deliriumcrow: (Default)
2005-11-11 04:59 am
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(no subject)

My lungs hurt from smoking too much. My feet hurt from dancing (in heels no less! Until, at least, I took them off) and my ears are ringing from dancing, like the fool that I am, in front of the speakers. And I don't know why I'm sneezing.

But -- it feels good.

I felt the music, breathed it, felt it in every bone and muscle, and saw it colours. Moved to them, made them my own. I've danced better, but I'm out of practice now, not having gone out in ages. (Somehow, my hat managed to stay on. I'm impressed.) It was motion -- not as art or performance, but as life. I didn't really care what I looked like, only the way the curve of an arm, the tensed, waiting crouch of thigh, echoes thte music. that my spine shaped the notes, slithering that rainbow of sound. I could feel every muscle tight coiled in preparation for the next progression --until I could not. Until all sense of body, of self, was lost. I don;t know what I was in those final songs, closed-eyes and exultant, but I was not me. There were wings in that movement, there was something more-than.

Dancing, for me, has always been magic -- not the first few, faltering steps, when, untired but unsteady, the body moves as it thinks it should -- but therein is the problem, in thought, not feeling. It's only at the end, in exhustion, just as much an altered state as intoxication (which I will also not deny, not earlier anyway) when there is that release. It is almost, almost (and I hesitate to use this word but know no other) an orgasm, thought fled and nothing but the senses to control the body, an extacy like none other. Sightless I know the position of everyone around me. My body, and more than my body, control relinquished to music and passion. I am alive when I move, dance, walking has done it before, feeling something like music drumming from the heart of the world and moving to that more than to my own purposes. It is then that I find magic,

I could use magic, I suspect, if I tried. But I don't want to. It's not fear, so much, as the desire to simply touch it, the same way that I learn the texture of tree bark under my fingers, my cheek. It seems almost disrespectful to take it, so I don't, not consciously. I leave it there, known and understood, remembered. Maybe I make it more real. I don't know. the stories say that magic can only exist if you beieve in it, and so -- who knows. It's nearly five in the morning. I'm incoherent and newly restored to my body and its new pains. and I love them.
deliriumcrow: (Default)
2005-01-11 11:31 pm
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(no subject)

Haha! Back on my own computer again! This means I can post at least some of the rants I've wrotten, though some have gotten a little too long for anyone to actually read excepting me.

So the short one, which is, admittedly due to my combustibly happy mood entirely inappropriate the first thing that wil go in. The unfairness, I swear.

So without further ado, the rant.

In which I feel that I must come to Remy’s defense.

It has come to my attention that certain people whose names have not been revealed to me are quite happy that I am no longer with Remy. Well and so, there are many reasons to have that opinion, but the one they have chosen is so blatantly untrue I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. There are many things to blame him for, for which he was actually guilty (like leaving me in an emotional crisis just before finals, that I passed rather well not withstanding) that there is really no reason to make up causes for disliking us together.

They seem to think that he made me more weird than I already was, relating specifically to my magical beliefs.

Umm, no?

This actually narrows down by several years the number of people this could be. It would have to be someone I met since I got together with Kevin, because when I was with him, I curbed my tendencies to talk about my beliefs, simply because I don’t like to be laughed at. Shortly before he broke up with me, I knew it was over and began looking for some way to break up with him myself. And why, you might ask? Because he saw evidence of the strength of my admittedly odd beliefs, both my own and those of my friends and family, and he laughed at them. Derided them, was generally rude and intolerant, and I knew that I could never spend serious time with him. When he brought this up, and I reminded him of that event, he laughed at me again, laughed at Avery and my brother, and I was reminded just how truly happy I am that we are no longer together. And just how relieved I was when he broke up with me.

Remy was not the source of my belief in fairies, that preceded my meeting him by a good 20 years or more. Nor was he the source of my belief that one could interact with them on any level at all. That was formed, quite simply, by my childhood. I have seen too much at this point not to believe. That I post about it in my journal Kevin complained about as well, and you know something? First, not that many people read my posts. It’s not like I expose myself to that much criticism. Second, most of the people that do read my journal, indeed, most of my friends at all, have similar experiences or were involved in the activities discussed. Most of them have some degree of belief, many of them have beliefs as strong as mine, and experiences as strange. Thirdly, I write this journal for myself, not for anyone else. What I write here, no matter who sees it, is for myself and my own consideration. I do not write this for you, though I may let you read it. And yes, some of that is the hubris of believing that to preserve a person’s journal through history is to allow them to live forever through their own thoughts, as well as the fact that it preserves some small part of what is now the modern world. I read journals that were written hundreds of years ago, and have gathered much of how history appeared to the literate classes. And I’d like to believe I can be a part of that tradition in some way, especially in a world where history changes so quickly and spin erases memories. I write this so I remember. And I don’t lock most of my entries, because I really don’t care what you think of me. I am exactly as I appear, and if you can’t deal with that, then so be it. As to why my opinions never appeared before Remy came along, well, consider how long I had the journal before I met him. I think it was in the range of a few days to a week. Not that much time to go having interesting fun experiences in my grandmother’s woods, now, was there?

To give Remy credit or blame for my oddness is giving him far more credit than he is due. Ask almost anyone I dated before him, and they can tell you without a doubt that I’ve always been like this. You could just as easily blame Matt, who knows what I was like in high school. You could blame Avery, who was present on the night that kevin still laughs at. Avery, the first person I was ever able to work with magically, who saw the manitou wild in his native Colorado. Remy, when he came along, simply allowed me to express fully and without fear of ridicule all that I have held dear. This does not imply that he made me weird, just that he let me be as weird as I already was. There is a tremendous difference, and for the honesty with which he allowed me to live my life these last three years I will always thank him. It’s a great and brilliant thing to be allowed to live without masks, and I have sworn to myself that I will no longer allow anyone to make me feel that I must hide myself away again.

And yes, you’re more than allowed to think me crazy. But I know what I have seen, and I know what I have done, and I have witnesses. And I also know more than well enough to hide my life from those who actually have the power to lock me up again.

And consider this: I write fiction. I write fantasy stories, mostly from the first person. How much do you really know about the truth of what I write in here?