Currently Rufus Wainwright By Rufus Wainwright Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk see related

Just one last Dance

Fingers bloodless, blueish grey. Hair tangling the windy spirals, playfully interlaced as if trying to catch the air between venomous tentacles. Sticking to lipgloss. Sitting. Waiting. Wishing.

Thoughts seemed to fly trough her head, like winged keys, unlocking boxes – relinquishing junk. It all came out, accumulated, she touched each with her mind, just parts of seconds, but left them for what they were – experiments, experience. Euphoria, agony, nostalgia. Echoes of memories.

The soft pianoplay penetrated the ingenious system in her mind, assisted the program of formation that flew trough like a soft cool breeze, redirecting thoughts and feelings, storaging, and ultimately, creating her very own junkfolder. Superfluous baggage.  

She looked at the suitcases. They were to be left behind. It was allright. All could rest now, all could be accepted as past, and left as such. Peace, she found, felt much like dreaming when awake. The suitcases kept filling themselves. It saddened her to see there were so many, yet knowing she’d be leaving them balanced her feelings. He would be here soon now.

A little duckling struggled to leave his waters behind and climb ashore, went down several times, yet found support from a pale pink lilly. She registered.

Somewhere in the distance a dog walked it’s companion, providing him the oxigen to bind and expire his toxics. She exhaled. The music playing shut off her mind from incoming noises, made her unfocus on environmental affairs. Thoughts of Paris swayed between the lyrical lines, like a long lost future only past times can behold, leaving nothing behind but a lingering craving. He might take her there.

The suitcases had stopped filling, had met their capacity. She checked the sun. Hours had past. Realisation came he wouldn’t come. She looked at the suitcases at her feet. Hope flew from her mind, air castles shivered, then shattered. Fragments of trust and wishes melted, liquefied, like pearly raindrops leaving silvery traces on banana leaves near rainforest waterfalls. She could feel it's moisture. Upon touching her cheek she snapped back to reality. The tears felt unnaturally hot on her frosted fingers. They too were memories long lost. She had forgotten how it felt to be crying. Strangely pleasant.

Something in her chest seemed to crack as drops turned to rivers. Her pond froze over. ‘Cause after all, waterlillies close at night.

---

I barely write anymore. Funny how the thing that has always secured me of my salvation is now nothing more than a lingering curl of faded future, a phantom diminishing between my fingers when stretching out to try and grasp it.

Life has turned into a manic-depressed blur. Counterproductivity blocking productivity, forming a wall full frontal I’m unable to conquer at times. I’m disabling me. If only time didn’t pass.

No, I mustn’t lie, life’s treating me fairly well. For once, what I do seems to work out and succes is not only within grasp, but often embraced. At times I can be completely lyrical about myself, only to crash back in doubt and fear and the all-consuming nothingness of times past. But the good times are lengthening, in daylight I’m flourishing. I'm starting to let go, try and dare to dream again, collecting hopes and wishes for the future yet to come. I'm doing well.

But as karma decides not all will do so – it’s her very law. Sometimes I just wish she picked them in a different order. At times I’m afraid my condition has returned, full throttle. Sometimes my heart starts to beat uncontrolably and my entire chest just seems to explode. Then I hold my breath in fear, hoping it will keep up it's pace, pursue it's path, keep up with me for just a little bit longer. Yet I can’t seem to fight causing it's reluctance, it's hesitation. I know I shouldn't keep this a secret, but still I just can’t seem to confide. Maybe in time, I'll try.

Heartfailure. Of course it’s a man.

Merci,
Lisa du Lac de Lioncourt

Do you want to make a movie

Cigarettebutts pile up around my feet as I stand there on the streetcorner in almost painful contrast with the concrete surroundings, the only statue standing still in a world full of motion, disharmony. People look at me funny for I wear a dress that lost it’s flair in the late seventies and now barely passes as retro, a big scarf covering the part of my face the elephantine sunglasses do not hide, amplified even by binoculars checking the empty windows of your apartment like facets of fly eyes.

The people go by on their way home, gathering skimmed lattés and light-mocchachino’s as they make their way trough the population in their black-and-white suits, like pinquins wobbling in uncomfortable shoes, faces stained tiresome as their temper’s probably.

It’s getting colder I can tell by the increasing difficulty to afire my lighter, my left foot shaking either by that or trembling from cafeine overdose, or maybe it’s the lingering effect of my morningshot, still in the blood.

Paranoia in reverse following me and running ahead, making me check the lenses once more but they remain unfilled, an unnatural oases in the rush-hour panic beholding the city around. Once more someone bumps in to me for I’ve shrinken so small I am barely noticeable, a concealed paperdoll in her mother’s clothes, only the cringes of smoke as evidence of my existence. Nicotine’s giving me nausea.

The rimestones in my earrings twinkle their little song trough the cocktail of molecules the air beholds, into my head, as now I begin to check the taxi’s too, but out none of them you appear. And all I can think of is how different all this seemed when I came, and how things where. Because where should glamour be found when your only shades are black and white and the only letters you receive are your bills.

And you just want to go back to how things where,

though love then was much tougher but at least it was still there.

---

Factory Girl inspired, naturally.

By saying 'see you in September' I, naturally, meant to come back earlier. I don't know what's the matter with me. Somehow, life has become anything and everything around school, which, ofcourse, is a good thing, for it's my final year and if I don't do well, I won't make it. So I don't meet up with friends, I don't go out, I don't read as much as I'd like to, I'm freezing for I don't have a winterwardrobe because I have no time to shop. Then besides that, I have horseriding (which is going great and I'm very content with that). But somehow, I don't get my work done. I'm behind. Or, when I'm not, I feel like it. I still lack knowledge. I'm still not ready. If I have to get up for exams now, I'll fail. Wasn't sacrificing giving up something good for something better?

Yet here I am, so tired I fall asleep after school, dropping pounds wherever I go, my loss now accumulated to double digits. I just can't make the food stick. I look like a corpse. Not even my favourite jeans will cling to my hips anymore. My skin is white and so dry I seem dehydrated, bones sticking out from under my skin and shadows under my eyes. My hair is dull and lost it's shine and I'm just so nauseous all the time. This morning my heart beat so hard I could feel it in my stomache, feel it pounding the blood 'round in my head. I'm afraid one day soon it's just not going to be able to keep up with me anymore.

Today I'm taking a break and going on a citytrip to visit my sis. Coffee on the train, cigarettes in the street, finally permitted to empty my account on trivial things like clothes, shoes and crystal bottles of perfume, salads and white wine in the streets while watching the people go by, I cannot wait.

Such a Perfect Day

for a Holiday.

Which basically means, I'm gone for two weeks.
See you in September.

Play me a Memory

His long lean fingers playing her ribs like his piano, shaking slightly by his high bloodpressure, her breath the beat of his symphony. Hair slightly greased he scribbled dots upon the soft lined paper her skin formed, connecting them with stripes and small arches. Head bowed in concentration he frowned his eyebrows, bewildered and confused in his need to perform combined with the sleep-deprivation any true artist abuses as a natural narcotic. In midnights he suffered yet produced his finest work, everyday again light came as the scarecrow chasing the bluebirds away.

But not just his ambition made their companionship into an union so strangular, for she to needed him to feed her inspiration, motivation purchased from his fury when the circles under his eyes made it a difficulty to keep seeing clearly. He made her see what before was no need for, and in her admiration she reflected his ability she, in her youthful innocence, had not yet received from life’s circle of trial and error.

The music that burned inside him he had to take out was as water to her ever dehydrated soul, energy set free in his internal struggle she gladly sucked in for it gave her the lifebreath needed to free the talent her creator had locked in so safely, only to be let out by that someone who could play the secret combination in the right key.

And right now, he was that someone. To her it was not quite clear what she added to his life, but what a trivial matter that was, after all it was he who’d taught her to breathe, choose, live, love herself, for it was all a person could ever truly posses.

---

Because of this vacational rhythm I'm really starting to not care about things. And though that doesn't seem very positive, it is. I spend all my time trying to change, but I might forever be like this. I know I'm monstrous, but so what? There's magnificent beauty in that.

I know I have to get myself out there more, but it's just so hard.
I'm too pretty to just waste away.

Merci,
Lisa du Lac de Lioncourt

Sympathy for the Devil

Midnight has struck as I’m watching old vampire movies in enchanting tones of black and white, the thunderstorm outside creating a clam blanket that covers my room in damp as lightning chromes the translucent characters in silvery shades. Muted their bewitching mouths move yet produce no sound as the screams come from my own soul in a desperate attempt to beckon the Great Ones to come for me, take me in the most absolute way possible and show me, teach me, use me, for living the waking world has become an unbearable existence and I long for the deep taste of Darkness to fill me up.

Marius, Armand, where are you now as your new companion has risen, both spirit and no spirit of age? I long to be released, by you, of the chilling, paralizing fear you do not feel for you are the very substance of fear, and knowing that it’s yours to give is your Godfeared damnation.

And Lestat, dear Lestat, where are you now when your pupil is ready, the abiding godess who’s yours not to leave. Am I not made to suffer no longer, is it not time to give what it is in your power to, for what you receive will bring the salvation I know you want, need?

Even Santiago I call, for where is your theatre now, do I not deserve a role in your puppeteer play? Should not we rule the Underneath, lock and burn our fellow Damned to our better judgement? Will time not abide as I sit as your bride on the throne rightfully ours, elegant gestures deciding faith as the very hands of God?

And Louis, finally sweet Louis. No Dark Kiss can satisfy my desire better, for no embrace I long as much as yours, my Dark Angel. End your hunger. None so like you am I, as no one else, and upon rats and starvation shall we suffer and dole the New World together, unraveling the treasures and secrets of past and history. By understanding eachother shall we know ourselves, illuminating thoughts building up the study of our very kind and purpose, the Vampire Chronicles.

And Claudia, if only you would be here to hear my soul begging, for no one would listen as you would while it utters to please, come get me...

---

Just finished watching Donnie Darko. I don't even know what I'm feeling. I want to say it creeped me out but that doesn't quite cut it. This is one of these pieces of art that keep you awake at night for days, wishing you never saw them. Because they awakened something in you that you did not want to find. That's the kind of artist I want to be. That's the kind of writer, photographer, filmmaker I want to be. Like the next Erik Skjoldbjaerg, improved. Illuminating the minds of the 14 year old girls needing to be illuminated for it will save them. They need to be saved. It needs to be ugly to be real, more real then your own life will ever be, for we're always thriving perfection. Yet in this... ugliness, beauty will be captured, and just that will make it unbearable for people to see and there in lays its triumph. 

I'm confused. Understanding doesn't even come close.