August 20th, 2008
“You should post some more,” she tells me, running her fingers through my hair. “People’ll start thinking you’re dead.” Y’should post s’more. People’ll staht thinkin’ ya dead. She lilts the words, just a little, her light Georgia accent not nearly strong enough to drawl.
I’m sleeping. I know it. She is the girl in my dreams, for a long time the only one and even now the only one who stayed. Not a muse, she is my friend and I suppose my sometime lover, a private blessing born somewhere deep in my subconscious mind. It’s been eight years since I last heard her voice aloud. Really it belongs to Evette, to the girl I loved in high-school, to the girl who taught me to love myself, but my girl-dream kept it for me and made it her own.
I turn my head a little in her lap, kissing at the palm of her hand before I open my eyes again. The summer has tanned her since I saw her last, but only just a shade, and the light brings out the dark, ruby fire in her auburn hair. “Tybalt doesn’t want to play today,” I murmur.
“I think you’re just happy right here,” she laughs, slipping her hands away, and her warm, black jeans press against my cheek. I don’t deny it, don’t even try, just make happy meowling noises up at her. Writing something means waking up, at least, leaving her behind again. She comes and goes as it pleases her; it might be months before I see her again. Part of me always worries that, one day, she might not come back.
She knows what I’m thinking, though, and she lifts my head, bending over me to press a kiss against my lips. “How long’ve you known me?”
“Seven years.”
“And I’m always here for you.”
April 11th, 2008
Rio frustrates me, almost more than any of my other characters, because Rio has no stories. He really does happen by accident, drifting comfortably along from one moment to the next. I’ve talked to him about it, as it were, and he’s simply happier that way, even if it means I wouldn’t normally share him with the world.
There’s something endearing about him, though. Rio feels infectiously, wonderfully right, and every time he stops by to visit, I never have the heart to turn him away. He is a strange and beautiful person, and I adore him for it. Even though all I really have are snapshots of him, I’m going to share him anyways, in hopes that you’ll enjoy his company, too.
November 14th, 2007
Sometimes when I’m sleeping, a girl comes to share my dreams. She’s very slender, only gently curved. Her skin is very soft, milky-white, and she offers me an indulgent little smile as she lies there, on her belly, like a pearl against the sheets.
I count her vertabrae, kissing up her spine, to her neck, along the curve of her jaw, finally to her ear. In the morning I’ll still taste her skin upon my lips. I tell her this, and it makes her laugh, makes her turn and nuzzle back at me before she settles down again, her breathing slow and deep, calm and even.
That is when I begin to write. There isn’t much form, or very much plot, only a thousand obscene fantasies, the texts of dreams that have come without her, kisses and caresses, licks and silk and collars, love and sodomy and cuffs and hard, careless fucking. They spill out, a torrent of words, just a million strokes of dark, elemental blackness against her skin.
I suppose they are good, these uncertain transcriptions, but somehow I do not feel them; in dream-logic they are not yet real, written in ink but not in flesh. Soon there is no more skin to cover, and she sits, bathed in the candlelight, to see what I have done. She reads, silently mouthing the words back to me. Her eyes glitter with approval, and the words crystalize against her skin. Made flesh now, they move with her, move over muscle and bone as she takes me into her arms, and it is there that they become complete.
