so fiercely now
when you know that you are not sure,
it is your turn, beloved,
it is your flesh that I wear.

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For Lilith

The catfight!