Dear Dear Diary
Take a deep breath. Wear something comfortable. Sleep when you can. Sit when you can. Dance when you can.
And tomorrow, we start NaNoWriMo...
Frank hated diners. He hated the shiny chrome and perky ambiance. He hated the cheerful music, the squeaky naugahyde seats, the paper napkins and full sets of silverware that wasn't even real silver. And every thing except coffee came with a straw. Straws! Straws were those things in barns or mattresses. Not eating establishments. He longed, just for a moment, deeply and desparately for the comfort of a solid wooden table and the knowledge that everyone in the place would carry their own knife. But those days were over, and he was better off not thinking of them any more.
He managed not to wince at the squeak of the naugahyde as he eased himself into a booth. He smiled at the waitress who brought his coffee and creamers, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He took the profered menu and did not notice her lack of an answering smile. She turned on her heel and left to attend another table.
He did not focus on the pictures of plastic food and the ad copy of descriptions. It didn't really matter what he ate here. He knew it would have to accompany Tums or the like, or he'd be in pain. He had almost gotten used to it. He fished in his pockets, but he didn't find any. Damn.
The waitress returned to the table and put a plate of french toast with ham in front of him and a jar of maple syrup on the table. She then sat across from him.
"I just told them I am taking my break now," she informed him, crossing her arms across her chest. "I want to know a few things and have questions for you. Who the hell are you, and why have you been stalking me?" Her eyes stared at him. She wasn't glaring, but there was certainly no hint of kindness.
"I'm Frank Syncope." He poured syrup on the french toast and cut it into tiny bites and began to eat. He continued talking between bites. "I didn't expect you to notice me. You weren't supposed to. I'm not even supposed to try to talk to you for another week."
"You're on a fucking schedule?"
He managed a shrug. "I talk to a lot of people."
Her lips were pressed firmly together.
"It's not supposed to be this way. You aren't supposed to be antagonizing me. I'm trying to be friendly. To confide in you what you are going to need to know. You're unbalancing me and I am not sure what to do now."
"Well, at least it sounds like you're trying to be honest. But if Frank Syncope is your real name, I'll eat my apron."
He stopped chewing and thought about Louis for a moment. He was still in a tiny apartment in a tenement, but last time he saw him, he was in New Jersey and running a counterfeit operation between long gaming sessions over the internet. Louis had been dating an ER nurse and just liked the way the words felt together. He was happy to be Frank Syncope and not something much worse. "It's a legal name. It'll do," he said. "If it makes you feel better, I can show you my id."
"I'd like that." She unfolded an arm to hold out her hand.
He sighed, and handed her the plastic that declared him Frank Syncope of 21 Paris Ave, Tartus, NY, height 5'10" and weight 195, eyes brown, hair brown. He knew his weight was bigger than that. He also knew his hair would need another dye job in about two weeks. "Here."
She looked at it. She seemed to know the feel of fake ids and did a couple of tests- rubbed it for chalk and held it up to the light, and ran a thumbnail along the edge. She frowned and handed it back. "Why me? Why not stalk someone else? and what are you hoping to gain from stalking anyone?"
"I'm not stalking. I'm trying to befriend you. To be part of your life. There's a difference. I am not going to try to hurt you. If you tell me to go away, I will. No questions asked."
"But you speak like an organization. If you go away someone else is going to try to do what you are doing. Why?"
Dammit. He had slipped. He needed to think a bit. "We don't have enought time right now to go into it. Not while you are on break. Please think about when and where you would like to sit down and talk about things."
"Meanwhile, you'll still be around."
He felt her begin to unbend. He nodded. "At a distance though. I don't want to be pushy."
She snorted. She stood up. She gave him a long measured look. She walked away, back to another customer who needed her.
He finished his french toast before he realized he hadn't requested it. Nor did he notice when the check was slipped onto his table with a fresh roll of Tums. But he was thoughtful as he paid the bill, and walked back outside in the cold to wait outside the dance studio where she would go next for her daily exercise.
Lately in my dreams I am haunted by me in a vision of a long silk dress. It clings where it ought and drapes where it ought and it flatters me into a shape I have never known. And I do not mean easily described by mathematical possibilities. The lace and marabou train behind me. My hair is upswept, in raven ringlets, tumbling gracefully in a train of their own, and my wings are also raven feathered, curving gracefully to accent my curves. In this dream, I am the possibility of everything. I am neither angel nor demon, but I have the potential for both, the features, blessings, curses, and abilities. I am poised on a brink, and I am wasting time looking behind and before me.
An androgynous companion is with me, offering anything I wish, even going with me wherever I wish.
But that's the wrong part. I don't wish. I hover on the brink of wanting, of waiting, on the edge of the spotlight. I am enjoying most this anticipation, this possibility, more than I think I could enjoy any reality. I know I must do something. Speak to my companion. Turn back.
Or leap from the balcony and fly.
I was staring at the magazine articles and book titles in Wegmans this weekend. I was letting my thoughts ping around about the titles and wondering why I was even there. New Harry Potter magazines are on the rack- that means the movie must come out soon. They were the wrong sort of magazine to be talking about Daniel and Emma getting got drunk in public or shagging in a ferrarri or something like that. Mystery novels are devolving from bloody to downright charming. "My Sister's Tea." "Whispering to Witches." "The Secret Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the East." I'm pretty sure there's more involved than striped socks and ruby slippers, and that Glinda doesn't appear very good at all. But then, Good and Bad are always relative. I only think I am good, because my selfishness is all about me, and everything that supports me is therefore good. Anyone's ideals are all relative to them. We only have problems when your good is my bad, and vice versa. And when I get this philosophical, I realize I've slipped a mental disc somewhere along the way. Am I supposed to be this disjointed, or am I supposed to just get on with what I am supposed to be doing? Which also has nothing whatever to do with being in Wegmans. This is just a stop along the way. Even though every moment really is just a stop along the way.
I think my drugs are sealing off the aura that lets me know I'm having a reaction. It's good if only I deal with the little shit. But not good, if it lets the big reactions stalk me. I've had too many frigging big reactions this week. I can't cope with much, which is why I end up staring and thinking of how intimate a color green is, and maybe I should wear more gloves. I'm cutting back on one of the drugs that makes my lips numb and the pain vanish. Maybe some pain is good, so I know how to stop doing something that hurts. Maybe I need to say to hell with the gym and going out *every day*. Buy a TV for the room with the exercise bike and just work out at home. I don't know. I'm too much of an extrovert to live in this shadow, but if it's healthier, maybe I need to stay in. It's tough.
Got my dogtag! Hopefully, it will be worthwhile. As one of my friends pointed out, it only has to save your life once to be worth it. And it has the benefit of being reusable. :)
I never knew the variety of possibilities until I went looking for one. They have fancy schmanzy IDs in gold and silver and even gem encrusted. They also have sportbands for kids. You can get a charm bracelet, solid bracelet, necklace or even a ring. There's even a pendant that has a "look here" window and shows you a blow up of really tiny printing, so you can get even more information on it.
But I am a simpler person, and I wanted something I could wear every day. So I opted for the dog tag model. I could fit more on than just a bracelet or "delicate" pendant. I also figure I can put it on a prettier chain for dressup all by myself, because among other things I have dabbled in the jewelry making.
Who knows? Maybe for SCA events I'll make a little wooden plaque and carve it with the Dremel tool to hang off my belt like a favor. I think it's a cool idea anyway.
Today, I thought of another tattoo I'd like to get. My first tattoo was supposed to be a dragon wrapped around a dagger, just above the ankle. I still would think it is cool and would love to have it. But with my allergies? We did a test dot. That's my tattoo- a strange freckle on my right arm. I reacted. Duh.
That doesn't keep me from thinking about the ink, and if I would want another or any. Today, I thought of one I wouldn't mind. Small print, right below the panty line on my leg/butt where one day, I am sure the nurses will want to add their own injections, I'd like it to say clearly "I ain't dead yet." It's a simple statement, and a nice celebration of being okay.
I can still breathe. It's a good thing.
Don't forget, next month is NaNoWriMo... National Novel Writing Month.
I am thinking of trying again this year. I have an idea for a character I want to name Frank Syncope. I think it's just a great name. I see him waiting in a diner for someone, and he hates diners. What happens next, I don't know.
Maybe I'll post the text here, maybe I'll post some of the text, maybe I won't post any. We'll see.
Jeannie is still fluttering about in the back of my head. So is that young necro's explorations in the OuterWorld.
I could be a great writer if only I finished what I started. I supose that's always the hardest part. No one should ever believe it isn't hard work.