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It's Like Montparnasse All Over Again

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Suicide revisited ~ Vita and Death. Apr. 17th, 2004 @ 04:30 pm
orange_velcro

Heathen Temptress! Dancing naked on the periphery, promising him silver and gold and warm breasts. Your circean lips beckon him, to a land of green, green grass and a soft downy pillow, monogrammed hanker chiefs and a place to belong.  Such an elite group, every one’s dying to get in.

 

I would hold him here if not for your charisma. You charm and disarm and how can I argue with your gold gilded words so carefully chosen, weighted     just     so.  You beckon him with smouldering eyes and a peek of your exposed slender neck, revealing nothing but his own dark desires. You beguile him with jewels from your open thighs, freshly bled rubies and garnets of dried blood.

 

I cannot compete.

I have nothing to offer, only a worn and damaged heart and a tattered ragged soul. No garnets or rubies fall from my cunt. Honey does not drip from my lips. I cannot promise him oblivion.

 

You steal him from me in the twitching of a hangman’s noose and I am left with a full bottle of pills and my blurred reflection in  a tear streaked blade. Your name sticks sharp in my throat, shredding it’s walls as I scream your name.

"Infidelic bitch how dare you take him from me! "

And if I were not a coward,

If I were braver,

I would join your conga line and dance to your tune

I would follow him, if I could; but I could not, would not die for you.


Suicide Revisited (by Robert) Apr. 15th, 2004 @ 04:14 pm
shellefly
Bend, bend, turn, twist, twist, twist, twist, twist ... loop through. I let the rope run through my soft hands, my secretary's sweet dictation-taking typist hands. Bits of twine took up residence in my palms, itching, digging in just below the waterline of my flesh. I untied the knot slowly, careful not to damage the rope or fray the strands.

Then again. Repeat until perfect, bend, bend turn, twist, twist, twist, twist, twist ... loop through.

I have always been able to tie knots. Not the pansy granny knots and slipknots that girls used to tie off their crocheted pot holders, but real sailor's knots. Squares and hitches, sheetbends and swivels. Knots that held a rope in place, knots that held a sheet to guide a sail, knots that saved sailors from drowning in a fearsome wind.

This rope is stronger than my neck. That beam above me can hold more weight than my frail flabby body in its polyester dress, a dress as itchy as the twine but twice as fashionable. I wander the landscape of my hands, willing the mild flesh to show the pattern of my deeds, but it yields easily, it displays nothing. Why am I doing this, this scene from my childhood played again in the emptiness of this abandoned floor?

Enter my father, a grizzled man smelling of Stetson aftershave and smoked tobacco. He says his lines - the teacher, the inspiration, the practical invocations of a hardened man, a man who knows his trade. He shows me a knot, unties the rope and I repeat it time and time again until he is satisfied, an emotion he expresses with a grunt. I know about perfection, I have consumed "try and try again", it is my unconscious mantra, my subaudible soundtrack.

Try. Bend, bend, turn. Try. Twist, twist, twist, twist, twist. Again. Loop through. All of my diligence is a machine-made pattern, a factory dance combination I perform to get through one day and into another. Type, bend, twist, repeat ... the pulling on of nylons and the buckling of shoes tumble into my mornings from a script of office work, handed out to ambitionless young girls who take it gladly. Tell me what to do, who to be, where to go. What are my lines?

This rope is a deviation, a scene from act one entering willy nilly into the middle of the play, the development of the story before our heroine realizes there is no story, just the crunch-crunch of peanuts between teeth, the rustling of programs. The deviation feels good - perhaps this is the climax, the grand operatic moment when the God in the Machine comes creaking down and utters ... what?

He utters, "Today. Today is just like yesterday and I prophesy that tomorrow shall become today as today became the day before. March. March. One two three march."

The rope is a deviation, sure. Is it the only one? Is it the only break in the pattern? I stare at the God in The Machine and ask him, "Do we have free will?"

He clanks and rattles, proclaims and sputters. No answer. He's in my head along with my life and my father and the numbness of days. I hop on a spool of cable and swing the rope over the I-beam above my head, secure it tightly with a strangle hitch. There it is, old End of Days himself. All I have to do is embrace him.

Suicide prompt (first draft) Apr. 15th, 2004 @ 02:45 pm
darkbarde
Read more...Collapse )

Introduction Apr. 15th, 2004 @ 03:01 am
besideserato
Ah, there is nothing like this place, my love, you don't know how much I have missed Paris. But, here I am now, and I am back with a vengeance, scribbling words like mad on coffee-stained napkins, refusing the green hour as the sun sets pink into the springtime. This city, this whole place, it breathes life.

Yes, yes, Montparnasse is the center of the world, my love and here I am, no longer in the sidelines, but living. Living in a way that would make the most seasoned existentialists salivate. I refuse to sit and stare at the splendor without living it. No, no, to write we must live. And I live, I do not exist, I live all the while letting my eyes feast like the best of voyeurs. I am like a newborn in this world, lifeted from the confines of a reality that was previously not my own. Paris, my love, I am inspired!

It is no wonder people like us are so attracted to this madness of a city. Paris is indeed a feast, indeed a stage where all the best actors congregate. Paris is the cradle where we rear all the drama, all the stories we need in order to be prolific when we sit in the semi-darkness at the mercy of our typewriters, typing long into the night. Paris, Paris. I love Paris in the springtime--Paris!

Place of dreams, let me spin in circles and circles. I am June, but I have stolen Henry's tongue and this is his madness spilling out of me. I will tell you how I did it, too, but it is our rose-guarded secret, Paris of my dreams, between you and I and our cigarette smoke, Paris as the sky turns pink with rich texture loneliness.

I took Henry inside me, still smelling of his whores and all their stories told and untold, and his hunger. His hunger of titans crawling inside me deeper and deeper until I could not breathe, the weight of the world was so heavy on my ribcage. He filled me with his essence, exploded in burning pulsating thrusts into my risen Venus heart so I was full again, full of him and New York was a wide sea behind me.

Now I possess his words and madness entirely, and he is empty. I spill forth his words and stories and insanity the way my body spilled his seed from my belly and down my tights in its sticky whiteness that dried and splintered until nothing remained but his scent and his voice.

Still, we are one, Paris, and nothing will come between us.

Prompt piece Apr. 14th, 2004 @ 06:07 pm
vernice
Hallo.

This is a subject I've never touched in my writing before, so this was fun. I did this a bit too quickly I fear, and I'm a bit unsatisfied with the ending. I was unsure of how she was affected (sorry if the pronouns get on your case!) by her "fantasy", which is only a bit pitiful on my parts. I'm eager to hear your comments.

I do realize there was another story about a hill way before mine, so I do apologize for the redundant climbing theme, if you find it that way.

As a new member, I suppose I should choose a handle as well... has D.H. been taken? If so, has Simone?

My attemptCollapse )
Current Mood: discontentdiscontent
Other entries
» Popular Suicide
This is a true story.
Part 1 of 2.

Popular Suicide Part ICollapse )
» Vita on Suicide~An argument

Heathen Temptress! Dancing naked on the periphery, promising him silver and gold and warm breasts. Your circean lips beckon him, to a land of green, green grass and a soft downy pillow, monogrammed hanker chiefs and a place to belong. Such an elite group, every one’s dying to get in.

 I would hold him here if not for your charisma. You charm and disarm and how can I argue with your gold gilded words so carefully chosen, weighted    just       so.

 And if I were not a coward,

If I were braver,

I would join your conga line and dance to your tune.

You steal him from me in the twitching of a hangman’s noose and I am left with a full bottle of pills and a tear streaked yellow handled dagger.

 I would follow, if I could; but I could not, would not die for you.


» Rush Hour Suicide
I watch the ground below me, its stillness is too quiet, but soon there will be chaos.

Ants will crawl the tree that supports me, they will march across the limb I squat upon. These ants by the millions will cover my rope, and make it breathe. They will engulf my body as it swings lifeless like a pendulum dictating the minutes. The tiny bodies will look as if atoms, swarming in either way, but from a distance it will look like one entity, breathing, and bleeding as a whole.

I hear the river in its anxiety. It is quick, but drastically trying to keep pace with the drought. But a vein that has burst, the river's blood has been soaked in for a long duration.

I think about how the ants will swarm my person. If the wind will gain access to this piece of land, it being the rescuer long past due, and picking the ants off one at a time, like the scabs of a chicken pox survivor. It swirling the tiny beasts into an illusion of smoke, and drowning them in the water.

This limb had better be sturdy. It will aid me into the success of finally cutting off the mad world. It will give me what I desire. A peace no person can fathom.

The noose is tied, around my neck, and the rope wrapped around the limb like a boa constrictor starved. Here I am, about to live in silence, and never feel again.
Nothing is in my mind.

Too quick to add details, my body struggles for a few seconds. For what I think to be my last pondering statement, I laugh to see the image of myself accidentally slipping and wanting to live at that moment.

And here I swing, my neck not broken, my throat not gasping for oxygen. I am not alive, but still breathing. The limb becomes stressed, moans, and climaxes till breaking. I fall and wake to find the rope useless, and the limb severed. A jagged rock is a mere two inches away from the back of my head.

And all that escapes my lips is, "Woe is me... the ants will not go marching again..."
» Robert on Suicide
She had always been able to tie knots. Not the pansy granny knots and slipknots that girls used to tie off their crocheted pot holders, but real sailor's knots. Squares and hitches, sheetbends and swivels. Knots that held a rope in place, knots that held a sheet to guide a sail, knots that saved sailors from drowning in a fearsome wind.

She knew that if she tied a knot in the rope she was holding, the knot would hold. She knew that if she stood on the stool, looped the rope over the beam and combined the ends in a hangman's noose - bend, bend, twist seven times around and through ... it would not fall apart, it would be stronger than her neck. Rescue attempts, late and frenzied could not stand against the mute force of the rope. If she did it, this would be real.

She ran the rope through her hands, scraping her flesh with its roughness, tiny twiny bits lodging in her soft palms. Idle woman's hands. Secretary's hands. How had she lost her heart, the heart that sang with the wind and the wave, the heart that gladdened in the spring blooms of a summer day? She had buried it in clacking keys and notepaper, in sagging nylons and polyester frocks. Unbearable. Monsterous.

She removed her shoes, then her nylons, ripping them off, digging long runs in them with her manicured nails. She shortened the skirt of her dress until it was almost obscene, then threw her shoes out the window to the street below. She saw a bystander looking up to see where the shoes had fallen from and she laughed.

Dropping the rope, she ran down the stairs of the unfinished floor to the office where her boss was busy on the telephone.

"I quit," she said.
» Pseudonymity

It would seem that at least some would prefer to keep up the tradition of Montparnasse names. Thus, here is a list of the original members who have made the transition to Livejournal and their names. Please choose one of your own and leave it in the comments. It should be the first name of an author or artist who worked around 1880-1940, roughly. Any nationality. If there are multiple requests for the same name, I'll let those who want it flip a coin or something. You needn't choose an author of your own sex--we're progressive here. ;)

catvalente --Anais

besideserato --June

thesibylqueen --Djuna

caudelac --Oscar

ladyvivien --Dorothy

donnaisblue --Wislawa

orange_velcro --Vita

just_happening --Albert

roomette --you never chose one, darling!

All others are, for the moment, open. We had a Henry but I don't think he is playing with us this time around.

What's your poison?


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