| OOC RL-update: Nä, wat'n Spaß. |
[Nov. 25th, 2007|12:49 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  exhausted | ] |
A quick list of things that'll keep me (and Jack) away from the cafe for another week:
- No internet *shakes fist at german Telekom*
- my physical chemistry exams are coming (only one week left - GAH!)
- Two extra shifts at the Max-Planck-Institute on tuesday and thursday
- haven't slept the last three nights (due to pre-pc-exam-panic I guess)
- life sucks
Grmbl. Who needs RL?
@![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) liriaen: Ah! Hase, sorry for not mailing. Me = Träge Masse :(
[edit]: INTERNET! *happyjunkiegrin*
And I somehow survived the last week. Yay me. The pc exam was okay - so yay again. =) |
|
|
| Wet sand |
[Nov. 12th, 2007|01:06 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | tired | ] |
The wet sand is slowly soaking his clothes, but he doesn't want to leave yet. He likes the steady whisper of the sea and he likes the cold night breeze, simulating a sleep-like calm.
Meditation. Control. Healing light.
He can feel the first prickle of Tyler's presence, tiny worms crawling under his skin, feeding on him.
It`s so hard to relax when bright white supernovas explode under your eyelids as soon as you close them.
He turns around. The huge shadow of New Paperhouse looms over this part of the beach and from this distance the whole house looks like a bad dream.
He sighs and twists the last piece of silvery wire between his fingers. The fingertips of his right hand hurt where the wire punctured the skin, but it`s a good pain, he thinks, a wry smile on his lips.
For the first time since 1999 he misses his boring life.
Hey! Moving house is hell, but the new apartment is fantastic and really worth it =) .
Last friday I got a letter from the 'Telekom' telling me that they've somehow lost my application data. Nice, isn't it? So I have to send it all again and wait another week (week *panics*) for i-net access :/ So, Jack and I will be back around the 20th. |
|
|
| OOC: Sorry! |
[Nov. 1st, 2007|12:17 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  stressed | ] |
I'm currently moving house and Jack (and Tyler) will, therefore, be off/erratic for some days.
So I'll leave you with another youtube goodie: Jack and Tyl.... uhm, Ed and Brad singing a lovely little song on the fight club set during a shooting break.
Silliness yay! |
|
|
| A new day |
[Oct. 17th, 2007|04:54 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | jack | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  sore | ] |
| [ | music |
| | The night chicago died - Paper Lace | ] |
He doesn’t need a look in the mirror to know he’s a wreck.
Tossing his blanket aside he sits up, drawing his fingers through his hair, wincing as he touches a fresh bruise on his forehead.
Oh god, Tyler… he thinks. No.
At least there’s no fresh blood on his pillow or on his blanket. Thanks for small wonders.
Ignoring his aching knee he stands up, grimacing as a sudden wave of pain washes over him. His crotch is twinging as if someone has kneed him. He takes a deep breath and pulls his boxers down a bit to have a look at the mess.
Okay, he thinks, lips pressed to a thin line. It’s not as bad as it feels.
Trying to move as little as possible he gets dressed and heads for the door. Today he doesn’t want to wait for Tyler to come home. He doesn’t even want to see him.
Cursing in a low voice he sets out for the city… |
|
|
| [OOC]: ♥ |
[Oct. 9th, 2007|06:51 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  happy | ] |
I just want to save a youtube-goody =D
My two favourite scenes from the movie: 'Tyler's Homework Assignment' and 'The End' (spoiler)
Warnings for the video: Blood, blood, gunshot + wound, blood
Homework
♥ I can't say how much I love 'Jack's fight' :) |
|
|
| Screechsnap |
[Oct. 7th, 2007|02:44 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | tired | ] |
| [ | music |
| | No Milk Today - Herman's Hermits | ] |
Jack’s fingers are trembling slightly as he reaches for the glass vial on his nightstand. The screechsnap extract looks like a liquid bad dream, dark and oily, but he’s going to drink it anyway.
He opens the vial and takes a deep breathe. To his surprise the screechsnap juice smells fresh and earthy but not too bad. He licks his lips and brings the small vial up to his mouth, downing the fluid in one go.
With a soft smile on his face he licks his lips again. The strange taste lingers on his tongue, but he doesn’t care. He feels heavenly dazed, and so he flops onto the bed, his fingers still closed around the empty vial.
The blanket is new and clean, and he pulls it up to his chin, already on the verge of sleeping, when a low tune reaches his sleepy mind.
Beach Boys… Someone’s humming ‘Don’t worry baby’, he thinks as he drifts off completely. |
|
|
| Home Sweet Home |
[Sep. 30th, 2007|09:38 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  blah | ] |
You walk home, feet still wet from the surf, sand in your pockets, and you know he won`t be waiting for you. Hello darkness, my old friend.
Time repeats itself, y’know. Our new Home is the perfect clone of Paperhouse. The Margate version. Every broken window, every rotting shingle screams ‘Tyler’. That’s why I hate Home.
You enter the hall, zillions of splinters crunching under your feet, the glass tears of broken windows, and you feel the prickle of gooseflesh as you hear music upstairs. A soft tune. Jim Croce, you think.
I’ve looked around enough to know that you’re the one I want to go through time with.
You walk up the stairway, second floor, into a small room, bleak and dirty like the rest of new Paperhouse. In the middle of junk and empty bottles you see a phonograph. Turns, turns, turns, hypnotizing you with a schellack smile.
You haven’t been home for hours.
The phonograph’s arm with its lonely needle-finger lifts and moves back into stop-position, ready to sleep for a while. Silence.
The day you moved in with Tyler, you found the phonograph and along with it two boxes full of records. Stars on ’45. Tyler picked the first song, a weird Beach Boys surf classic that sounded like vacation. Mike Love and Brian Wilson were friends again. Summer, sunshine, sweat.
Wouldn’t it be nice, Tyler?
You sit down in front of the old phonograph and change the record. You grab a record, don’t looking for something special just another song to break the silence.
You can’t meditate with Dan the Banjoman, but who cares?
You don’t want to open your chakras, you don’t want to feel the healing light. You want sleep and you want Tyler.
God only knows, I think and smile, God only knows.
Time repeats itself, y’know. It’s the Beach Boys again, singing of stars and undying love. Smiley-smile.
Every half-eaten meal, every dried drop of blood on the floorboards, every broken record screams ‘Tyler’ . That’s why I love Home.
( Someone has pinned a piece of paper to the front door. It reads: Hi guest. No need to knock, just enter and take a look around. I'm upstairs. ) |
|
|
| a night at the beach |
[Sep. 25th, 2007|08:13 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | jack | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  cold | ] |
The sand is cold but compared to the icy night-water of the sea it feels like sunshine under his bare feet.
“I’m walkin’ on sunshine, you shit” he laughs.
In his head he counts the syllables again:
The night has no smile
The moon won’t say I love you
A star among stars
He pulls driftwood logs out of the surf and drags them up the beach.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
He kicks his clothes aside and kneels down at the foot of the first log. He digs a hole in the soft sand, stands up and grabs the other end of the log, lifts it until the log slides into its sandy home. He repeats it – four times – then looks at his crazy art. A Nosferatu-hand made of driftwood.
“You want perfection, Tyler?” he yells “Tell me, what time is it now?”
He sits down, sweaty and naked, surrounded by his half-circle of logs. With his icy finger he writes the words of his haiku into the sand and waits. He is so tired… |
|
|
| |
[Aug. 29th, 2007|04:25 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | cold | ] |
Heaven is a place on earth. Sounds like the title of a bad pop song, but it's true.
When I pulled the trigger of Tyler's gun, I died.
I died and went to heaven - a white, cloudless version of heaven, not the Old Testament kind.
That's how I met God.
"Liar," Tyler growls. "It wasn't heaven. Shut up!"
I am Jack's clenching bowels.
"All the fancy pills you swallowed," Tyler says. "You dumped me! You fucking dumped me!"
No, no! Tyler, no! God made me take the pills! You can't say 'No' to God.
Tyler snorts, "You know nothing, Jack. What have I told you about enlightenment? What have I told you about hitting the bottom?"
I still have some of God's pills. Tiny red ones. Big white pills, which taste like shit and smell like shit when they get wet. Oval blue pills, maybe twenty or twenty-five.
Tyler shouts, "Are you threatening me?"
No, I say. I just want you to know.
"Sucker," Tyler yells.
Listen, Tyler, I don't want this. We're friends, right?
"Friends," Tyler says. "If we're friends, get rid of the damn pills."
Then he's gone. |
|
|
| You wake up at Margate. |
[Aug. 27th, 2007|09:21 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | groggy | ] |
This night, I fall asleep on the concrete floor of an old factory building. When I wake up Tyler is sitting next to me, pushing his pinkie through the butthole in my cheek. I feel his salty fingertip on my tongue.
You killed me, Tyler says. He pulls his finger away.
I am Jack’s guilty conscience.
I used Tyler’s gun. The bullet tore out my cheek, transforming the left half of my mouth into a jagged demon grin. Pennywise. A crazy harlequin.
The saying, about how you always kill the thing you love – it works both ways.
During the last months the wound in my cheek closed up but I was left with this bullet-sized hole. It doesn’t ever heal.
You, Tyler spits. He grabs my neck and slams my face into the concrete floor until I feel warm blood on my lips.
Lying here, I watch the blood dripping from my split lip and forming Rorschach-patterns on the floor. Tyler. Is. Back.
I can read those blood spots really well, Tyler says. It’s Buddha sitting on a crashed airplane.
Another red ink spot. Drop. Drop. Drop.
What now, I ask.
I tried to kill you, you killed me – but, hey, I’m back, Tyler lights a cigarette. We’re even.
I roll over, blood running down my throat, liquid metal in the back of my mouth. I swallow. I say, Tyler, I never thought you’d come back. Why are you here?
Why do people see Elvis in the supermarket, Tyler smiles, cigarette dangling from his mouth.
You can heal migraine with a single dextrose pill, if people believe it cures their problem.
Cripples kneel down for hours and hours just to kiss the Pope’s hand.
Tyler is not the Pope. Tyler killed God. It was in the newspaper today how somebody murdered a famous therapist in a clinic for mental disorders, cut his throat, stabbed his chest, and climbed out God’s office window, and escaped. A picture of God was on the front page of the newspaper. Dead.
The death of one is a tragedy and the death of millions is just a statistic. Mr. Manson sings it in one of his songs. Tragedy.
Sleep now, Tyler says. I’ll stay and watch out.
My lips are still shiny with blood but I smile. I always sleep well when Tyler’s around. I missed him.
Yeah, yeah, missed you too, Tyler grumbles. Stop that cheesy shit. We’ve got lot of work to do and need you well-rested.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Tyler is back.
I am Jack’s sleeping body.
[edit]: Jack's snoring. Sounds like a drowning cat. Ask your questions as long as the baby's sleeping. ~ T. |
|
|
| I remember everything |
[Aug. 20th, 2007|09:13 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  confused | ] |
For years now, I've wanted to sleep. You can't sleep in the house of God. His little angels have no wings but rubber-soled shoes. They bring you your meds, cups of fancy pills, a heavenly host who works in shifts.
I meet God once a week and he is always smiling. Smiling across his walnut desk with his diplomas hanging behind him.
He asks me about Tyler.
You can't lie to God.
I feel Tyler's hand on my shoulder and he says, hey, Seth killed Osiris with a handmade box.
Tyler walks across the room. "Diplomas are really cool!"
Gods stops smiling when we hear glass breaking. The breaking glass is a diploma frame. Tyler leans against the diploma-wall, his finger tickling the next cherrywoodframe .
"That was unnecessary" God says.
Now, Tyler smiles. A knife-like piece of glass dances between his fingers.
If someone stabs your lungs first, you can't cry for help. I know this because Tyler knows it. He is full of useful information.
I know a nice little cafe at the seaside of Margate, says Tyler. Enlightenment isn't for free. Sometimes you have to kill a God to become a God. |
|
|