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A gaping black hole, that's what you are. A brain with too many memories, most - no, all of which are completely unattainable. Too many fantasies, too many dreams.
It takes a toll on a girl eventually. Things start to break no matter how hard you try, and once you're not strong enough - when your fingers are too weak to pull the duct tape off its roll, you start compromising and using masking tape, Band-Aids and even scotch tape to cover the wounds, because goodness knows you can't heal them.
And you'll never stop picking at the scabs.
You dream of him - you search for him in your dreams, in your thoughts. You long to hear his voice in your head and you continue believing, frustrated but desperate, never giving up. Maybe that's what's keeping you alive.
You want someone to decide there's something wrong with you so that they will do one of two things: examine your mind and find something truly wrong, then make it go away; or take you, hold you and love you, and make it go away. That ragged black hole. Fill it, you ask, you need someone.
Sometimes you're not sure whether you'd prefer option A or option B. Most of the time, you think you would prefer B, but ...
And then sometimes you just give up. Give up and try to escape to him, the one in your head that you hear all the time - different voices, different timbres, different personalities but all, in effect, the same man: the one you wish would solve everything by simply taking you in his arms.
That's all you want ...
But you're beginning to wonder if you'll ever find him. Whether the ideal in your mind can ever be reached.
Whether you should reach for perfection and break your heart in th e attempt (and possible your mind), or content yourself with people who mean nothing and consequently you die of boredom ... and a broken heart nonetheless.
You're so lonely ... the people you make friends with are older than you and eventually fall away, more advanced, more experienced, more able. Most of your friends are miles away - and yet here you are, toughing it out, never even considering an end because you know more than you let on.
You've seen your face in the mirror, pale but still with expression, gaunt but just cheerful enough to put off but the most intent of observers.
Generally, that is only yourself. No one much else thinks to look that close, you think.
Of course, you can't be sure.
You want comfort - you seek acceptance and are truly grateful when you receive it, because as you think about it, you've basically deluded yourself into thinking you're not worth accepting - or perhaps it's just everyone else that thinks so.
You tremble when someone really, truly hugs you - yet you have so little trouble acting that you don't care about touching others: it has little to no effect on you, when it is just acting, unless of course you let it.
You're very good at acting. Almost too good, you ponder. You are isolated, yet no one thinks so. You present a perfect façade to the rest of the world - yet ice cracks eventually, and the cracks are not only visible but patched together with so much tape that you can barely tell it is ice.
Yet to touch you, you are truly cold. Getting in and thawing the shell ... it is more difficult than it may seem.
And you barely admit this to yourself.
You long to be in the arms of another, but you know full well it will not happen any time soon.
You realize shadows rae much too fun to watch as you observe the point of your pen slide across the page, leaving a scrawl of woreds in its wake. It's nearly midnight and after all this, you are watching the shadow of your pen write the words on the page.
Oh well. It's a distraction. You will continue the charade tomorrow, n'est-ce pas? Oui, bien sur ...
Like the charade had ever stopped. What is your shadow now? Is it the charade, the face you hide behind, or is it what is left of you, hiding behind the mask? No wonder you fall for the masked men, literally and metaphorically so - maybe my removing theirs, you can remove your own ... or they can.
But in the end, you're no longer sure it's a mask at all. Mood swings. Time to sleep.
No, I didn't just write this. I wrote this in July and never did anything with it.
11.02.2007
10.02.2007
Adrian and Kayci: Dancing Masks
A/N: This is a short based off a story I'm doing with a bunch of friends: Adrian is a mystery man and Kayci is the Princess Royal (Crown Princess by this time). She has fallen in love with him ... and they both sing. A lot. And dance. Therefore:
Adrian came across Kayci late in the afternoon, as he wandered in the general direction of the balcony off the large hall. She was in the hall, sprawled on a padded bench along the left wall, in the shade.
“Your Highness,” he intoned gently as he came near. “Is something the matter?”
She sat up, her golden mermaid skirt swaying around her ankles as she slid her legs off the cot and leaned on her hands, propped up on her knees, her emerald-green tank top glittering faintly. “No … well, yes.”
“Tell me.” He knelt beside her, placing both of his hands on her knee and looking up at her. She sighed gently and began to sing, tapping her foot.
“I wake up in the morning with a head like ‘what ya done?’ This used to be the life, but I don’t need another one … good luck cuttin’ nothing, carrying on, wearing these gowns … so how come I feel so lonely when you’re up getting down? I play along when I hear our favourite song … I’m gonna be the one who gets it right. You better know, when you’re swingin’ ’round the room: looks like magic’s solely yours tonight."
She leaned back, putting her hands behind her head.
“I don't feel like dancin' when the old Joanna plays - my heart could take a chance, but my two feet can't find a way. You’d think that I could muster up a little soft-shoe gentle sway … but I don't feel like dancin': no sir, no dancin' today.”
He bounced up, extending his hand to her.
“Don't feel like dancin', dancin'?”
“Even if I find nothin' better to do!”
“Don't feel like dancin', dancin'?”
“Why'd you break it down when I'm not in the mood?”
“Don't feel like dancin', dancin'?”
“Rather be home with no-one when I can't get down with you.”
“You are a sweetheart,” he said, smiling behind his mask and taking her hand, lifting her to her feet. “Dance with me.”
“But I said … ”
“Just do. Please? Make me smile.”
“You are smiling … I can hear it.” Nevertheless, she stood and followed him as he continued the song.
Swinging gently to the one-two beat, he held her close. “Cities come and cities go just like the old empires, when all you do is change your clothes and call that versatile. You got so many colours make a blind man so confused - then why can't I keep up when you're the only thing I lose? So I'll just pretend that I know which way to bend, and I'm gonna tell the whole world that you're mine … just please understand, when I see you clap your hands - if you stick around I'm sure that you'll be fine.”
They broke into full dance, skipping and hopping across the marble floor in the sunlight.
“But I don't feel like dancin' when the old Joanna plays -”
“My heart could take a chance, but my two feet can't find a way!”
“You’d think that I could muster up a little soft-shoe gentle sway …”
“But I don't feel like dancin' - no sir, no dancin' today.”
“Don't feel like dancin', dancin'?”
“Even if I find nothin' better to do!”
“Don't feel like dancin', dancin'?”
“Why'd you break it down when I'm not in the mood?”
“Don't feel like dancin', dancin'?”
“Rather be home with no-one when I can't get down with you.”
Back and forth, around in circles, then across from each other, stepping in a circle, as if facing off …
“You can't make me dance around … but your two-step makes my chest pound.”
“Just lay me down as you throw it away into the summer light!”
Back together, arms intertwined, skipping merrily.
“But I don't feel like dancin' when the old Joanna plays - my heart could take a chance, but my two feet can't find a way! You’d think that I could muster up a little soft-shoe gentle sway … But I don't feel like dancin' - no sir, no dancin' today.”
“Don't feel like dancin', dancin'?”
“Even if I find nothin' better to do!”
“Don't feel like dancin', dancin'?”
“Why'd you break it down when I'm not in the mood?”
“Don't feel like dancin', dancin'?”
“Rather be home with no-one when I can't get down with you.”
Spin, skip, twist, flip, both in sync for the final chorus, singing at each other with merry grins:
“Don't feel like dancin', dancin'?”
“Even if I find nothin' better to do!”
“Don't feel like dancin', dancin'?”
“Why'd you break it down when I'm not in the mood?”
“Don't feel like dancin', dancin'?”
“Rather be home with no-one when I can't get down with you.”
As they laughed amicably, Adrian led the Crown Princess off onto the balcony, one arm around her shimmering green shoulders and her head on his.
“You always make me smile, Adrian … ”
I Don't Feel Like Dancin' (c) Scissor Sisters
8.18.2007
Doctor Who [4.01] Weltschmerz
Chapter 2
Seven o’clock the next evening, the Doctor was strolling towards to Her Majesty’s Theatre - he always found it paid to be early - and he was thinking. Well, he was always thinking. This time it wasn’t about Rose though, he thought, and that was something. He had gone over that last conversation in his head so, so many times … he’d never said it … not once, not in the whole time they knew each other, but she had to have known …
He shook his head and shook the thoughts away as best he could, berating himself that he had slipped into his rut again. He put his thoughts back where they were before he had distracted himself: that young woman he had met the day before and how intriguing she was. For one, she hadn’t gaped at him like so many other people did upon learning his name - she just took it as it was and if that was his name, so be it.
He glanced around the street and spotted a florist’s on the other side: darting across the lane, his trench flying out behind him as he dodged a car, he plunged his hand into his pocket and grabbed a few pound notes, still stuffed in there from Christmas before last. He opened the door and scanned the shop, contemplated for a moment just how much he liked shops, and found what he was looking for: roses. He bought a dozen and left the shop, returning to his path to the theatre.
Upon reaching the theatre (about 7.20), he jogged up the steps and gave his ticket to the man at the door. Making his way to the foyer, he stopped a rather harried-looking gofer and inquired politely, holding up the flowers: “Excuse me sir, but d‘you happen to know where I could find the dressing room of Miss Diehl?”
The young man looked a bit alarmed. “I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Diehl’s in a bit of a state and isn’t fit for visitors.”
“Oh, but I’m a good friend. Surely you could run along and tell her the Doctor’s come to--” He stopped cold, looking over the boy’s shoulder at Emily, who was standing there in full costume, her hair half-done and seeming quite flustered. “Why hello Miss Diehl, we were just talking about you.”
“I- er- um, hello Doctor, I didn’t expect … why have you got flowers?”
He glanced from the wrapped bouquet to her and back. “Oh, um, performance gift, thought it might be nice - I do hope you like roses?”
“Yes, but isn’t that traditionally given after the performance?” she questioned, one eyebrow raised.
“Eleven for good luck before the performance and one as congratulations after?” he countered, scratching the back of his neck. (The young man had snuck away and disappeared down a corridor.)
“Oh, well then … why did you want me?”
“To give you the roses of course, but am I to understand something’s wrong?” He walked forward, coming up to her. “You look rather … unprepared.”
She froze for a moment and blushed slightly, tucking a lock of hair behind her head, then she threw her arms up in the air and sank onto a pouffe. “We’ve lost our Demetrius and this is the final performance!”
“Ooh, that’s not good … ” He winced and sat down beside her. “What’s happened?”
“He’s taken ill and isn’t at home.” Emily groaned and shook her head, an English accent becoming more pronounced. “We don’t know where he is really, we’re just kind of assuming he’s ill … ”
“You get more British when you get upset.” He smiled, quietly amused.
“I do, yeah, family of performers, my British accent’s good, tends to happen - now what are we going to do?” She looked at him imploringly then buried her face in her hands. “Unless you’re amazingly good at memorizing lines, the final show won’t go on and Prince William’s supposed to be here - can you get unluckier than that?”
He sat there for a moment, thinking things over, then turned back as what she said hit him. “Hold on, did you just say ‘unless I’m good at memorizing lines’?”
Emily turned to him and met his eyes. “Yes I did, but I wasn’t serious - and by the way, you have lovely eyes.”
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, I suppose, but as a matter of fact I am … Demetrius, you said?”
“Yes, Demetrius.” She looked astonished. “You don’t mean to say you can memorize a main character in … ” She checked her watch. “Thirty minutes?”
He shrugged. “Well … I don’t mean to be immodest, but … ” But she was already gone, sprinting down the hallway and calling for a Mr Buckley, saying they had a Demetrius and could she have a raise for finding one.
“But I’ve already got it memorized … ” He shook his head and sprinted after her.
---
The stage was set, the actors were dressed, and one of them was speaking: Hermia - a young, happy-looking woman with curly hair. Lysander, a gent with short black hair, stood behind.
“God speed, fair Helena! Whither away?”
Emily, playing Helena, whirled, her hair a mess and her eyes red from crying.
“Call you me fair? That fair again unsay.” She coughed, sobbed, and her shoulders sank.
“Demetrius loves your fair -- oh, happy fair!” She stepped closer, looking somewhat crazed.
“Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue’s sweet air
More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear,
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.” She coughed again, swaying on the spot.
“Sickness is catching. O, were favour so,
Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go —
My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,
My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody.” She looked away, Hermia and Lysander more than a bit shocked.
“Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,
The rest I’d give to you to be translated.”
She turned back to Hermia, taking her hand and imploring her.
“Oh, teach me how you look, and with what art
You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart!”
As she finished her little monologue, Emily’s thoughts cast to the one playing Demetrius tonight … how honourably he had done so far … and how cute he was. She was much more into her performance tonight than she had been before, and she had no doubt that it was due to the change in actor. Those eyes …
And later on, when Demetrius woke, enamoured with Helena, it was all she could do not to murder the script and hug the man. She restrained herself, however, with the thought that she had just met him yesterday. And who knows - he might be taken. Honestly, the woman who caught him was one lucky lady.
---
Long after the performance, when all the other cast had left, the Doctor came by Emily’s dressing-room and knocked on the door. He’d found out from the other cast members that she was off to Paris the next day for an opera, and figured she’d still be packing up.
“Hello, Emily, are you in there?”
“Oh, yes, sorry Doctor — hang on a mo —” A muffled bang, a muffled exclamation, and the door opened onto a ruffled-looking Emily, still half in costume, Helena’s skirt accompanying a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt. “Do come in.”
He entered, laid the last rose of the dozen on her table, and crouched, picking up shards of what seemed to be a vase. “D’you break something?”
“Yeah, just an old vase, I’ll pay for it out of my fee … Packing up, knocked it off.” She put several books in a suitcase and turned to him. “I thought you would have left by now.”
He looked up from picking up the ceramic. “Had to give you that last rose.”
“Ah.” She turned back to the suitcase.
The Doctor stopped, staring at one of the shards in his hand. “Hold on, did you say this vase was old?”
“Yeah. It’s been here ever since anyone can remember. No one liked it … but none of us was brave enough to break it.”
“‘Cause it’s … could be … um … ”
“A conversation piece?” she asked, slightly sarcastically.
“What? No. Well, yes. Well … see, it’s got a symbol on it.” The Doctor turned the pieces over in his hands even as the young woman continued packing.
“Yeah, I know. Like I said, none of us liked that vase.”
“Why not? The colour?”
“Nah, it … ” She exhaled and turned to him, her eyebrows furrowed and her head tilted. “We just didn’t. Kris gave it to me the night before … ” She blinked.
“Night before what? And Kris is?” He was looking up at her intently now.
“The night before he left.” She looked concerned now. “He was the one who played Demetrius, the one whose place you took. He gave that to me last night. He said he couldn’t stand it in his room anymore, he just felt … look, you know the Scottish play?”
“Macbeth, yeah?” He shrugged. “Another Shakespeare.”
She clutched at her heart. “Good thing I don’t play Sir M! You just killed him!”
“Oh, curses schmurses, Carrionites are easy pickings …”
“Carrionites?” Her face shifted to a puzzled expression.
“Nothing, go on, tell me more.” He waved it off with his hand.
She raised one eyebrow and gave him a searching look before finally continuing. “Its name gives a lot of actors the heebie-jeebies, if you know what I mean, especially when they’ve acted in it or some such relationship. That statue gave us the same sort of feeling, like it wasn’t safe, like it was … ”
“Watching you?” His voice had gone low, and his dark brown eyes were concerned.
“... Yeah. Like someone was watching your back.” She looked away, leaning back on the table, and scratched her head. “Funny thing is, though, some kid actor tried to smash it a while back - it got to him like it did Kris. He threw it off the second balcony and into the orchestra pit. Not a dent - not a scratch - not a crack. He left next day: walked out.”
“I see.” The Doctor merely frowned, while Emily shrugged.
“Why does it matter? Probably just some bit of lore. An ancient symbol, we’ve come to associate it with evil subconsciously …”
“Then how would I know?” He was staring at the pottery again. “I’m not an actor, and I’m not …”
“Not what?”
He didn‘t answer. Instead, he looked at her intently for several seconds and finally said, “Maybe you’d better come with me.”
Chapter 2
Seven o’clock the next evening, the Doctor was strolling towards to Her Majesty’s Theatre - he always found it paid to be early - and he was thinking. Well, he was always thinking. This time it wasn’t about Rose though, he thought, and that was something. He had gone over that last conversation in his head so, so many times … he’d never said it … not once, not in the whole time they knew each other, but she had to have known …
He shook his head and shook the thoughts away as best he could, berating himself that he had slipped into his rut again. He put his thoughts back where they were before he had distracted himself: that young woman he had met the day before and how intriguing she was. For one, she hadn’t gaped at him like so many other people did upon learning his name - she just took it as it was and if that was his name, so be it.
He glanced around the street and spotted a florist’s on the other side: darting across the lane, his trench flying out behind him as he dodged a car, he plunged his hand into his pocket and grabbed a few pound notes, still stuffed in there from Christmas before last. He opened the door and scanned the shop, contemplated for a moment just how much he liked shops, and found what he was looking for: roses. He bought a dozen and left the shop, returning to his path to the theatre.
Upon reaching the theatre (about 7.20), he jogged up the steps and gave his ticket to the man at the door. Making his way to the foyer, he stopped a rather harried-looking gofer and inquired politely, holding up the flowers: “Excuse me sir, but d‘you happen to know where I could find the dressing room of Miss Diehl?”
The young man looked a bit alarmed. “I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Diehl’s in a bit of a state and isn’t fit for visitors.”
“Oh, but I’m a good friend. Surely you could run along and tell her the Doctor’s come to--” He stopped cold, looking over the boy’s shoulder at Emily, who was standing there in full costume, her hair half-done and seeming quite flustered. “Why hello Miss Diehl, we were just talking about you.”
“I- er- um, hello Doctor, I didn’t expect … why have you got flowers?”
He glanced from the wrapped bouquet to her and back. “Oh, um, performance gift, thought it might be nice - I do hope you like roses?”
“Yes, but isn’t that traditionally given after the performance?” she questioned, one eyebrow raised.
“Eleven for good luck before the performance and one as congratulations after?” he countered, scratching the back of his neck. (The young man had snuck away and disappeared down a corridor.)
“Oh, well then … why did you want me?”
“To give you the roses of course, but am I to understand something’s wrong?” He walked forward, coming up to her. “You look rather … unprepared.”
She froze for a moment and blushed slightly, tucking a lock of hair behind her head, then she threw her arms up in the air and sank onto a pouffe. “We’ve lost our Demetrius and this is the final performance!”
“Ooh, that’s not good … ” He winced and sat down beside her. “What’s happened?”
“He’s taken ill and isn’t at home.” Emily groaned and shook her head, an English accent becoming more pronounced. “We don’t know where he is really, we’re just kind of assuming he’s ill … ”
“You get more British when you get upset.” He smiled, quietly amused.
“I do, yeah, family of performers, my British accent’s good, tends to happen - now what are we going to do?” She looked at him imploringly then buried her face in her hands. “Unless you’re amazingly good at memorizing lines, the final show won’t go on and Prince William’s supposed to be here - can you get unluckier than that?”
He sat there for a moment, thinking things over, then turned back as what she said hit him. “Hold on, did you just say ‘unless I’m good at memorizing lines’?”
Emily turned to him and met his eyes. “Yes I did, but I wasn’t serious - and by the way, you have lovely eyes.”
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, I suppose, but as a matter of fact I am … Demetrius, you said?”
“Yes, Demetrius.” She looked astonished. “You don’t mean to say you can memorize a main character in … ” She checked her watch. “Thirty minutes?”
He shrugged. “Well … I don’t mean to be immodest, but … ” But she was already gone, sprinting down the hallway and calling for a Mr Buckley, saying they had a Demetrius and could she have a raise for finding one.
“But I’ve already got it memorized … ” He shook his head and sprinted after her.
---
The stage was set, the actors were dressed, and one of them was speaking: Hermia - a young, happy-looking woman with curly hair. Lysander, a gent with short black hair, stood behind.
“God speed, fair Helena! Whither away?”
Emily, playing Helena, whirled, her hair a mess and her eyes red from crying.
“Call you me fair? That fair again unsay.” She coughed, sobbed, and her shoulders sank.
“Demetrius loves your fair -- oh, happy fair!” She stepped closer, looking somewhat crazed.
“Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue’s sweet air
More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear,
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.” She coughed again, swaying on the spot.
“Sickness is catching. O, were favour so,
Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go —
My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,
My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody.” She looked away, Hermia and Lysander more than a bit shocked.
“Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,
The rest I’d give to you to be translated.”
She turned back to Hermia, taking her hand and imploring her.
“Oh, teach me how you look, and with what art
You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart!”
As she finished her little monologue, Emily’s thoughts cast to the one playing Demetrius tonight … how honourably he had done so far … and how cute he was. She was much more into her performance tonight than she had been before, and she had no doubt that it was due to the change in actor. Those eyes …
And later on, when Demetrius woke, enamoured with Helena, it was all she could do not to murder the script and hug the man. She restrained herself, however, with the thought that she had just met him yesterday. And who knows - he might be taken. Honestly, the woman who caught him was one lucky lady.
---
Long after the performance, when all the other cast had left, the Doctor came by Emily’s dressing-room and knocked on the door. He’d found out from the other cast members that she was off to Paris the next day for an opera, and figured she’d still be packing up.
“Hello, Emily, are you in there?”
“Oh, yes, sorry Doctor — hang on a mo —” A muffled bang, a muffled exclamation, and the door opened onto a ruffled-looking Emily, still half in costume, Helena’s skirt accompanying a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt. “Do come in.”
He entered, laid the last rose of the dozen on her table, and crouched, picking up shards of what seemed to be a vase. “D’you break something?”
“Yeah, just an old vase, I’ll pay for it out of my fee … Packing up, knocked it off.” She put several books in a suitcase and turned to him. “I thought you would have left by now.”
He looked up from picking up the ceramic. “Had to give you that last rose.”
“Ah.” She turned back to the suitcase.
The Doctor stopped, staring at one of the shards in his hand. “Hold on, did you say this vase was old?”
“Yeah. It’s been here ever since anyone can remember. No one liked it … but none of us was brave enough to break it.”
“‘Cause it’s … could be … um … ”
“A conversation piece?” she asked, slightly sarcastically.
“What? No. Well, yes. Well … see, it’s got a symbol on it.” The Doctor turned the pieces over in his hands even as the young woman continued packing.
“Yeah, I know. Like I said, none of us liked that vase.”
“Why not? The colour?”
“Nah, it … ” She exhaled and turned to him, her eyebrows furrowed and her head tilted. “We just didn’t. Kris gave it to me the night before … ” She blinked.
“Night before what? And Kris is?” He was looking up at her intently now.
“The night before he left.” She looked concerned now. “He was the one who played Demetrius, the one whose place you took. He gave that to me last night. He said he couldn’t stand it in his room anymore, he just felt … look, you know the Scottish play?”
“Macbeth, yeah?” He shrugged. “Another Shakespeare.”
She clutched at her heart. “Good thing I don’t play Sir M! You just killed him!”
“Oh, curses schmurses, Carrionites are easy pickings …”
“Carrionites?” Her face shifted to a puzzled expression.
“Nothing, go on, tell me more.” He waved it off with his hand.
She raised one eyebrow and gave him a searching look before finally continuing. “Its name gives a lot of actors the heebie-jeebies, if you know what I mean, especially when they’ve acted in it or some such relationship. That statue gave us the same sort of feeling, like it wasn’t safe, like it was … ”
“Watching you?” His voice had gone low, and his dark brown eyes were concerned.
“... Yeah. Like someone was watching your back.” She looked away, leaning back on the table, and scratched her head. “Funny thing is, though, some kid actor tried to smash it a while back - it got to him like it did Kris. He threw it off the second balcony and into the orchestra pit. Not a dent - not a scratch - not a crack. He left next day: walked out.”
“I see.” The Doctor merely frowned, while Emily shrugged.
“Why does it matter? Probably just some bit of lore. An ancient symbol, we’ve come to associate it with evil subconsciously …”
“Then how would I know?” He was staring at the pottery again. “I’m not an actor, and I’m not …”
“Not what?”
He didn‘t answer. Instead, he looked at her intently for several seconds and finally said, “Maybe you’d better come with me.”
7.30.2007
This is the first chapter of the only Doctor Who fanfic I've gotten anywhere with. Enjoy!
Doctor Who 2008 [4.01] Weltschmerz
Chapter 1
“Doctor, what did she mean? What did my mother mean, what did the Master mean?”
“Mean about what, Martha?” The Doctor wasn’t paying attention to her: he was flicking switches and pressing buttons on the TARDIS console.
“About you.” She played with the hem of her jacket, looking up at him.
“They said a lot of things about me, you’re going to have to be more specific.”
She tried to cushion what she said, but … how much could she? She needed to know - could she trust him as much as she thought she could? “About you being … a murderer. A thief. A criminal. You know … that sort of thing.”
He whipped around and loomed over her, eyes burning. “Have you not noticed yet, Martha, that wherever I go, people die? Have you not seen that those who travel with me come to sad, lonely ends? Have you not yet understood why I am who I am? You want to see? You want proof?”
“No! No … Doctor, I trust you.” She backed off, frightened.
“No you don’t. You don’t trust me at all. If you trusted me, you would have gone on.” He advanced, pinning her against a column. “Rose would have gone on. She knew I would never have hurt her - she would have said what she had to say and--”
“Fine!” Martha yelled, shoving him back. “Go on about your precious Rose! Go on about how she’s so much better than me! Go on and on and on about how I’m insignificant and useless compared to her! Did you never realize that there are other women than Rose? Where is she? Is she dead? I hope she is because I hope you hurt and burn forever!”
The Doctor levelled his cold, brown eyes onto hers, then turned to the TARDIS console, and without a word, started pressing buttons again.
“Doctor … ” He didn’t answer. “Doctor, I didn’t mean that … well I did, but … where are we going?”
He still didn’t answer. She eventually curled up on the seats and put her head on her knees, choking back tears.
After a time, the Doctor jerked open the TARDIS door … and froze.
“Doctor? Doctor, where are we? Tell me … ” Martha got up off the chair and came over. “Why won’t you talk? What is this place?”
She looked out the door and gasped. “Open space! And … a battle … this is Arcadia, isn’t it? You told me about this … Doctor?” She looked up at him, and saw his eyes were locked onto the battle below, tears welling up.
“Doctor … ” She tried to take his hand, but he pulled it away. She grumbled and returned her attention to the fight, only to notice a small blue box whisking in and out of Dalek ships. “That’s you.”
They were both silent for a few minutes as they watched the great altercation unfold, until the Doctor suddenly turned away. Martha looked back at him, then returned: the blue box let out a huge burst of light, and when her vision cleared it was gone along with all the other ships, and a fine dust was blowing in.
She closed the door and leaned her forehead against it. “What did you do?”
“Gathered energy from that star and immersed it in Huon particles. Dangerous but it worked.”
“What did it do exactly?”
“You’ve got it on you.”
“What have I got on me? The energy?”
“The ships. The aliens. The Daleks.”
“ … You … ”
“I pulled the energy then pushed it back in, infusing it with the Huon particles at the same time. The combination pulled the star into an early supernova, creating at once a temporal black hole and an explosion that pulverized every other ship but my own, which I piloted through the new hole on the shockwave of the explosion of every other TARDIS there. I don’t remember anything for a period of about three Earth hours … the unorthodox time travel and the saturation of Huon particles took a certain toll on me, and I regenerated within that time. I woke in orbit around Earth, in my ninth body.”
“You killed them all, even your own people.”
“I’ve told you that much already.”
“But you don’t even sound remorseful. You knew that would happen.”
“I also didn’t think I’d survive.”
“Good thing you did, otherwise the Daleks would have beaten us all ‘cause some of them survived.”
“No doubt they realized what I was doing and escaped. The one that Van Statten got must have ridden the shockwave somehow too - probably a strange infusion happened or I just hit it at a strange angle.”
“You killed them.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“You are a murderer.”
“I was trying to eradicate the Daleks along with us. There was no way we could have won.”
“There’s always a way.”
Silence reigned again for a good long period of time.
“Take me home.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I said, take me home. Mum was right: you are a murderer. Who knows how long it is before I end up dead?”
“Mm.” He said no more, but put in the coordinates and started up the rotor.
When they arrived, she stood and stopped him from leaving the TARDIS.
“Doctor, before you enter the battlefield that is my house, I need to tell you something that I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time. And I can’t say it in front of my mum.”
He sighed. “Alright, fine, say it.”
She bit her lip and frowned. “Doctor, I love you.”
“I know.”
“ … Oh.”
“Right then, let’s go, home you go, see ya.” He led the way out the door and closed it behind them, locking it. She hid her tears carefully and followed him through the streets, coming up to her door.
“Well, this is me.” She leaned against the door frame and tried to look jovial.
“Yep.” He was still cold, still apathetic, completely uncaring.
“This is goodbye then.”
“That it is.”
“Nothing important or special to say?”
“Nope. Well, you can tell your mother you won’t be bothered by me anymore.”
“That’ll comfort her.”
“That it will.”
“Can I … ?” She opened her arms and looked at him pleadingly.
“You want to touch bloody hands?”
“I … ” She sighed. “I don’t want to just leave you.”
“You want to feel like I love you too.”
“Well yes.”
“I don’t.”
“I know, it’s just … ”
“I can hug you, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“You’ve already kissed me, what does it matter?”
“A point well made.” He hugged her carefully, then rang the doorbell. “Goodbye, Martha Jones. Oh, and your phone still works. Pass those exams … and treat anyone named John Smith exceptionally well, because I watch those people very carefully.”
He winked at her and flashed her a grin, then disappeared into an alley as Mrs Jones opened the door. “Martha! But you just left!”
“Mum … ”
----
He wandered along the streets of London without speaking, watching the best and worst of the human race in the world around him. Eventually he meandered into a park, making his way along the winding path for several minutes before sitting down on a weathered bench. He didn’t notice someone else was sitting on it until he had sat down himself, and looked over.
The young woman sitting beside him was not paying any attention to him: she was supporting her chin in her hands with her elbows on her knees, and staring blankly at a fountain a ways away. Her eyes were slightly red-rimmed and there were faint traces of tear trails on her cheeks. Her hair was long, blonde and somewhat unkempt, pulled back into a ponytail that hung down her back. She was in a t-shirt and jeans, a watch on one wrist and a bracelet on the other. She looked apathetic … and cold: there was a cool breeze running through the trees and she had no coat. He was quite warm in his suit and trenchcoat, but she had goosebumps all up and down her arms, not even shivering. ‘Must be numbed to it by now,’ he thought, ‘or else she doesn’t care.’
He gazed at her for a few more minutes, guessing details about her: she looked to be eighteen or nineteen, but could pass for older, and the brands on her shirt and jeans were not British, so he assumed she was from abroad. He chuckled to himself: Rose probably would have been able to pinpoint where she had come from using the labels.
He took off his trenchcoat and draped it around her shoulders, making her jump slightly and glance over at him. “Hello,” he said. “Tough day?”
She turned her head and looked at him questioningly, obviously wondering whether or not to trust him. She sighed and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
She sat up straighter and pulled the coat around her, leaning back on the bench. He could hear her vertebrae cracking back into place after having been hunched for so long. “Very tough day.” She stopped talking and gazed at him the same way he had gazed at her. “You look like you could say the same.”
He had been right: definitely from abroad. North American - Canadian he would say. “I could, yeah.”
“Funny how people who need people seem to gravitate towards each other.”
He paused, furrowing his brow. “What do you mean?”
Her voice was calm, even and emotionless. “There’s another bench two feet away, yet you sat here and didn’t even notice me until you sat down.”
“Oh.” To be honest, he hadn’t even seen the other bench.
“This is a lovely coat, thank you again.” Her accent seemed to waver a bit - perhaps she had been living here a while and was beginning to pick a British accent up? Her speech didn’t seem quite as North American as it could.
“You were cold.”
“I hadn’t really noticed, but now I have.”
He chuckled. “Lost in thought.”
“Mm hmm.”
“Mind if I ask your name?”
“No, not at all. Emily, Emily Diehl. That’s D-I-E-H-L, good German name, get it right … ”
He laughed. “I know that feeling.”
“Yeah? What’s your name?”
“The Doctor.”
“Well I don’t see how anyone can misspell that.”
“My full name’s a lot harder.”
“Ah, I see. Not going to let me in?” She gave him a searching look.
“Nah, everyone’s called me the Doctor for years.”
“Alright, then I will too. Nice to meet you, Doctor.”
“Likewise.”
Several minutes passed in silence, both looking separate ways and not moving. Finally, Emily spoke.
“So what happened to you?” It was a quiet question, an intimate one: she was inviting him to take her into his confidence.
He took a deep breath and cracked his neck, thinking. She stayed quiet, waiting. If he did not speak, she would back off. If he did, so much the better. He seemed to be on the verge of speech several times, his mouth opening or his breath sharpening. Then he spoke.
“Well … I was called a murderer, thief, coward and heartbreaker by one woman before she left.”
She said nothing, but didn’t look too surprised.
“Trouble is, it’s all true. Not, however, in the sense that she might have considered it to be. I’m not trying to redeem myself, but … ” He trailed off, looking at his shoes.
“It’s alright, Doctor, we all make mistakes.”
“S’pose so.”
“Are you going to go after her?” she asked, after a moment’s quiet. “How were you two connected?”
“She … traveled with me. And no, I don’t believe I’ll be going back. It would be … difficult.”
“Life tends to be.”
“True. What about you?” He turned to her, and she spoke immediately.
“Eh, just a tough time with a good friend. Relationships change as people change, and it’s hard to let go. I’m a bit of an odd one out unless I’m with a certain crowd, and that’s difficult for me … I feed off of crowd energy most of the time, but when the crowd’s there and not connecting it just brings me down. I needed to leave, get some air … you know, take a break. Relax.”
“Is that why you came here?”
“To London?”
“You’re obviously not British.”
“Well no, I’m not - Canadian, from Manitoba. And you’re right, I did come here to get away, but I stay connected to my family. It feels very different, corresponding. You don’t have to live with them, eat with them, tolerate them.” She looked pensive.
“I wish I still could.” He grimaced slightly.
Her expression changed on the spot, her eyes widening. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I totally didn’t mean--”
He cut her off. “No, no, that’s perfectly alright.”
“No, it’s not perfectly alright. I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t like hurting others, even unintentionally. Can you forgive me?”
“Of course. Forgiven.”
“Thank you.” She looked assuaged, relieved.
“You seem eager to please.” He raised an eyebrow, making it more of a question than a statement.
“Yeah, I always have been. I don’t like it when people don’t like me, so I make a conscious attempt to be kind to everyone. I’m a performer - it’s my job to make people happy. I’m truthful, of course, but I can only hurt my closest friends by telling them the honest truth … and then they understand and know I’m right, because I’m quite serious about it.”
“I think I see.”
“I’m sorry, I’m in a rather dizzy state.”
“Drink?”
“No … I don’t particularly enjoy being drunk. Just … emotions. Heady. I don’t always explain things properly.”
“Oh, I know that feeling.” He laughed. “I often explain very difficult things very quickly, and then don’t understand how the person I’m explaining it to doesn’t understand what I just said.”
She laughed as well. He smiled - it was the first time she had laughed in their entire conversation. She had a lovely laugh, and he told her so.
“Why thank you.” She smiled back. Her eyes were green.
“You’re nice, Emily Diehl: I like you.”
She looked surprised. “Thank you again, I suppose.” When he didn’t speak, she looked at her watch and jumped. “Oh my goodness, is that the time? I’m so sorry, but I have to run. Tell you what - I’m acting in a Shakespeare this time tomorrow and I’ve still got a ticket. A friend bailed on me.” Digging in her purse, she extracted a ticket and handed it to him.
“Come ‘round, I’ll get you backstage after the show and we can go have a coffee or something. I’d like to talk to you more: you seem like an interesting man.” With that, she strode away, her step confident, as if she had never been down.
He looked at the ticket: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Her Majesty’s Theatre, 8pm sharp. He smiled and put it in his pocket. Perhaps some Shakespeare was just what he needed.
Doctor Who 2008 [4.01] Weltschmerz
Chapter 1
“Doctor, what did she mean? What did my mother mean, what did the Master mean?”
“Mean about what, Martha?” The Doctor wasn’t paying attention to her: he was flicking switches and pressing buttons on the TARDIS console.
“About you.” She played with the hem of her jacket, looking up at him.
“They said a lot of things about me, you’re going to have to be more specific.”
She tried to cushion what she said, but … how much could she? She needed to know - could she trust him as much as she thought she could? “About you being … a murderer. A thief. A criminal. You know … that sort of thing.”
He whipped around and loomed over her, eyes burning. “Have you not noticed yet, Martha, that wherever I go, people die? Have you not seen that those who travel with me come to sad, lonely ends? Have you not yet understood why I am who I am? You want to see? You want proof?”
“No! No … Doctor, I trust you.” She backed off, frightened.
“No you don’t. You don’t trust me at all. If you trusted me, you would have gone on.” He advanced, pinning her against a column. “Rose would have gone on. She knew I would never have hurt her - she would have said what she had to say and--”
“Fine!” Martha yelled, shoving him back. “Go on about your precious Rose! Go on about how she’s so much better than me! Go on and on and on about how I’m insignificant and useless compared to her! Did you never realize that there are other women than Rose? Where is she? Is she dead? I hope she is because I hope you hurt and burn forever!”
The Doctor levelled his cold, brown eyes onto hers, then turned to the TARDIS console, and without a word, started pressing buttons again.
“Doctor … ” He didn’t answer. “Doctor, I didn’t mean that … well I did, but … where are we going?”
He still didn’t answer. She eventually curled up on the seats and put her head on her knees, choking back tears.
After a time, the Doctor jerked open the TARDIS door … and froze.
“Doctor? Doctor, where are we? Tell me … ” Martha got up off the chair and came over. “Why won’t you talk? What is this place?”
She looked out the door and gasped. “Open space! And … a battle … this is Arcadia, isn’t it? You told me about this … Doctor?” She looked up at him, and saw his eyes were locked onto the battle below, tears welling up.
“Doctor … ” She tried to take his hand, but he pulled it away. She grumbled and returned her attention to the fight, only to notice a small blue box whisking in and out of Dalek ships. “That’s you.”
They were both silent for a few minutes as they watched the great altercation unfold, until the Doctor suddenly turned away. Martha looked back at him, then returned: the blue box let out a huge burst of light, and when her vision cleared it was gone along with all the other ships, and a fine dust was blowing in.
She closed the door and leaned her forehead against it. “What did you do?”
“Gathered energy from that star and immersed it in Huon particles. Dangerous but it worked.”
“What did it do exactly?”
“You’ve got it on you.”
“What have I got on me? The energy?”
“The ships. The aliens. The Daleks.”
“ … You … ”
“I pulled the energy then pushed it back in, infusing it with the Huon particles at the same time. The combination pulled the star into an early supernova, creating at once a temporal black hole and an explosion that pulverized every other ship but my own, which I piloted through the new hole on the shockwave of the explosion of every other TARDIS there. I don’t remember anything for a period of about three Earth hours … the unorthodox time travel and the saturation of Huon particles took a certain toll on me, and I regenerated within that time. I woke in orbit around Earth, in my ninth body.”
“You killed them all, even your own people.”
“I’ve told you that much already.”
“But you don’t even sound remorseful. You knew that would happen.”
“I also didn’t think I’d survive.”
“Good thing you did, otherwise the Daleks would have beaten us all ‘cause some of them survived.”
“No doubt they realized what I was doing and escaped. The one that Van Statten got must have ridden the shockwave somehow too - probably a strange infusion happened or I just hit it at a strange angle.”
“You killed them.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“You are a murderer.”
“I was trying to eradicate the Daleks along with us. There was no way we could have won.”
“There’s always a way.”
Silence reigned again for a good long period of time.
“Take me home.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I said, take me home. Mum was right: you are a murderer. Who knows how long it is before I end up dead?”
“Mm.” He said no more, but put in the coordinates and started up the rotor.
When they arrived, she stood and stopped him from leaving the TARDIS.
“Doctor, before you enter the battlefield that is my house, I need to tell you something that I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time. And I can’t say it in front of my mum.”
He sighed. “Alright, fine, say it.”
She bit her lip and frowned. “Doctor, I love you.”
“I know.”
“ … Oh.”
“Right then, let’s go, home you go, see ya.” He led the way out the door and closed it behind them, locking it. She hid her tears carefully and followed him through the streets, coming up to her door.
“Well, this is me.” She leaned against the door frame and tried to look jovial.
“Yep.” He was still cold, still apathetic, completely uncaring.
“This is goodbye then.”
“That it is.”
“Nothing important or special to say?”
“Nope. Well, you can tell your mother you won’t be bothered by me anymore.”
“That’ll comfort her.”
“That it will.”
“Can I … ?” She opened her arms and looked at him pleadingly.
“You want to touch bloody hands?”
“I … ” She sighed. “I don’t want to just leave you.”
“You want to feel like I love you too.”
“Well yes.”
“I don’t.”
“I know, it’s just … ”
“I can hug you, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“You’ve already kissed me, what does it matter?”
“A point well made.” He hugged her carefully, then rang the doorbell. “Goodbye, Martha Jones. Oh, and your phone still works. Pass those exams … and treat anyone named John Smith exceptionally well, because I watch those people very carefully.”
He winked at her and flashed her a grin, then disappeared into an alley as Mrs Jones opened the door. “Martha! But you just left!”
“Mum … ”
----
He wandered along the streets of London without speaking, watching the best and worst of the human race in the world around him. Eventually he meandered into a park, making his way along the winding path for several minutes before sitting down on a weathered bench. He didn’t notice someone else was sitting on it until he had sat down himself, and looked over.
The young woman sitting beside him was not paying any attention to him: she was supporting her chin in her hands with her elbows on her knees, and staring blankly at a fountain a ways away. Her eyes were slightly red-rimmed and there were faint traces of tear trails on her cheeks. Her hair was long, blonde and somewhat unkempt, pulled back into a ponytail that hung down her back. She was in a t-shirt and jeans, a watch on one wrist and a bracelet on the other. She looked apathetic … and cold: there was a cool breeze running through the trees and she had no coat. He was quite warm in his suit and trenchcoat, but she had goosebumps all up and down her arms, not even shivering. ‘Must be numbed to it by now,’ he thought, ‘or else she doesn’t care.’
He gazed at her for a few more minutes, guessing details about her: she looked to be eighteen or nineteen, but could pass for older, and the brands on her shirt and jeans were not British, so he assumed she was from abroad. He chuckled to himself: Rose probably would have been able to pinpoint where she had come from using the labels.
He took off his trenchcoat and draped it around her shoulders, making her jump slightly and glance over at him. “Hello,” he said. “Tough day?”
She turned her head and looked at him questioningly, obviously wondering whether or not to trust him. She sighed and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
She sat up straighter and pulled the coat around her, leaning back on the bench. He could hear her vertebrae cracking back into place after having been hunched for so long. “Very tough day.” She stopped talking and gazed at him the same way he had gazed at her. “You look like you could say the same.”
He had been right: definitely from abroad. North American - Canadian he would say. “I could, yeah.”
“Funny how people who need people seem to gravitate towards each other.”
He paused, furrowing his brow. “What do you mean?”
Her voice was calm, even and emotionless. “There’s another bench two feet away, yet you sat here and didn’t even notice me until you sat down.”
“Oh.” To be honest, he hadn’t even seen the other bench.
“This is a lovely coat, thank you again.” Her accent seemed to waver a bit - perhaps she had been living here a while and was beginning to pick a British accent up? Her speech didn’t seem quite as North American as it could.
“You were cold.”
“I hadn’t really noticed, but now I have.”
He chuckled. “Lost in thought.”
“Mm hmm.”
“Mind if I ask your name?”
“No, not at all. Emily, Emily Diehl. That’s D-I-E-H-L, good German name, get it right … ”
He laughed. “I know that feeling.”
“Yeah? What’s your name?”
“The Doctor.”
“Well I don’t see how anyone can misspell that.”
“My full name’s a lot harder.”
“Ah, I see. Not going to let me in?” She gave him a searching look.
“Nah, everyone’s called me the Doctor for years.”
“Alright, then I will too. Nice to meet you, Doctor.”
“Likewise.”
Several minutes passed in silence, both looking separate ways and not moving. Finally, Emily spoke.
“So what happened to you?” It was a quiet question, an intimate one: she was inviting him to take her into his confidence.
He took a deep breath and cracked his neck, thinking. She stayed quiet, waiting. If he did not speak, she would back off. If he did, so much the better. He seemed to be on the verge of speech several times, his mouth opening or his breath sharpening. Then he spoke.
“Well … I was called a murderer, thief, coward and heartbreaker by one woman before she left.”
She said nothing, but didn’t look too surprised.
“Trouble is, it’s all true. Not, however, in the sense that she might have considered it to be. I’m not trying to redeem myself, but … ” He trailed off, looking at his shoes.
“It’s alright, Doctor, we all make mistakes.”
“S’pose so.”
“Are you going to go after her?” she asked, after a moment’s quiet. “How were you two connected?”
“She … traveled with me. And no, I don’t believe I’ll be going back. It would be … difficult.”
“Life tends to be.”
“True. What about you?” He turned to her, and she spoke immediately.
“Eh, just a tough time with a good friend. Relationships change as people change, and it’s hard to let go. I’m a bit of an odd one out unless I’m with a certain crowd, and that’s difficult for me … I feed off of crowd energy most of the time, but when the crowd’s there and not connecting it just brings me down. I needed to leave, get some air … you know, take a break. Relax.”
“Is that why you came here?”
“To London?”
“You’re obviously not British.”
“Well no, I’m not - Canadian, from Manitoba. And you’re right, I did come here to get away, but I stay connected to my family. It feels very different, corresponding. You don’t have to live with them, eat with them, tolerate them.” She looked pensive.
“I wish I still could.” He grimaced slightly.
Her expression changed on the spot, her eyes widening. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I totally didn’t mean--”
He cut her off. “No, no, that’s perfectly alright.”
“No, it’s not perfectly alright. I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t like hurting others, even unintentionally. Can you forgive me?”
“Of course. Forgiven.”
“Thank you.” She looked assuaged, relieved.
“You seem eager to please.” He raised an eyebrow, making it more of a question than a statement.
“Yeah, I always have been. I don’t like it when people don’t like me, so I make a conscious attempt to be kind to everyone. I’m a performer - it’s my job to make people happy. I’m truthful, of course, but I can only hurt my closest friends by telling them the honest truth … and then they understand and know I’m right, because I’m quite serious about it.”
“I think I see.”
“I’m sorry, I’m in a rather dizzy state.”
“Drink?”
“No … I don’t particularly enjoy being drunk. Just … emotions. Heady. I don’t always explain things properly.”
“Oh, I know that feeling.” He laughed. “I often explain very difficult things very quickly, and then don’t understand how the person I’m explaining it to doesn’t understand what I just said.”
She laughed as well. He smiled - it was the first time she had laughed in their entire conversation. She had a lovely laugh, and he told her so.
“Why thank you.” She smiled back. Her eyes were green.
“You’re nice, Emily Diehl: I like you.”
She looked surprised. “Thank you again, I suppose.” When he didn’t speak, she looked at her watch and jumped. “Oh my goodness, is that the time? I’m so sorry, but I have to run. Tell you what - I’m acting in a Shakespeare this time tomorrow and I’ve still got a ticket. A friend bailed on me.” Digging in her purse, she extracted a ticket and handed it to him.
“Come ‘round, I’ll get you backstage after the show and we can go have a coffee or something. I’d like to talk to you more: you seem like an interesting man.” With that, she strode away, her step confident, as if she had never been down.
He looked at the ticket: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Her Majesty’s Theatre, 8pm sharp. He smiled and put it in his pocket. Perhaps some Shakespeare was just what he needed.
6.16.2007
5.31.2007
Fading memories ignored,
I crawl across the forest floor.
Pool reflects an orphan child:
Dirty, lost, alone and wild.
Fatherless and nameless still,
Fallen heart and broken;
Will there ever be a place where I belong?
I cower ‘neath the monster trees,
And try to stand on tired feet,
But gravity knocks me to the ground
Where I give up, and tears roll down.
I claw the dust and beg the end;
Curse the day that I began
To hope there’d be a place where I belong.
I hear a sound I recognize:
You lift my chin and seek my eyes.
You lift my chin and seek my eyes.
Song of love You sing to me ...
I ache to sing it back to Thee:
"Father Love prepares a place,
Brother Jesus leads the way:
Follow to the place where you belong!"
How did I miss this wondrous song?
The forest sang it all along ...
"River rinses all your shame,
Father offers you His name.
Father Love prepares a home,
Brother Jesus leads you on —
Follow to the place where you belong!"
4.09.2007
(c) Fred GallagherI've heard that there's a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord -
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth,
The minor fall, the major lift ...
The wretched queen composing hallelujah.
Hallelujah, hallelujah,
Hallelujah, hallelujah.
Maybe I've been here before -
I know this room, I've walked this floor.
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch:
Love is not a victory march,
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah ...
Hallelujah, hallelujah,
Hallelujah, hallelujah.
There was a time when you let me know
What's real and going on below -
But now you never show it to me, do you?
I thought you'd tell me or explain,
Let me be with you as you changed ...
But it seems you didn't think of me at all ...
Hallelujah, hallelujah,
Hallelujah, hallelujah.
(c) Rufus Wainwright (for the most part)
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