Enter into the Twisted Kingdom

Pay the Piper...

2008-07-31T18:55:41Z

To market, to market, to buy a thick fog, home again, home again, jiggity jog...

It is always dangerous bartering with the faeries. I wonder, wonder wonder, what would you seek to buy, and what is the price you'd be willing to pay? For my part, I would be willing to give up the sight of my favourite star in exchange for the ability to wander my own dreams at will...

What would you buy? What would you pay?

The Dance Dance Revolution

2008-07-16T01:14:10Z

Alright, so here's the deal. Mein ashke, buffyannotater, cannot dance to save his life. This is largely a product of the fact that he thinks he looks silly when he dances, and if you think you look silly, you'll never be able to let go enough to look good when you dance. All that dancing really is is moving to a beat and not giving a good god damn what you look like and just having fun. That's all that informal club dancing really is, with perhaps a measure of crazy, sexy or cool thrown in in various proportions at various times to add a bit of verve and panache. In any case, I'm endeavoring to teach him to dance.

He's really not at all bad, actually. Totally adorable when he dances. However, he gets so embarrassed and allow it to get in between him and having fun. He just dissolves into nervous laughter when he thinks he's looking silly and someone is watching him. Like I said, adorable. Not that useful in terms of dancing in public, however.

Thus, my point. I've been attempting to teach him to dance this evening, and he's actually made quite a bit of progress! He still resists certain dance moves (What could anyone have against a bit of Saturday Night Fever Action!?) and has a bit of tension throughout, but I was actually very impressed with how much progress he made in just one session this evening! It was fun too. I always love an excuse to dance it up a bit. Anyways, a bit of slice-of-life, although whether it be orange or apple I leave to the Jackalmen of the Jury to decide....

A Monologue Writ in October...

2008-07-13T02:59:46Z

It’s not the big fears that get to you. No. It’s the little ones, the small anxieties that creep in, so subtly you don’t even notice them. The little fears that rule your life, controlling your mind form the shadowy depths of your subconscious, tainting every moment, paralyzing your will, drowning you in inaction, because you’re so afraid of failing or looking stupid or someone not loving you or being laughed at or ridiculed or attacked. The big fears, they’re over quick, really. They may have aftereffects, they may be more intense and leave you drained, but the little fears, no, they rule your life, they make it impossible for you to do anything, and because they’re so small you don’t notice them at first, and then, by the time you do they’re so entrenched it’s next to impossible to make any headway against them. If you even notice them at all. It’s so easy, really, not to even know they are there. It’s so easy to become accustomed to the small tightness around your heart, the faint clench of your jaw and the eternal smudge of despair lodged in the pit of your stomach. And the worst of it is, the absolute worst thing about the little fears and especially the fear of the unknown…is that suicide isn’t a viable option. You can’t even escape in death, because the fear of what mother fucking dreams, no NIGHTMARES may come when we have shuffled off this rotten, stinking hell that they call the mortal coil…keeps you here, and makes you a slave to the fears you know, rather than find release…because there is no way to know what comes after death. None. You can have faith and you can believe, but you can’t KNOW. And if you don’t know, well, then it’s not likely you’ll be brave enough to take that risk. And so you go on, living in hell, slave to yourself because some jackass, somewhere back in your childhood scared you…and now you’re in it so deep you may never get out…and you’re afraid of what might happen if you ever do so you don’t…even…try.

And Now for Something Randomly Non-Random...

2008-07-12T03:24:33Z

Myself, Joel McHale, and Robert.

We are the Triumvirate that rules...something I haven't quite figured out yet...

Dinner Theatre...

2008-07-12T03:22:17Z

There were literally hundreds of lawyers who worked at the Black Law Firm, but only a small percentage of those were Senior Partners. The majority were Junior Partners or Associates. Alexander Black, Junior Partner, did not intend to stay Junior for long. Perhaps this is part of the reason that over the past year or so, he had, one by one, met with each of the Senior Partners and had dinner with them. Perhaps it was expensive, perhaps the cost was high...Alexander did not care. Not a whit, not a fig, not a single iota of him cared about the expense.

It was an investment. For you see, quite simply, there was always something to be gained in dining with one of the Senior Partners. Perhaps a bit of fatherly advice, perhaps, after a few glasses of wine, they would let something slip about an important upcoming case, possibly a landmark case that might help make a young lawyer's name for him...or, even more tantalizing, there was the possibility that they might let slip something that should have been kept secret...perhaps one of their secrets might come into the light where it can be glimpsed, if only briefly, by an ambitious young lawyer with glamour in his veins and magic dancing at his fingertips...

Alexander laughed. It sounded genuine, to almost all ears. It fell false only on a single pair, and that pair was wrapped up tight in a cigarette. The trick with smiles and laughter is letting them touch the eyes. If you can master that trick, you can fool almost anyone. And Alexander Black had mastered more than his share of tricks. Blame his mother. If you dare. But yes, he laughed at the joke. An entirely unfunny joke about lawyers, told by a lawyer, to a lawyer. The old man was canny, Alexander would give him that. Came off as jovial, fat and merry...not to mention more than a touch absent minded, but no, Elias Heathrow was sharp as a razor and twice as deadly.

Too bad. Alexander may have the body of a 21 year old mortal man, but he had the mind and soul of a centuries old Sidhe noble, and there wasn't any way this mortal was outfoxing this Fae. He was skilled, Alexander would give him that...but Arawn wasn't averse to using magic to cheat when necessary...or when it was convenient, for that matter. Mortals, mortals...lord what fools these mortals be...well, for all that, they do rule the world, and are enormously entertaining...

The first sally came when Alexander ordered his dessert first. The waiter was a bit thrown, but Elias handled it well, laughing delightedly and following suit. Alexander got a point for the unexpected (although he had pulled this trick before, and often) and Elias got a point for not being thrown by it. Even game. Nothing gained nor lost to either side. So it continued, with a bit of verbal maneuvering here and there. Alexander was forced, on at least two occasions, to let slip slightly more than he would have liked...but the backwards meals continued, course by course until they were finishing with the appetizer.

The old man slipped up, ever so slightly, and Alexander managed to weasel out a bit of advance notice on a high profile case that would be upcoming. Point for Alexander. A point he lost in spades when Elias craftily maneuvered him into picking up the entire cheque. Foxy old man. Alexander just smiled and paid it. It was only money, after all. One can always get more money. But information...no, information was priceless...

Elias Heathrow rose to leave. Alexander rose and shook his hand...and as the old man ambled off, Duke Arawn ap Ailil tapped his Rolex three times...and the Veil of Time parted. You can do a lot in a year...a whole lot...good things, bad things...and if you're a lawyer, chances are, you've done a lot things, good and bad...and if someone knows...

...Alexander Black leaned back in his chair, a cup of Earl Grey steaming in front of him as the past year of Elias Heathrow's life unfolded before him. Oh lookie lookie loo...embezzlement...and a lot of it...bingo.

Game.

Set.

Match.

bedlamblade @ 2008-07-11T23:14:00

2008-07-12T03:18:46Z

Welcome to the Twisted Kingdom, Welcome to my Mind...

The Roles we Sometimes Play...

2008-07-11T20:49:28Z

The Devil may wear Prada, but the Duke wears Armani...

Here, there is no majesty of soaring towers of stone, with pennants flying in the wind of men's dreams; here, there are no courtly manners and great feasts; here, there are no swords, no daggers and no armour...

...but here, there is glamour.

In this cubicle, a harried intern dreams of the day he, too, can command the power and prestige of the Black Law Firm. In that office, one of the Senior partners finishes off the writeup for a landmark case that will restore rights and freedoms to countless people. However, in this office, Alexander Black, whom some know as Duke Arawn ap Ailil, Sorcerer of the Hourglass and Regent of the Court of Liberty's Flame, sits calmly, while across from him...

...another man, likewise dressed in a black Armani power suit, likewise young, talented and influential amongst the up-and-coming set of the Black Law Firm, paces, a gloating expression on his face. Alexander sits calmly, his face a blanket mask of pleasantry...while his knuckles are white as they grip a Sterling Silver pen worth more than most interns make in an entire year. The man who paces, laughs.

"...anyways, I just thought I would come by and update you on the MacDonald case."

What the voice does not mention in words, it mentions in gloating tones, tinges of mockery and the outright thread of laughter. Volumes are conveyed in the nuances in which words are spoken, and insults, sharper than any dagger, dart quickly from the shadows of meaningful pauses and inflections. Through it all, Alexander sits, pleasant expression on his face, until at last, he is forced, by social bonds, to speak. Each word pulled kicking and screaming from a mouth that would rather drown in bile than spit out those fair and gracious words...

"Congratulations Sam. It's stellar work. The Senior Partners will be delighted. No one thought you could possibly get MacDonald off. I mean, nine counts of assault and battery, who knows how many other petty infractions and a murder charge...whew! I don't know how you did it!"

Alexander's smile becomes ever so slightly brittle and a hint of envy and bitterness creeps into his tone. Sam just laughs and breezes out of Alexander's office as if he owned the entire firm. A Silver Sterling pen clatters to the top of the desk and as the door closes...

...Arawn ap Ailil smiles, all traces of bitterness or envy gone, as if they had never been there. Perhaps they never truly had been... Opening a desk drawer, he pulls out an advance copy of the next day's paper. Scrawled across the front page is the headline: Crooked Lawyer's Twisted Dealings Free Murderer. Alexander tsks. Oh dear. It looks like someone knew exactly how Sam managed to get MacDonald off. What a pity...a blow like this could ruin his career. He reaches out and with one elegant finger presses the intercom button.

"Samantha dear? Would you be a darling and have a bottle of Dom sent up to Samuel Moore's office? Oh, and sign the card from my wife and myself, would you? Thank you!!!"

The intercom falls silent. The room is silent. But the eyes of Alexander Black are laughing...

Enter, Stage...Somewhere...

2008-07-11T04:49:21Z

I walk on a narrow, twisting pathway of stone. To either side, a
sheer drop, a vast abyss filled with swirling mists. To the right,
soft, seductive white gold mists coil, to the left, cold, darkly
glittering mists roil. Step by step, I walk forward, knowing without
knowing why or how I know that I have to get to the end of the trail,
or there will be dire consequences. Ahead, to my right, a spume of
mist rises out, and from within, voices are heard. I recognize my
voice, yet I speak not. I continue walking, but strain to listen
closer. I’m laughing, talking with…Another voice answers. In shock,
I stumble, slip, and almost plummet from my treacherous pathway of
stone, down into the soft white mists below, but at the last moment I
regain my balance. Breathing heavily, I ignore the voices and focus
on the path, slowly placing one foot in front of the other, continuing
on my way. At the periphery of my vision, I catch a glimpse of a
plume of black mist snaking up from the abyss below. Luring my eye, I
look into the glittering depths and see…myself, and yet not myself.
There is a vast castle below me, and I hover above it, like a bird.
The castle lies under siege, and has clearly been so for some time.
Blood and bodies litter the ground outside the walls of cold grey
stone. There, on the battlements I lie, myself and not myself. I
drift slowly closer. Someone is holding me in their arms, and
weeping. I see me/not me reach up to touch the face drooping over me,
and my lips move, though I cannot hear the words, my/not my face is
peaceful, in spite of the large black war arrow that protrudes from my
chest. Floating, I watch, watching as me/not me slowly closes his
eyes, and I feel myself slipping away as he does. Then he dies, and I
feel it. I scream, fall into the abyss of black mist, and awake…here, in the Twisted Kingdom…

Playwrit...Ish...Tar...

2008-07-11T04:47:23Z

Dancing with Ishtar – Dust Mote Protagonist dances with Ishtar

The scene is a fantastical landscape, something straight out of an artist’s vision of ancient Sumer or Babylonia. Massive pillars line the back of the stage, interspersed with panels of gauze which float gently in the breeze. A man in armor, MAX, stands downstage right, looking upstage towards the central panel of gauze at center stage. Slow, seductive, compelling music is heard, and from the curtains center stage enters ISHTAR, in the dress of a temple prostitute as seen through the lens of imagination. MAX is stunned, and merely stands, watching her dance. She glides about the floor, gracefully, swaying to the music. She dances towards him, and unconsciously he is pulled up into the dance with her, the music intensifies, and they dance together.

I: “So, a new one has come. What is your name, pretty man?”

M: (stammering) “Uh…Max. Max Caldwell.”

I: “Well…Max, what brings you to the temple of Ishtar girded about in accoutrements of war?”

M: “Uh, I was directed here for answers.”

I: (laughs) “Ah yes. Answers.” (she looks at him seductively) “Are you sure that is…all, you…want?”

M: (going red) “Uh, yes, thanks. Answers’ll do me.”

I: (springing back and pulling a sword from somewhere) “Then you must best me in combat, mortal, for in no other wise shall I part lips to thee.”

M: (stares, dumbfounded) “Uh…what?”

I: “Draw your sword mortal, or meet death at my hands!” (she springs at him).

Herein a grand dance of swordplay and seduction Terpsykores across the World of the Stage (Or Stage of the World, you decide...)

Setting for an Unwritten Play...

2008-07-11T04:43:27Z

Curtain rises, cast in soft, mundane lighting, the stage is dominated by a large mahogany dining table, surrounded by tasteful and clearly expensive chairs of the same dark, beautiful wood. The table itself centers and spotlights an elaborate gold and crystal candelabra, of the sort one would use for dinner lighting. The table is set for two, with delicate porcelain plates, clearly antique, and gold plated silverware to match the candelabra; silverware for a full multi-course meal. Spotless white linen napkins in gold and crystal napkin rings sit to the right of each place setting, untouched as of yet. From the ceiling, a small crystal chandelier hangs suspended, glittering brightly over the scene. Replacing the normal backdrop (or perhaps directly in front of) are curtains of white gauze which billow softly, stirred by an unseen, unheard, and unfelt breeze. Interspersed with exacting regularity between the curtains are tall, graceful Grecian pillars, shining like alabaster. At the perimeter of the stage, however, things are vastly different. Here everything is run down, cheap, and takes on a slightly nightmarish quality, jagged edges, lack of symmetry, etc. The periphery should combine elements of a kitchen, a laundry room, a sewing/mending room, etc. Notably, there should be an old black iron stove, surrounded by pots and pans, a laundry machine, one of the old ‘works by hand’ models that can hardly be considered a machine by modern standards, an old black iron, pedal sewing machine and sewing basket. It should be noted that these elements are the extreme of the nightmarishness and should be placed on the extreme perimeter of the stage (within reason given audience view), and all other stage elements should fall in between the two extremes and be arranged in gradient between them, to foster a ripple or fade effect. So center stage is the dining room, the ‘grey’ area beyond should be a sort of servants hallway, a narrow open space with intermittent lighting and places to set ready food to be brought to the diners at appropriate junctures. Beyond that the stage fades into the ‘underside’ of the working of a rich household. Servant’s quarters, kitchen, etc. Where possible, concealed blacklights and fog machines should be subtly placed, as they will be needed for future scenes throughout the play.

Playwrit...ish

2008-07-11T04:37:46Z

Fight Scene ZA

A: (dreamily, looking out the window) “I wonder what that oak tree is thinking right now…”

Z: (matter-of-factly) “Trees don’t think. Now make yourself useful and scrub the floor or something, this place is a mess.”

A: (turning from the window) “Did you ever wonder if reality was real?”

Z: “Of course it is. Don’t be daft. Reality is reality. It’s called reality because it’s real. It’s all perfectly logical.”

A: (continuing, oblivious) “Like the floor for example. I don’t believe it’s really there. I think it’s just a trick of the mind.”

Z: (sputtering) “Of course it’s real! If it weren’t, what would you be standing on?”

A: “Maybe I’m not standing. Maybe I’m floating and you just think you see a floor because that is what you were raised to believe in, and so you mind invents an illusion for you to see.”

Z: “I can see it. I can touch it. I can smell it or taste it, though God only knows why I’d want to. I can even hear it if it’s creaky enough. If all five senses tell me it’s there, it must be real.”

A: “But you have no way of knowing that. For all you know, you’re stuck in a madhouse with a shattered mind, and I don’t exist, this room doesn’t exist, and it’s all some sort of compelling hallucination.”

Z: “It’s real. I know it is.”

A: “But how do you know? I mean, you could be mistaken.”

Z: (getting irritated, hiding it as best he can) “But I know I’m not.”

A: (grins, enjoying tormenting Z) “But you can’t prove it. Not really. Not when the question is something of this stripe.

Z: (explodes) “But it doesn’t matter! From a practical standpoint, it doesn’t matter at all!”

A: (with a smirk in the voice not seen on the face) “Oh. Well, of course it doesn’t matter from a practical standpoint. But practicality isn’t the point.”

Destruction

2008-07-11T03:42:05Z

My cheesegrater is broken...

Dream a little Dream...

2008-07-11T02:14:05Z

Something is in the air.

Cut. Shuffle. Repeat.

Something electric, something…forboding.

Cut. Shuffle. Repeat.

Something is about to happen.

Cut. Shuffle. Repeat.

What is it?

The cards still. Chance’s fingers idly square the deck and flip the first card. Something is coming. Something is about to happen. What is it?

The Tower – Vortigern’s Forttress. Traumatic change. Revolution. Revelation.

So change is coming. Great. I can feel that in the wind, I can hear it in the trees. Tell me something I don’t know. What is it, what is behind it? Chance’s fingers flip the second card onto the table.

The Horned One – Cernunnos. Instinct. Violence. The awakening of Primordial Nature.

Closer, closer. It is something old. Something powerful. It wants…control, dominance. And it’s coming here. Things are just getting better and better here! But what’s going to happen? Give me a hint of how this is going to turn out! Chance’s fingers flip the third card onto the table.

The Judgement – Avalon.

Shit.

Chance sank backwards in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose as he slowly rose out of trance. Nothing but vague omens and portents of doom. Nothing solid, nothing he could use. He sighed and felt a gentle pressure on his shoulders, his twin sister, Fi.

“Anything?” she asked softly.

“No.” He sighed again. “Nothing clear. Nothing revelatory.”

Fi reached down and gathered up the spread. Inexpertly, she shuffled them again. When she had finished she handed the deck back to him. A smile lit up her face.

“Feelin’ lucky?”

Chance grinned in spite of himself. It was an old game, but it never failed to cheer him up. Mostly because it always brought back good memories, good times. There hadn’t been a lot of them. Playing with the cards his grandmother had snuck him, hiding with them and Fi in the attic, those memories he treasured. He reached out; his hand hovering over the deck, waiting for the question he knew would come.

“Health, Wealth, or Love?” Fi asked, according to the ancient formulas of their shared childhood.

Chance smiled and picked the one he knew she knew he would pick, which was to say, the one he knew she wanted him to pick.

“Love.” He said, and closed his eyes. Smiling he reached out and claimed the top card. He drew it to him and opened his eyes. Interesting. He arched his eyebrows and turned the cards so Fi could see.

The Moon – Morgan le Fay. Imagination. Illusion. Dreams.