November 27, 2002.11.27.02. - imagination [butterfly][north jersey, condo]
(james)
it's...... quiet
Luc is out doing his own thing
Decker is out doing his own thing (or doing Imogen, one or the other)
Livingston is out doing his own thing
Eric is out doing his own thing
and Rune?
Rune is 3000 miles away on another coast living beneath a different sun
and still doing her own thingthat leaves one Bone Gnawer comfortably condo-sitting and workman-watching
half the windows were replaced today
the other half will be completed on Friday
the nightly ritual has been completed so that, even with that known fact, the heater is running and the skin is waaaaaarm - probably warmed more by the third or so beer that's sitting open on the table, he hasn't broken into the Thanksgiving Feast left for them, instead ordering Chinesetwo and a half empty white boxes later
he's watching the Cartoon Channel
and getting used to actually having control of the remote(imagination)
There is always some reason to not feel good enough and it's hard at the end of the day... need some distraction, oh beautiful release... memories seep my brain... let me be empty and weightless then maybe I'll find some peace tonight...Everything always faded, blended, melded differently from this perspective. Everything was still fresh and new and bright besides the old and faded and decayed: all and nothing at the same time. Floating, weightless and without substance, was the only way to escape this gilded cage. To explore, to know, to find, to discover, to watch and grow and learn. Here was where you could stretch butterfly wings and truly fly...
(james)
flip
flip
flipthis control of the remote thing is a decidedly new and intriguing experience
though he will still pause to watch the commercials when so many others take them for granted
half the time the television is on he either isn't watching it or paying attention to something else
but now
sunk against the plush leather of the couch
haphazardly wrapped halfway in the blanket
sprawled more comfortably than he has any right to be
he actually pays attention to it
surrounded by this collection of walls that's become...... home?(imagination)
You live in a church, where you sleep with vodoo dolls and you won't give up the search for the ghosts in the halls... you wear sandles in the snow and a smile that won't wash away... can look out the window without your shadow getting in the way... you're so beautiful... isn't it charming... so careful when I'm in your armsThe barest flicker of something not quite there, not quite real, not quite within existance passes just out of the corner of his eye. Like the corner of a translucent sheet that rippled in the wind, the corner flickering in and out of sight through the portal of a kitchen window. It was there, or it wasn't.
(james)
dreads whispering over leather
head turning to the side
he did remember to close the sliding doors, right?
so the drapes shouldn't be movingnope
doors closed
drapes closed
they're still as can bedark brows furrow over umber eyes
you've been watching too much television, Jamey-boy(imagination)
And I forgot to tell you I love you... and the nights too long... and cold here without you... I greive in my condition... for I cannot find the words to say I need you so...Sometimes when the eagerness to learn and behold became more insistant, like a hammering against a mere representation of a heart, and would press between here and there and they would sometimes notice something that they knew shouldn't be there. Sometimes it was dismissed as indigestion, a bad piece of cheese after dinner, a sip of settled wine or flat beer. There were always explanations and reasons and theories. Many of them so wrong, but it made the world a happier place when ignorance was allowed to lie and live. Learning, exploration, a friendly face; there were what was sought.
Movement in the kitchen, barely noticeable, although image caught only in the corner of the eye.
A breath between us could be miles... let me surround you... my sea to your shore...
(james)
okay, that he saw
head snapping to throw gaze in the opposite direction
hand reaching up to rub across his eyes
waaay too much tv(imagination)
Come and lift me from this place...Nothing was quite real, tangible, able to be gasped and felt and touched. It was akin to staring at the wide, wonderful world from within a glass house. Never touching, never quite knowing, always hoping.
hello..... whisper to me, whisper to you... can you hear me... as I hear you? it was almost nonexistant, a nonsound that just toyed at the edges of his hearing range.
(james)
the rubbing stops
umber eyes slowly open
his head sloooooowly turns back towards the kitchenblink
the comfortable sprawl changes to slow rise
beer set pointedly back down onto the coffeetable
brows climbing"Hell...o?"
(imagination)
hello...Louder now: whisper to me and I whisper to you. Watching me and watching you... Something someone(?) danced just outside the ability of his eyes to properly focus upon - a constant shift of something that mottled the open archway between kitchen and living room with a faint outline, a translucent haze that was less there than here.
(james)
"......woah."the slow rise changes to very. fast. stand.
blanket swooshing to the ground in an uncerimonious pile
Gnawer on his feet and effectively placing the length of the couch between him and the..... uh.... haze?
fingers press into the padded leather of the sculpted furniture's arm
weight shifting as his head drops
dreads dangling down the length of shoulders and biceps
sorta.... staring... .really.he didn't have that many beers, did he?
one bottle... two... three....
....no
then what the....
what is....
how...."Uh...... who are... you?"
(imagination)
I've got nobody by my sight and surely that ain't right... surely that ain't right... can't any body see... we've got a war to fight here... never find our way... regardless of what they say... how can it feel this wrong? From this moment, how can it feel this wrong?Exertion and a remarkable drain upon the mind and body, a feeling that will leave both crippled for perhaps hours or more likely days. The need for rest will seep through muscle and bone and tissue, a fatigue that spirals into deep slumber upon return.
please... don't go... it's so hard...
A gossamer plea of childlike memories and timbre interwoven among the rippling of a figure that almost floats (autumn leaves fall) forward... towards. The outline of hands reaching forward, palms turned upwards in an agonizing geature begging for acceptance and acknowledgement. Outlines and ghostly apparitions focus, solidfying and condensing but never truly real to the eyes with the vague outlines of wall, pictures, furniture peering, peeking through. Not there, not here. Somewhere inbetween. Dark tumbling curls let loose and alabaster skin, eyes caught between light and dark flooded with rejection and fear of the possible and impossible. A dress floating on an imaginary breeze, the stitching and fall of material from an age long ago.
(james)
pick your jaw up off the floor, James, that's rudehe takes a step back
who wouldn't
but that's about it
hands raising, palms towards her"Not going anywhere, this is my place, remember?"
you're talking to a.... ghost? boy
what next, Dire's goblins?"I'm stickin around.... if you stay.." waves generally "... over there, cool?"
what else do you say to a..... ghost.....
(imagination)
I can't... hurt you...Each whisper of sound like the valiant beating of butterfly wings against the hurricane. A trial, a preasure and a chore. The apparition moves no further, but one gossamer hand passed slowly through the thick leather back of the couch, at the other end of which he stood.
I just want... a friend... they won't let me out... not alone...
It was a guess, perhaps, but this manifestation of the imagination (?) looked no older than perhaps 15 years of age, but the voice held resonance of more time having passed than those few cycles of seasons.
(james)
hm.
he knows its rude to stare
but he's just never run into a.... ghost? before
although her words make him begin to think differently
movement is at first slow, then it speeds up
leg lifted to half-climb back over the couch
making himself comfortable on the arm
gesturing for her to do the same
if she... can... of course"Who won't let you out? Uh..... what's your name?"
(imagination)
He fears for me... He fears the others will find me... He calls me his Butterfly...She was almost floating forward as her apparition approached to the edge of the couch, but sitting upon it was beyond her ken and means. Her shoulders quiver, the reaction of the mind knowing, even if the body cannot feel, and imposing instinctual actions upon the imagry. She would be so tired... He would know...
I am real... I am just not... here... and I am so tired...
(james)
he just sorta.... nods"You mean this is sorta like..... astral projection?"
dream walking
spirit journey
whatever
the books call it astral projection
so we'll stick with that
head tilting in canid curiosity"And.... who fears for you?"
(imagination)
Yes... I... think so... I never considered... beyond... doing it... and He fears for me... He who saved me...The apparition flickers and fades around the edges, the translucent haze blending in with the colors of the surroundings making where she starts and where the world finishes difficult to percieve.
I like where the roses bloom in spring... in Jersey City... in the gardens... Its quiet there...
Again, the figure slowly continues to fade, each of the words echoing as they grow into fainter whispers barely heard across the small space between he and she.
Will you be my friend...
The whispers, the ghost of sounds, taper off again, dying a slow death among the stronger, louder noises of the room - even the hum of the stereo system is louder to the ears now. As the words die, so does the imagry of the girl standing at the end of the couch, arms barely able to be outlined as they lift again in that pleasing gesture. The naive, innocent gesture of a lonely soul looking everywhere and anywhere for a friend from outside the walls of the gilded cage.
please...
(james)
his chest fills with air
an intake of breath sharp and sudden
as if by that alone he could stop her from disappearing
eyes widening at the fade"I..... uhm.... just......"
weight shifting to sink socked feet into the couch pillows
as if to reach for those outstretched translucent hands
only an afterthought stops him
(still paranoid, are ya, Jamey-boy?)
murmuring
sighing
barely breathing"....yes."
(imagination)
A very faint echo of sound whispers through the apartment with no definate source, the attempts at become real just so hard, so tedious, so dangerous to try again... but the words come floating in the warmth of the apartment.I will wait for you... however long it takes...
Forever is no distance at all when you are alone...
[fade]
Posted by james at November 27, 2002 12:00 AM
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