Woo, a little bit of writing, from moi. I'm quite satisfied with this one. I'm trying to vary my writing styles. Also, I've been reading too much James Joyce. You have been forewarned.
-Riot Poof- is a song by Tori Amos, and earns a bit of explanation. She wrote it for her Dutch sound engineer, Marcel Van Limbeek, in celebration of his coming out. ^_^ The phrase 'riot poof' is a direct translation of 'rel nicht', the Dutch term for homosexual (or so she says in interviews). So I thought it was pretty appropriate. ^_-
And fear not! the song is here: ftp://mawkey.dyndns.org/tv-radio/riot_poof-ppv.mp3
it will take awhile to load but it is soooooooo worth it. This version kicks some boogie ass.
And finally, our feature presentation: 13x5 eau de Joyce. ^_-

RIOT POOF by shanna seanachai

I am.....not doing this. I'm not thinking

you know what you know so you go - break the terror of the urban spell

They say when you fall to your knees, you are closer to the ground, and things seem nearer, somehow.
They seem very near.
The lights are out, and as I'm crawling across the carpet, trying to avoid the broken glass on the floor (he knocked it over turning off the light, I think), I'm looking for my shoes, and my shirt, and my pants...ah....my hair keeps getting in my face, I brush it away. It's so stringy and I feel so disgusting right now (as I invariably do after drinking) that I'm ready to rip it out of my scalp just to get it out of my way.
I have always been impatient this way...
The tables have turned now, finally, the way they were bound to. I am the one on my knees, like she was that day. She must have felt the nearness then, too...it's strange that something like this would bring me into her focus. So different. And

this alliance you say I'm on the thresh hold of greatness girl

Ah, yes, one leg over and out, steady now. The ground sure seems so far from here. Maybe I'm not as near as I thought. Hm, but I can do this, even if I'm a bit dizzy from last night. Just a little tricky. Trickling down my face, and I don't know if it's sweat or rain from outside or something else. God, I hate hanging like this. The bark keeps crumbling underneath my hand, I think I'm going to -
Ow.
Ah, well, no bones, broken - get up! Sounds like something Yuy would say. Or do, rather, or maybe think it, but maybe not say. You are the great self-contradictor, she used to say to me. You no sooner say a word before you take it back. Your every movement seeks to subtract from the last. I think I'm doing that now. Have been. Last night I took back all I have done, and this morning I am trying to take back last night! Wow, if I can drive this thing home without hurting myself then... well, then a kid with a b. b. gun can chip the paint off of Nataku. What I mean is, it's impossible. Impossible not to because

you burn your pagoda through the conga till there is a broken bond

It's colder than I thought. I'm hotter inside than I thought, thought yesterday, anyway. I'm cold on the inside, hot on the outside - or is it the other way around? Maybe I'm both. Different sometimes. Maxwell says I have two personalities, Off and On. Off to them, On to her. Well, he doesn't know about her, but that's what he means by -the gundam-. Shit, that was close. Have to remember not to take those corners so rough. And speaking of roughness, well, not really speaking of it, but anyway, what exactly happened last night? Was that On or Off, or was it something else? It certainly wasn't cold, that's for sure. Quite far on the hot side. And the crazy side.
I have to pull over. What a sloppy job. Can't keep it down - I should have thought of this, known it would happen. It feels like my insides are being slowly, slowly squeezed into submission. Oh, It's all over my shirt. I smell like...well, like someone who just threw up, actually. Never was good with the metaphor. Wish I had something to take the taste away. Should have prepared for this, be prepared

on the birth of the search, white trash my native son

A bit clearer by now. Maybe it's because the light's come, I mean, the sun is up. A little. Just a bit. A sliver of it, enough to make a difference. It's the time of morning when the birds wake up and start going nutty, except there aren't any here to do that. If there were, they would be, though, I can guarantee you that. I've read about it. It's considered a very poetic time of day. If you are into that stuff, like I used to be. A great mind, I'm supposed to have. So they tell me. I don't have one though. I own it, I should know. If I had a great mind, would I be driving down the highway in the poetic hours of the morning with vomit down my shirt, thinking about birds going nutty? I tell you, no. I'm fit for the crap, and that's what I get, and that's what I am. Rest my case.
If it's not the poetic hours, it's at least the peaceful hours. A bit too peaceful, maybe, and that's why you need the birds - no, not the birds again. Better to leave the birds alone. Concentrate on the road and the wind and pedals beneath your feet. Oh, no, not my feet. That just made me think about how much my feet hurt. I forgot to check if the bleeding stopped. From stepping on the glass. Before I realized it was there, and avoided it as I crawled around looking for my....yes, we've been over that. We know which glass you are talking about. And he must have knocked it over - when did he knock it over? I don't remember, well, I don't remember much, maybe he didn't realize he had knocked it over whenever and however he did it. The lamp, that's right, when he turned off the lamp. I hate myself. I'm so pathetic, and yes I truly hate myself...I can't bring myself to think about what I did. We did - keep fastening on little images, the glass on the floor, turning off the lamp, was that bed wood or brass or something else? Must have been wood, when I laid my face against the headboard it was flat and cool and smooth against my cheek. Calming. And I was so stupid, even as he did it, thinking that

it will all, all, find it's way in time, it will all find it's way in time

Oh, but here it comes, holding him so warm in my arms.

blossom, riot poof
*
1.
When the water first touches the skin on my hands and arms it's a shock; then I move them through the suds to touch the plates and I feel the water whoosh into the vacant place my hands had left. It feels kind of like brushing your hands over something made of silk and I guess that's why people like silk so much. Very smooth. The plates are greasy when my fingertips touch them, though, and I have to turn my mind to my task, which is something I've always had a problem with. No matter what anyone thinks.
Maxwell comes over with a big handful of dirty silverware and deposits it in the sink. He picks up a rag and takes the first plate from me to dry. We are on orders to lay low and keep quiet, and that is what I am doing, although I can't speak for Maxwell. Duo. I wonder where the hell he got a name like that. Sounds like something you would give to twins. Maybe it's not his real name, then. Maybe...
Oh, he's speaking to me. I hadn't noticed. He says, -How are you? And I answer, -I'm okay. I could imagine another way we could have this conversation, where I would throw down the plates I'm washing or pick up one of the knives and throw it into a wall, like they do in the movies, and say, -Terrible!!!!! and stalk out of the room dramatically. That would be funny. The only problem being that I would not be able to see his face...
But I say, -I'm okay, and hand him another plate.
How many chances have I missed in my life? Too many.
-That's good, he says. Out of the corner of my eye I'm watching him as he dries the plate with that rag, which must have come from a towel or something. He does the front first, and then the back, and then the front again. He gives it one last swipe and puts it away. Then he looks up at me again, and it's very appropriate and picturesque the way his bangs flop in to place on his forehead. I hand him another plate and bring one hand up to push my hair away. It leaves a sticky track on my cheek from the soap. Back to the scrubbing.
He's still talking but I am not really listening. Poor Maxwell. Nobody listens to him. I do try, but I can't keep my mind on his chatter. But I'm glad he's here. I always talk about wanting to be alone but that's really not the case. When I'm alone all I have left is me. And sometimes you have to start wondering if you really exist. If Maxwell is here, talking to me, I know I exist. I'm not a dream someone else is having; I'm not a shadow of something better. Why do I need other people to feel real? What is so wrong with me that I don't think or feel or act like anyone else?
There's a terrible cracking noise and I realize that I've clenched the glass I'm washing to tightly and it's broken. The glass has cut my skin and there are little specks of blood on the soap. Damn! The pain is slowly running up my wrists to my arms.
-Shit, Wufei! Duo grabs my wrist, and pulls me away. -What you do that for? I honestly do not know. He takes me to the bathroom and turns on the cold water taps. Then he starts picking the bits of glass out of my hand. He muttering under his breath, but not in a seriously angry kind of way. That's thing I like about Maxwell. Doesn't get angry for silly things You have to appreciate Maxwell. He can be annoying sometimes, but generally, he just makes you feel....safe.
-What would you do without me? he says. -You'd probably wrap it up and let it get infected. You're just like Heero. No concern for yourself or anyone else's welfare. It's pretty damn frustrating you know!
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he is angry with me.
I sit down heavily on the toilet seat and look at my hand. The bleeding has stopped but it looks pretty ugly. I won't be able to hold things tightly for a little while. What a bother. I never think about things before I do them. I am impatient that way....
Then he takes out peroxide, and says, -This is going to kind of hurt, in a very quiet way, and I know he's not really mad at me. The peroxide sting but strangely I feel too relieved to care much. Then he takes out some Bacitracin and begins to kneed it into my palms. Very careful. Gentle. Why would he be gentle with me? IS it because he is my friend? Two souls touching. Not that way. Not like with him. Better maybe, though. Or not better - just different. What would it be like to have a friend like that? Like in books. Lean your head on their shoulder and cry. Breathless voices under bed covers and muffled laughs. I know what you are thinking. That kind of friendship. Does brotherhood and sisterhood really exist? Or do we just wish it did?
-Are you all right? he asks.
-No. I want to die.
I realize to late he meant.all right in a purely physical sense. And I've already said it, so I can't erase it and take it away. You are the great self-contradictor, Wufei. I can't do it this time. Non-retractable....
He's taken my chin in his hand. He's looking me right in the eye. That means nothing to me. I can look at him right in the eye too. But it is awfully nice of him to be so gentle to me right now.
-What's wrong, Wufei?
It makes me shiver to have someone look at me so deeply. I put one hand over my eyes. I was wrong. I cannot look at him and I can't stand his eyes on me. I am not tough at all. I am weak.
I hear him breathe heavily. -We all get a little down, sometimes, Wufei. Even me. But you can't let it get to you. Don't let it drag you down. Because....you may not know it, but we all care a lot about you. And if you did die, it would tear us all apart.
2.
Late at night now, and I cannot hide from the memories that are sneaking up from behind.

you know what you know so go chain her to your flow

What I was thinking of today has come back. Sometimes I feel so transparent. Not really there. I need other people around me to know I am real. Finding a fire inside myself is so hard. And it hurts. To know that you have no ability or pride or ambition that doesn't come from someone else.
It's so painful not to be real...
She always knew that I was a shadow, and that's why I was so open to her attack. And I fed off of her attention, and became what she saw in me. And when she was gone, I fed off of her nonexistence.

she bites through your dried lean meat as she's going to the movie show

I feel like I have only a slight claim on the life I am using up and the body I inhabit. If someone - if she - thought I didn't deserve it then it would be taken away. I don't know why I can't just live for myself. Like other people. What debt do I owe? I've never understood.
Was that night me feeding off of him, or did I finally live for myself?
That's a question I'd like answered.
2.
in a bath of glitter and a tiny shiver she crawls through your java sea

A long time ago when many men of today were boys, there was one particular boy named Wufei. He was the oldest of his brothers and sisters and he was responsible for their actions. So when one of them stayed out too late or broke something or slept too late, his father would take him aside, away from his family, and punish him for not taking care of them. Punish him a special way, that was only for oldest sons who shirked responsibility, and was not to be spoken of. Never..
This little boy, Wufei, had a memory of a day when he was very small and sitting under the tree out back playing with some sticks and pebbles. His mother was near by with her women friends and he was listening to them in a very general sort of way, not really understanding what they meant most of the time. Until his mother looked at him and said to one of her friends,
-I'm sure Wufei and Meiran will make a lovely husband and wife, when the time comes.
Wufei went and hid that day in the little house where the gardening told were kept. He had met Meiran before and he hated her with a passion. When his father found him in his hiding place he took him away for his punishment, worse than usual this time, because it was he who had erred, setting a bad example to his tiny brother and sister.
And so Wufei learned to draw into himself, and even when he disagreed with something, he didn't say a word. Until finally he learned to never come out of himself, and couldn't, even when he wanted to.
4.
black sahara I'm stepping into your space oddity

When I married Meiran my soul barely fluttered.
That's not right is it? When you make a life long commitment to someone, aren't you supposed to feel some glorious union of the spirit, a joining? But I felt cold. Cold as a dead fish. I must have been a terrible husband. of course, I suppose she wasn't the greatest wife...but does that really matter now? I'm alive and she's dead. Her actions are forgivable. Mine still count.
And, really, is it right that I was barely affected by our marriage but her death rocked me right to the core?

it will all, all find it's way in time

Finding his hands in the darkness. There's a quick tug, and I'm waking up to streetlights in my window and bunched up sheets in my fists. Frustration comes so easily to me. I need a way out.
It's a stupid and dangerous thing I'm doing, but impulses come and go all to quickly and I will not allow myself to miss this one. I have lived with Denial all my life. The Truth is frozen and smooth and frightening to me at the moment. Hard to grab onto, like his hands in my dream.
All the way up there I'm wondering what I will say to him. How can I explain what I feel? What's he's changed in me. The way he has hurt and healed me, all at the same time. He'll realize how insane I am.
When the bike starts to sputter one the highway, I know instantly what has happened. It's run out of gas. You didn't fill its tank, you idiot. You are stuck.
You have a choice now. You can turn around and walk home. Or you can continue on your way.
I'm standing there on the highway, the same highway I traveled on one week ago, at the same time of day - the poetic hours of the morning, yes; and I lean my head back and listen.
And yes - there it is. Out of the silence, I hear a bird singing.
I kick my bike over, leaning it against the metal median. Then I turn myself back towards the road that leads to him - that leads to *Treize*, and begin to walk.

blossom, riot poof
*
1.
"This is an example of one of the ways in which the adventure can begin. A blunder - apparently the merest chance - reveals an unsuspected world, and the individual is drawn into a relationship with forces that are not rightly understood. As Freud has shown, blunders are not the merest chance. They are the result of suppressed desires - as deep as the soul itself. The blunder may amount to the opening of a destiny. Thus it happens, in this fairy tale [The Frog Prince], that the disappearance of the ball is the first sign of something coming for the princess, the frog is the second, and the unconsidered promise is the third.
"As a preliminary manifestation of the powers that are breaking into play, the frog, coming up as it were by a miracle , can be termed the 'herald'; the crisis of his appearance is the 'call to adventure'. The herald's summons may be to live, as in the present instance, or, at a later moment of the biography, to die...As apprehended by the mystic, it marks what has been termed 'the awakening of the self'...whether small or great, the call rings up the curtain, always, on a mystery of transfiguration - a rite, or moment, of spiritual passage, which when complete, amounts to a dying or a birth. The familiar life horizon has been outgrown; the old concepts, ideals, and emotional patterns no longer fit; the time for the passing of a threshold is at hand."
- Joseph Campbell, "The Hero with a Thousand Faces"
*
2.
When I walk through this door, everything will change, and I know it.
My feet are sore from walking so far. I want to go to sleep. But I came here for a reason. Damned if I will let it pass me by....again....
When I slip into his room, he is in the bathroom, shaving or something. I sit on the corner of his bed, waiting. Final confrontation. I can't help but look at this bed and remember. I'm following the groove in the wooden bed post with my hand when he comes in the room.
He stops in his tracks, his hands stilling at his neck where he is buttoning his color. He takes my breath away. He looks far younger like this, not like the general of OZ, but a young man who has his innocence and health and heart intact. Could I ever look like that? I don't think I was born with those traits.
-Wufei, he says. -My God, are you all right? You haven't been hurt, have you?
The concern in those words make me dizzy. I stand up and walk slowly over to the mirror, where I can see my dirty face and mussed hair. All from my travel up the highway. He comes up form behind and takes my bandaged hand by the wrist. That's why he thought I was hurt. I shake my head and whisper that it's nothing. No matter.
-I came because I needed to speak with you...I can't think of what to say next. He stares at me with gentle prying eyes. He is so nice to lean in to. Mmm...I could just forget what to say, and stay here all day.
But, -What is it? he whispers, and so I have to answer.
-I came because...I care very much about you....and I don't know how to deal with that.
-Wufei, he starts.
-You have to understand, I continue, pulling away from the distraction of his arms. -Before you, there was nothing. I was nothing. Do you know what that feels like?
-Tell me, he says.
I try to explain. It's so difficult. -You feel death within; but you know you are alive.You don't think anything or anyone can stir anything but more darkness in your soul. Until someone comes along, and lights a spark....
He listens to this with a mask-like face, and his eyes seem thoughtful. -But that's strange, he finally says. -I always felt the life in you so keenly. That light in your eyes - it made *me* feel alive.
I am speechless. That he had touched me so, I had understood. But that I could provoke such deep feelings in another person, let alone him, who seemed so superior to me, was stunning. And I felt that connection, suddenly, the glorious union of a soul whose existence I had always questioned. It *is* real. It's inside of me. I am alive.
3.
the sun is warming

Morning, and the light on my face warm and sweet. The quality of the glass stains it green and makes the room seem like it is underwater as the leaves of the oak outside wave back and forth across the window. Do you know that warm and secure feeling you get, starting right in the pit of your stomach, and spreading out along your body to the tips of your fingers and the soles of your feet? You feel like a little kid again, walking to school with a lunch box and a bottle of juice in your book bag. And you know on the other side of the day, you will paint pictures of flowers and rainbows with your fingers and play duck duck goose with the other children at recess....and on the flipside of the night, when you wake up from a nightmare, mama will come and give you a glass of milk and rub your back and shine a flash light in the scary corners of your room to show you that, indeed, there are no monsters lurking there.

my man is moistening

My back is against his stomach and I think even if we weren't so physically connected right now I would still be aware of every breath he took and then let go. I feel him so perfectly in my mind. I know he is asleep right now and dreaming of something pleasant. When I put my hand on top of his it could be my own, it feels so familiar.
I can feel a story forming in my mind again and I let it come up. Once upon a time...
Once upon a time that was not so long ago, really, there was a boy named Wufei. He was walking through a swamp that had no end, and that he was slowly sinking deeper and deeper, until one day, he would become part of the swamp, and lose all hope of getting away. But one night, he saw a light. It was beautiful and clear and so sharp and true that it almost hurt to touch it. But he realized with time that the hurt was from the last remnants of dark and death that clinged to him and fought with the light; and so he let the light envelop him and when he opened his eyes, the swamp was far away, and the light no longer surrounded him, for it was within him.
And Wufei wrapped his arms around himself and felt life, for the first time, and realized that

it will all find it's way, it's way, in time
it will all find it's way, it's way, in time
*