Today was simple and fun and satisfying.

I secured an income, more or less. I made a new collar for myself, which I've been needing badly (always drench your world with symbolism, all of it; there's no excuse for meaninglessness when it comes to small things and small gestures). In doing so I perfected-ish a new method of leathergoods recycling, which I'm very happy with, I love recycling old materials.

And for reasons I'm not exactly sure of, I ended up explaining String versus Loop Theories to my mother. The fact that I was correct and had no need to revise beforehand gives me pause; it's been around 8 years since I last even looked at these kinds of subjects. Seems my memory can retain very strange things. Also, it seems I was obviously a very strange child.

Later, I listened to Santana and some waltzes and practiced a few old dances, while thinking happily about the coming few days and giving serious rethought to a few old notions of things that I've recently realised were not only entirely wrong, but in fact held no meaning to me anymore. I like this, though; the new things I've learned mean more to me by far than old patterns.

I thought about such things as the idea of monogamy as a learned trait, the changing lines of boundaries between friendship and coupling throughout the past few hundred years, the master-subordinate dynamics of several different kinds and whether someone who is otherwise dominant may crave or need a guiding or controlling influence from someone they see as an equal, the reasons why this might happen etc.

I sat outside under the moon and felt the earth turning. It was a wonderful feeling, I've missed it.

I worked out again today as well, pushups are becoming far easier than they were before, far faster than I had anticipated in this regimen. I've taken to always exercising before meals, and I've noticed the marked difference already. Not fully visible just yet; but I can feel the musculature moving deliciously beneath my skin. I've taken to wearing silk and satin shirts as a means to succumb to this newly-appreciated addition to my own personal tactile decadence; my hedonism runs deep, it seems, even to something as simple as silk on muscle.

Now, to sleep. A big day tomorrow; much to paint, much to sew, and a great many forms and points of identification to fill out and find.

Mmm-mm-mmm. I got my hair cut. I look so damn good I'm considering putting a mirror next to the computer desk so I can indulge my vanity during my breaks. The color's gone a little strange, but that will be fixed soon.

And, oh, the SS jacket replica. No collar patches or shoulderboards, just a black coat, but... Oh. Classical lines and pitch-black gabardine felt, how I love you. The world is mine when I wear it, and you just can't help but stand a little taller in uniform.

It goes so nicely with my leather jeans. Mmm, yesss.


Today is fun, at least for me. Finishing off one and starting two ties, maybe three if I can find that black silk. Making a cravat and jabot, for my more foppish moods. Some leatherwork, a man-muzzle and a goat mask to be precise, possibly an eyepatch for a S.T.A.L.K.E.R LARP outfit. If I can find the materials, a red and yellow Dangerous Dog warning collar. I have a new method of footpaws to try out, some detail work on a fursuit head before furring, two tails to stitch up...


I'm teaching myself German in my spare time; the language is so pretty to me. Very much just beginning, but I can ask for presentation of passports at least, which amuses me to no end.

Speaking of languages and uniforms (and the assorted way that they both... affect me), 'Inglourious Basterds' is surely one of my new favorite films. Oh, Herr Landa, you suave devil... Tarantino is a terrible and ingenious man.


I'm sorry I can't make it to Radfur as I'd said before, but these things can't be helped. Midfur's on the way, so I'll be catching everyone then with any luck.


There is the possibility that I may be relocating to another place a little closer to the city, a newer place where the wiring doesn't threaten to explode at any moment and burn us alive. Still just looking and speculating; I don't particularly want to move, but I also don't much like the dodgyness of the house. Besides, a change of living scenery may do some good. All the same, it's up to the men with the listing papers for now.


All in all, things are going on, not sure what direction I'm going in just yet but something's happening. More than enough to keep me busy.

I was asked if I've been lonely. I had to think about it, and realised... No, not really. I have all the affection, humor and intellectual stimulation I could desire, provided to me in nearly every waking hour, how could I be lonely? My appreciation is immeasurable, as is my returned affection.

Vielen Dank, mein Begleiter. Und ich danke Ihnen für Ihre Geduld mit mir in den vergangenen Monaten. Ich weiss, ich schwierig gewesen, in meinem dunklen Stimmungen, aber es scheint voll Vergangenheit an.


Now, I should get back to work. There are skins in the fridge that wait for no man.

You know those inexplicable days where you feel utterly bulletproof in your good mood, where the entire city feels totally at your service, you feel awe-inspiringly sexy and everything you attempt turns out more-or-less awesome?

That's been me for the past three days.

I fucking love it. And it keeps getting better.


LIST OF THINGS DONE IN THIS TIME:

Long, deliciously rambling discussions covering military ranking, Nazi uniforms, The Best Movies of All Time, Frank Sinatra, Gospel music and the fall of the Roman Empire.

Perfecting the most brilliant timesaver for fur sewing.

Learning, by mimicry, how to play a section from Sonata In E Flat Hob. XVI 49 Adagio E Cantabile by Joseph Haydn, on the piano. Note: I cannot read sheet music, nor have I ever been taught to play the piano.

Buying bountiful supplies.

Seeing three seperate movies at two cinemas.

Buying myself a pair of black leather pants and a near-perfect WW2 German Elite M32 Officer jacket replica.

Planning out a beautifully appropriate haircut for Springtime and new jacket, mainly for lulz and aesthetics.

Organising laminating, lanyards and shipping for assorted things, thinking up bonus items for patient customers.

Losing 5 kilos by accident, purely by errand-running in the Victoria Markets.

Watching the magnificent "Waltz With Bashir".

Downloading another season of "Are You Afraid Of The Dark?"

Nearly completing my entire Blackadder collection.

Sketching out genius ideas in spare time.

Beating the sewing machine into submission.


Look upon ye and despair. Bosoms or begone with thee.

It's been a long week, maybe shorter than I realise, since moodswings and lone periods stretch time on forever.

But what better way to rouse yourself from a dark malaise than to dress nicely, go into the city with a hat and cane, meet up with beloved and well-favored ladies and gentlemen, and walk around together in a spectacular eyefuck pack, lecherously eyeing the more tantalising of the myriad cosplay girls? They are there to be stared at, after all.

Manifest was exhausting and cathartic. Nothing is real in anime and subculture conventions, and for this I love them utterly despite my general distaste for anime itself. You will never be in danger of drawing attention or causing a scene without massive, massive efforts at wild degeneracy, and so I managed to blend in nicely and assuage my frantic panic attacks rather easily.

I was hit by a tram on the last day, which is an interesting way to start an expedition.

Carnival, Jeneara and Kraden were wonderful, and somehow cheerful still despite the long trader workday which I both admired and was baffled by. Sketches were bought, my own artistic ability having sadly left me earlier that day much to my own embarrassment, and I recieved an adorable keychain from Carni free of charge which I love. Pocky was eaten, randomness was talked for quite some time. I adore you all, including the others I spoke to at the table, my apologies if your names escape me right now (especially the girl with fluorescent orange hair, you were fantastic conversation).

I sneaked my mother in on the last day, for a panel on yaoi and to get her to look at the hentai booths. I am amused by simple pleasures.

The yaoi panel was both fun and torturous. I fail to see the point of R-rating a panel discussion with no actual porn at all. But I was treated to injokes, stealth furriness, the panel mods making a lot of wonderful innuendos and Dorian, Diasis and I running our own commentary amongst ourselves based mainly around rape.

Dorian, Diasis, Victor, Jess and Jasper, my thanks and sincere appreciation for a spectacular convention experience should be self-evident, if it was not shown in my cackles and obvious perversion.

My apologies to the others for not attending the food and District 9 afterparty; I did want to, very much, but time, money and fatigue did not allow me.

---

The dream began in a thoroughly unusual setting for such things: I was in my own bed, though the room was not as my room is now. Instead, it was a spartan, spare version of my old room in Mildura, lit with candles. The dresser was no longer covered in cheap red-and-white laminate and decorated by mounds of trinkets and junk, but bare natural-stained wood to match the timber of the bed. The bookshelf had had the same treatment. The walls were sanded down to bare plaster and painted a rich, dark red like the plums I used to eat, from the tree that I knew grew outside the window. The curtains were black trimmed with the same reddish color. It was how I'd always wanted my room, but had never been able to have it.

I stretched slowly, taking in the room with a hesitant turn of my head. My skulls and skins were arranged artfully on shelves and on the wall itself, hanging like organic tapestry. The deerskin lay on the floor. I was confused for a moment, wondering who had done all this, who had arranged my belongings with such care, knowing exactly which one needed to be placed by the window, which needed darkness. Who could have known precisely what colors and items I'd wanted.

She sat silently in the corner by my altar, on a marvellously delicate chair I recognised as an antique I'd seen once in a museum. Her dress matched the walls, as did her painted lips. The candlelight played off her pale skin and shone on her hair, her eyes made all the more dark for the pinpricks of light. She smiled and rose fluidly, slowly making her way to the bed.

"You like it?" It was more an amused statement than a real question. I grinned and nodded, moving a little to the side to give her room. She perched on the edge of the bed, and I lay on my side watching her watching me.

"You know, I've never seen you like this from this angle before. Still mussed from sleep," she murmured with a slight smile, delicately running her nails over my scalp. "So languid and vulnerable."

She chuckled at my expression, a mixture of pleasure and a wary sort of curiousness for her expected mischief.

The blankets were kicked back around my knees, and we lay together on the bed amongst the rumpled sheets and pillows. Violin music was playing from the next room, with the distinctive slight crackle of a record player, yet it didn't run out. I noticed what looked like a computer in a state of deconstruction, smirking, knowing that she'd gotten curious as to the workings of modern machinery again.

"Take me away, beloved. Away from myself," I asked quietly, growing serious again.

She held me close, carefully, her flesh soft and warm for once despite the usual steel of her muscles. She kissed my hair every now and then, whispering to me, and I cleaved to her, hungry for the comfort she gave. She told me of hunts she had taken, cities she had seen. She described to me the taste of the blood of a Mexican priest; the bite of cougar blood, and the strong young male of that species that she had taken just a little taste from, the great cat allowing it stoically and walking with her a ways before melting into the forest. She wove whole scenes for me, full of Arizona soil still hot from the sun and mountainsides where deer grazed amongst the snowbanks.

Her eyes glazed as she detailed her hunts again for me, at my request. She had a sensuous way with words, almost poetically describing this beautiful boy or that young woman, the way they struggled or succumbed, in such a way that it made me nearly tremble. I could see the way her tongue flirted with the edges of her fangs when she paused, flickering over her lips just slightly. I traced her jawline lightly, and her eyes cleared, fixing on mine for a moment, before she smiled and kissed me, clutching me possessively, knowing precisely what I needed.
We tangled, fully clothed, in the bedsheets and with each other, warring momentarily for dominance until I relented and looked up at her with a smirk. I twined my fingers in her hair, shivering a little to her pleasure as she bit her wrist for me. She cradled my head in her free hand, an unusally tender gesture for her, and watched me with a certain smoldering stare as I began to drink, to nearly swoon with the narcotic effect of the blood. She moaned softly, the hand of the wrist I fed upon twitching, then coming to rest with the fingertips just brushing the skin behind my ear. She watched me a few moments more, seeming to take great pleasure from it, before lowering her head almost with reverence and sinking her teeth into my throat. Taking me away from myself, most definitely.

[i]There's no more at the shop
You can't borrow none from Uncle Pete
Cos I've seen the gates of Hell
I've heard the funeral bell
The world is broken now
The world is broken now
[/i]



Addendum to last journal entry.
Didn't factor in asteroid impact or walls of iron fifteen miles thick.



I'll likely be very quiet online for the next week or so, don't be offended if I'm online and don't talk.


Goddamn, it's cold. Guess it's gonna stay that way.


I feel kind of sick. I don't really care about that anymore.

Clowns are gonna eat me up.

I should be sleeping, 4:30 am and with people coming over in 12 hours. But I don't see any sleep coming soon, too much on my mind. A lot of it's reruns, but still, it's enough to keep me typing and sewing all night rather than go to that bed and lie down in it.

Not the howling-at-the-moon, pacing-up-and-down-for-hours kind of crazy, but just enough to haunt my stupid ass.

There's no such thing as dead ends, people. No such thing; there's not a single thing in the world that doesn't have some solution somewhere. I believe this, I know this.

But don't be stupid, there's plenty of rough-ass roads and school-zone-level speed restrictions. You're just dumb if you expect to drive along and never hit any turns or grades or potholes. You just better know how to slow down, hope your car don't shake apart and shut your mouth 'till the dust quits kicking up.

You gotta learn that or you'll rip yourself to pieces.

So, Martin Martini is dead. I think. I believe his superhero alterego has been destroyed, so he must go back to his everyday life as the meek and unassuming Bruce Banner/Peter Parker/Clark Kent. I don't know, it's four AM and I might not have all my screws in right.

I dressed in my finest darks, the long pinstriped overcoat and navy waistcoat with the white shirt and black pinstriped tie, black pants. Repolished my shoes for the occasion and possibility of a meeting I was looking forward to, they're now at near a mirror shine. I need to wash my hat; it has some kind of gunk on it. I was quite pleased to see that most of the others had dressed up as well, and passed a little time before the show stalking the accumulating crowd, scanning for familiar faces or interesting articles of clothing.

The first half was an assortment of bands and vagabonds doing covers of Martin's songs. A few of these were hit-or-miss, a lot were pretty good, and a few were absolutely amazing. I took up my perch on top of a speaker on the unused smaller stage and drank everything in, between anxious glances at the door. The crowds were getting to me, badly, and while  hallward was there we had not gone there together, and tended to drift apart in the dark. It happens. I stayed on my perch stubbornly nonetheless, and forced down any fear I might have of the crowds of strangers. Every now and then the room seemed full of rats, due to the noise and the smell, and somehow that seemed to make it easier. My mind is a thoroughly broken thing.

A message came and I stopped watching the door, and drowned my defeat in a bottle that had caught my eye, something a child would select for the bull's skull on the label. Only one, though; I was careful of that, and nursed my drink for quite a while. Some partial victory there, I suppose.

The second half was Martini himself, in his usual explosion of exhausting physical displays of energy and some brilliant piano-playing. I love his voice, which was in the finest form tonight (a good thing for him, I'm sure), and wish I could sing half as well. I had forgotten he could tapdance, and he did so with such talent and speed that I thought he might just set the stage on fire. I eventually settled standing atop some scaffolding, not terribly sturdy but offering a better view than the speakers. Martin dragged his mum (who was manning the merchandise desk, a lovely lady wearing black sequinned pants and top hat to match) up onstage with him, and she danced in surprisingly bendy ways for the mother of a grown man. A small boy was brought onstage to sing a little of one of his songs, which while incomprehensible for the most part was rather sweet and quite brave of a five-year-old.

Martini's grandparents seemed to be there; I only realised that I'd been perched next to them for most of the show about halfway through the second half. Nice people, the grandfather rather adorably fitting my memories of the old Italian nonnos from my childhood.

A disturbing but funny clown with "Pikl" written on his bare torso with what might have been lipstick was essentially the MC, and I think my brain's still sprained from trying to follow everything that he said. My only clear remembered bit of what he said was "Don't trust him, he's trying to fuck you," which seems like solid advice to me.

I am now the proud owner of three Martin Martini albums. Quite a lovely piece of swag. At the moment, my favorite song appears to be "Stock Exchange."

My mum,  tornassuk, now has a FurAffinity page. She's a watcher and just getting into the online furry fandom, so I hope everyone goes and makes her feel welcome.

Go over and say hi

---

Two from a couple nights ago; one following the sequential dreamscape, one being utter randomness that I can't analyse on my own despite my best efforts.


I came into the dream screaming before I could even see. I ran out of breath around the time I opened my eyes, and settled myself to take in my surroundings. A large room, stucco walls, a large fireplace with an exquisite rug spread before it. I'd been here before, and-- yes, there, a chunk taken out of the wall. I remembered this room, and how the sounds had reverberated in it so painfully.

Appropriate, then, that I'd been screaming.

I went from the door to the fire, warming my suddenly icy flesh. I watched the flames, tried to identify what aromatics had been thrown onto the embers; I could place fresh pine branches and rock samphire, but there were others I was not able to figure out.

"I think, first, I should apologise for my absence."

I turned fast, startled, to find the red-haired woman calmly seated at a table I somehow had not seen, across from where I stood. She appeared almost mannequin-like in her stillness, the firelight gleaning on her hair and shining a little too brightly on her skin. Her eyes were blue, to taunt me perhaps.

I turned back to the fire. "You don't have to. You have much of a life outside myself. I can't expect you to drop everything for me." The fire heated my face.

"I am not the one you need to say these things to," she said quietly, her voice as calm as ever.

"You leave for months, and return to try me with mind tricks?' I growled, not looking at her.

"I don't need them to see you are troubled with your waking life. It is written in everything about you. You wear your grief like a shroud," she said evenly.

"Then I don't need to tell you not to toy with me about them." I tried to keep the bitterness from my voice. I wasn't terribly angry at her in particular. But I had no one else to be angry with.

I heard the soft rustle of cloth as she stood. "Speak to me of them. Please. For your own sake."

I said nothing, tension growing between my shoulderblades as I stared into the flames.

She sighed quietly, moved a little closer. I felt her lay a hand upon my back. I closed my eyes.

"What good would it do to speak again? It wouldn't change anything when I wake."

We were silent for a while. I heard the crackle of the fire, the quiet sounds of my own breathing, the utter silence of her. Her hand was cool on my spine.

"You mourn a shape you have never owned, believing it will take you closer to feeling human. You fear what you must do to achieve such an end, and doubt medicine's ability to free you of your dislocation rather than trap you in another set of flesh. You agonise over your actions driven by hurt and cresting madness, and grieve for the love you fear you have lost. You feel more trapped than ever, turned loose on the world and shut out from those you would give your life for, locked out rather than given freedom. You do not trust your understanding of acceptable human behavior, fearing your words and actions will be taken for obsession and cause you to be shunned all the more. You do not want to trust anyone new again."

I nodded mutely, agreeing with everything, once she was done speaking.

"Tell me why."

"It took so long to let those few in, only to have half claw me to pieces from within. Why should I risk that near-fatal pain again with a stranger, who could hurt me far worse." I spoke in a deadened monotone. I opened my mind to her, showed her just precisely how and where I had been hurt in the past. That happening of a few years ago that I never spoke of.

I heard her gasp softly, a sound of horror.

"You are surprised?" A trace of pitch-black humor in my voice. I turned to slowly pace the room. "I thought you already knew that. You always seemed to."

"I knew only what you did later. I understand your actions so much better now, though it does not excuse them."

I turned on her, a snarl curling my lips. "You, of all people, dare to look down on me for what I have done?" I spat, and paced faster.

She stared at me, utterly still and silent.

"You want so much for me to immerse myself joyfully in the world of mortals, as if it were such a pleasure to be amongst them. Perhaps for you, who looks on them in such a romantic light, but I cannot hold such affections and beliefs of safety with them. You wonder why I cling so to your companion, why I would so long for someone I now see only in my dreams; while conveniently forgetting that while she is the only one left who would hold me, she is the one most honest about the danger she could pose to me. Mortals do not hold such honesty about their capacity to physically harm in my experience."

I continued to pace, caught in my habit, eyes flashing with contained anger.

She watched me pace. "I will not try to convince you otherwise, though I cannot disagree with you more strongly."

"And why is that, pray?" I asked, sarcasm lending bite.

She watched me levelly. "Because you're sounding just like her. You even look like her when you move like that. And when she's like this she cannot be reasoned with. Nor, I think, can you."

I stopped. We stared at each other, I unwilling to look away first, though I knew the stupidity of trying to win a staring match with an immortal.

"You want to take her away from me, don't you?" I said quietly. I felt a tremor running up my spine, across my shoulders, the hairs on my neck standing up immediately.

She turned to lean on the table, as if she were tired. "She is not a good influence to have around you. You surely know this. The changes in your behavior alone should be a marker."

I turned and began to pace again, faster and more shakily holding back my rage. "Now, when I have so little of constance and comfort, you seek to take her from me? You hint to me of trusting strangers, while you would be so cruel as to do this?"

"It must be done, dear one, you must understand. It is best for you both, to go along your lives without the pain of longing."

I glared at her, suicidal and reckless. I pulled images and memories from my mind that had been placed there with purpose, in a locked box, months before.

"You have the gall to presume what is best for us?! You who stood by and allowed her, your maker, to die. You, who took her from me already once before. You, who for all your words of love and understanding still took away my reason once before and hid your actions from me. You, who keep her prisoner now. Do you simply want to be rid of both of us, or doesn't it matter to you which one you kill? I doubt killing her would be too hard on your conscience, now you have some experience," I snarled, goading, untrembling in what was surely my final words. I was purposefully enraging a being older than Christ.

As expected, she made to grab me, crush the life out of me. She stopped just short of touching me, her eyes burning fiercely. "Why are you doing this?" she said softly, dangerously, a voice I had only heard used to threaten the black-haired one.

"If you seek to make my sleeping world as near devoid of comfort as my waking one is, then kill me now." I said, my voice dead and certain.

She stared at me, horror-stricken, then drew away from me like I were poison. "Go, now. Please."







The next is nearly nonsense.
A fragmentary dream between my first wakeup and second (I decided it was too early and went back to sleep). For some reason, Amber invited me to her bat mitzvah, despite her not being in any way Jewish so I dunno where my brain pulled this from. The wtf continued with a rather weird-looking Michael Jackson impersonator. Amber, on the other table behind me with a lot of people I didn't recognise, laughed a little as did her table. My table, full of more people I didn't recognise (except, for some reason, I was sitting next to who appeared to be Snoop Dogg), did not laugh.
We ate some food, and my table smoked cigarettes. I liked this Snoop Dogg guy, and we had some good conversation. Then everyone got up and walked around. Our table took a walk by the river that was there, scaring a family of rabbits out of the undergrowth into the river. They swam out to about the middle of the river before being swept downriver and coming up on the bank further on, except for one baby that swam upstream and came up a little ways away from us. I went to chase it and it ran a little ways, about five metres, but then it stopped. I picked it up, which it essentially allowed after a brief amount of feebly trying to bite my hand, and dried it off on my shirtsleeve before putting it in my shirt pocket. It snuggled in warmly and went to sleep.
I gave the rabbit to Amber who went inside. My group wandered back towards the original building and sat at a trestle table and chairs in the carport, smoking and feeling too pressured inside. Snoop called a puppy who ran/scrambled over from the yard, by looks a little Staffy pup, and we drank some beer.
There was pricking on my ankles under the table. I peered under the tablecloth and found Amber and a blondish girl putting a kitten on my leg. It was attempting to hiss and generally failing at being menacing. The girls laughed and stood up, whereupon Amber informed me that Sonja (I guess the blonde there) and she didn't think that I should hang around anymore. I brought up the point that she was the one who invited me, but she didn't seem to hear me. She said that they (they, now?) didn't approve of cursing and sexual innuendo, and I was brain-numbingly confused. I hadn't used any, and Amber swears a lot. I tried to bring up these points but it was like talking to a stranger, and I wondered if this was actually the right person.

Don't dream too far
Don't lose sight of who you are
Don't remember that rush of joy
He could be that boy
I'm not that girl

Ev'ry so often we long to steal
To the land of what-might-have-been
But that doesn't soften the ache we feel
When reality sets back in

Blithe smile, lithe limb
She is winsome, she wins him
Gold hair with a gentle curl
That's the girl he chose
And Heaven knows
I'm not that girl:

Don't wish, don't start
Wishing only wounds the heart
I wasn't born for the rose and the pearl
There's a girl I know
He loves her so

I'm not that girl

---

I know, the song perspectives are not right gender-wise. I didn't write the song.

Shut up, heart. For the love of God, shut up. I drew the art you made me draw. I wrote the words you made me write. You and my brain have banded together to gang up on me. I've done everything you guys want, why can't you be nice?

I can be patient, why can't you? Why can't you leave me alone for a while?

I'm going to make some things now, to fill the time. Will that satisfy you two for a while?

Hey, guys. I was wondering. How can you two scream at me so much and still feel so absent? And have you cauterised the holes you left so they can't mend and grow again? That was a pretty dick thing to do, you know. Making me keep thinking about the same subject over and over.

I think it's time we had a chat, fellas. You shouldn't be treating me like this. You've made things perfectly clear, I know I was wrong and I'm doing everything I can to fix things.

No, I can't do anything more. Because that would border on really uncool behavior, don't you think? Any more than emails and occasional messenger discourse? That's what I thought. Glad you agree with me, brain. You're a schizophrenic son of a bitch, though, I wish you'd be more clear on what you expect me to do.

Not like that heart, though. The heart's a retard. Probably a sadomasochist, too, that's why it keeps hurting itself to hurt me.

Look, guys. We can't do anything more. I've done what I can, now we all have to wait. So shut the fuck up, won't ya? Come on, work with me here for once.

Brain, can you give me a hand with these fursuit heads? Thanks, man. See, you're not such a bad guy when you try.

I was busy and AFK all day yesterday (12 hours of exercise, machinery and sun, what the hell), so I'm updating this with a delay.

Particularly lucid dream, though short. I was by the big clock in Melbourne Central Station. The place was dead, no one up and about at all, the only noise being the light buzz of the lights and the ambient background noise of the trains below and the traffic outside. The vibrations through my spine and ribs was pleasant.

I felt calm, a flicker of happiness going through me in a cool, sterile way. I lifted my head a little, savoring the scents of stone and oil from below, and the assorted food and traffic smells of the city beyond here. I could taste them; the traffic tasted acrid and burnt, but the food smells made me quiver.

Moving across the floor, I could feel the smooth, shiny tiles cold against me, like hard satin. By extention, I could feel the impression of my own texture along my belly scales, how the edges clicked ever so slightly over the grout between the tiles. I revelled in the power of my muscles, how effortlessly I moved as if by sheer will.

Moving through the tunnel-like hallway beside the magazines and newspapers into the street, the city lay empty and suddenly very quiet. No vibrations here, except the occasional "thrumm" of birds flying past. The dark tar of the road looked velvety and inviting; I stretched my length along the warm bitumen. The sun was good on my back, the warm rays soaking through my spine and flesh deliciously, like absorbing a liquid. I felt strong and beautiful.



And then I woke up. I've no memory of any dreams like it before. Certainly not any about being a snake of mythical proportions in an abandoned Melbourne. Very unusual.

And of course, a few hours after awakening, I found myself in precisely the same place. This amused me to no end.

First of all, birthdays. Firey's turned 20, as has Witching-Hour-Wolf as of today. A big happy birthday to these two. I am still 19, so as usual I'm again the younger of the Melbourne circles. Best wishes to these two for their birthday; I hope they get everything they want.

And to Australian jewellers, one in particular; I met with a tax man the other day to speculate on the merits of registering for a small home business. While I am not a jeweller in the traditional or specialised sense, I managed to feel out some points for general artisans in Australia. If you register for a business number, and obviously keep track of all your expenses, sales, etc., you can claim back a large portion of your expenses. This equates to a large amount of money reclaimed from items like raw materials and tools.

And the very cool thing about this is, if you make less than six grand in a year, you don't pay taxes on your business, providing a little safety net even if you don't manage to sell much.

I thought this information might be of use to someone.

Point the First: I have a huge amount of sausages. I like me my extruded meatgood tubes.

Point #2: My collection of Hannibal films is complete. Oh my god... I can't stop watching. *drools happily*

Point #3: I got in contact with Jessica, my cousin, for the first real time in nearly a year. I was so happy to talk to her again.

Point #4: I am in continued correspondance with Sal, a friend from my schooldays. The lucky bitch is in America, and will be going to the San Francisco show of Wicked. I think I'd choke with envy if she wasn't awesome.

Point #5: I won tickets to the special advanced screening of Public Enemies. I have been drooling over this movie for quite some time; I couldn't be happier. I never win anything, so more win.

And finally, the best, Point #6: One of my top-picked choices of taxidermy colleges in America, as it happens the one that's the very best in the country, is sending me some forms in the mail, and have all but said that there's a spot for me whenever I can afford to go. Accomodation, a third of meals, all tools and carcasses paid for.

This attached song is very, very relevant to my reaction and current mood over this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EwnF.....L&index=42

How long it has been since the last, and how long since I did not sleep in the midday sun.



The darkness of simple unconsciousness gave way to gentle light, illuminating slate-laid floors and ochre-toned stucco walls. I noticed a tendril of a young fern crowning from a crack in the floor by the wall. A hallway, one I'd seen before, with additional light sources-- bowl candles, fat or tallow judging from the scent-- sunk into recesses in the wall to illuminate assorted artifacts and bones. I lingered over the skull of a large cat, before I felt (rather than heard) myself being called. A gentle pull with what might have been a voiced or imagined whisper.

I obediently followed, taking entirely unknown corridors to a new room, one all windows and shining redwood floorboards, high gables supporting the ceiling. The attic, turned observatory. A type of open fireplace, more of an indoor fire pit, graced the centre of the room, throwing flickering light throughout the vast expanse of the room. This house must be extraordinary in its size, I thought.

A type of lounge, reminiscent of a therapist's couch and upholstered in a type of hide which my mind uncharacteristically could not identify, faced one of the enormous windows, looking out on the world below. I noticed our height, and could make out the vague shape of treetops, but the night was too dark to see anything else, even with my eyes. The firelight's glare from the glass did little to aid my night vision. The sound of running water sounded below, some form of stream perhaps. Drawing my attention back to the lounge, I noticed soft black hair mingled in with the dark furred hide. A pale-gold hand reached along the back of the lounge, gesturing to me.

I smiled and stood behind the extravagant furniture, taking hold of the hand and indulging my free hand in her hair. Just as soft as I remembered. I heard her gentle chuckle, and melted.

"Don't tell me you have lost your nerve in my absence?" she purred, and I came to stand before her. She lay relaxed (deceptively so), a wineglass holding something too bright-dark to be wine delicately clasped in her hand, her hair spread over her shoulders and the back of the lounge. Her dark-red dress was exquisite, as always, though I smiled at her bare feet, tucked up on the couch like a small child. Her near-black eyes took me in slowly, and I shivered pleasantly under her approving eye. She took a sip from her glass, her eyes never leaving mine, and discreetly licked her lips clean, a light smirk flickering over her face. Now she was taunting me. I grinned in appreciation, made my line of sight moving over her body more obvious, and she laughed.

"That's the one I remember," she said with a wicked smile. She stood fluidly, finishing her glass and grabbing my hair in her hand faster than I could register. Her lips crushed against mine as she casually dashed the empty glass towards the fireplace with a shatter. My mouth opened to hers gladly, and a warm trickle of the blood she had saved in her mouth ran down my throat, burning most pleasantly as it went.

She broke from me, grudgingly, allowing me to breathe (perhaps only just remembering I had to), and I gasped. Her hand caressed my face gently, her thumb brushing an errant drop of blood from where it had escaped the edge of my mouth. She held it to my lips and let me lick it away, grinning when I bit playfully. She groaned, in a way, and put her forehead against mine as her arms went around my waist, "How long has it been, my dear? I tried to come to you time and again, believe that I did."

"I know," I said quietly. "I'm sorry. I did not mean to be so hard to reach." She looked at me with heartbreaking concern, and I couldn't meet her eyes anymore. Too much had happened, and--

"Tell me," she whispered, cutting off my thoughts and brushing a wisp of hair from my face. I glanced at her, and despite knowing she could have known anything and everything from my mind if she so chose, I nodded. She respected the boundaries of my thoughts, though I had never imposed any restrictions, and knew that saying things out loud was harder for me, and so perhaps more beneficial for the pain.

Her arm stayed around me as we sat together on the couch, and I was surprised at how much that comforted me. Her eyes did not blink as I spilled the story of how my life has been since we had last spoken, from Amber to the issue of transgenderism, but they did flash with sadness, understanding, and finally fury. She loosed herself from me, kissing my forehead gently to let me know she was not angry at me, then stood to pace the floor before the fireplace, her eyes sparking with rage as her hands gesticulated in half-formed thoughts. She looked a lot like I did during my own internal rages. I wondered idly which of us had behavior such as this before the other did.

Finally she stopped, hands gripping the edge of the fireplace. She stood with her back to me, her shoulders tense and almost hunched. "How can you live like this?" she whispered, her calm voice betrayed by the sudden groaning sound of bending metal. The brass-looking metal shield had been punctured by her white-knuckled fingers, bent and crumpled like tinfoil. "How can you be allowed to feel like this? How can they..."

Her thought ended mid-sentence as she closed her eyes with a bitter expression. I stood and went to her, taking her hands gently and noticing sadly that the hot metal and errant embers had seared her skin without her noticing in her anger. "Because that's the way it is for me," I said quietly, stroking her charred skin carefully. "It's how my world works." I sighed and whispered her name. I kissed her palms softly. "It'll never stop," I murmured, nearly too quietly to be heard. By anyone but her. I could have meant any number of things, and truly I meant it for everything I had told her. We just had to keep going until we couldn't take any more; that's how it had always been, and the world wouldn't change just for me.

She looked at me sadly. Her anger wasn't entirely dead, nor did I think it would subside for quite some time. "I could--"

"You cannot bend the world for me, love. Not this one," I half-smiled. "The problem is in how people think. Even you cannot change that, much as I know you would try tirelessly. This isn't something we can force."

"Much as it would be therapeutic," she growled sulkily, earning a smile from me. She seemed to come out of her reverie somewhat at that.

I stroked her cheek fondly, though still unused to looking slightly up at her. "I know you'd gladly kill everyone who even looked at me wrong. You're lucky I find it such a touching sentiment."

"Just as it was intended, beloved." Her grin made my heart leap.

She sighed and allowed me to lead her back towards the lounge and the window. She stood behind me for a moment, holding me gently as we stared out into the outside world. "I only wish they could see you as I do," she murmured, shifting one hand to rest against the back of my head. My reflection shifted without me noticing very much. It showed me with a flat chest, hair even shorter than it was cut, a lankier build of body and slightly stronger shoulders. A scruffy, shabby, androgynously elegant thing, all lines and angles, sharp-clawed graceful hands and piercing hooded eyes (that didn't seem quite human), that I both recognised as and couldn't combine as being me. It was beautiful, in its way, and also terrifying on some deep level. Mainly, I just loved her for seeing this handsome thing when she looked at me. I turned in her arms and kissed her, and didn't ever want to stop.

"I will always be able to see you as you really are, even if few others can," she promised, after we'd landed on the lounge.

"I know. Thank you," I said, smiling, though I wished I could think of better words.

Her brow creased, looking up at me with something like pleading, her hand upon my neck. "Let me make it stop hurting, at least. You know that I can take it out. I cannot bear to send you back as things are." She was forgetting her verbal contractions; she was honestly very concerned.

I shook my head with a calming smile. "No, love. I know you don't want to, but you must leave things as they are. It's better for me this way. I'll be alright; I'm not alone back there. Besides," I paused to kiss her again, "you are making it stop hurting."

She smiled, a glint coming into her eyes as she dragged my throat down to her mouth. I bit my lip to silence a groan, and gave myself over to her, taking her offered wrist hungrily and letting every thought be erased by the sensations I found myself drowning in. Very gladly.

Hello all.

First, I want to announce that  witching-hour-wolf has been accepted into a gallery, I just found out a little while ago in my FA messages (damn, there are a lot of messages). She'll be able to sell her stuff through a real gallery, so go over right now and congratulate her. This is spectacular news, and everyone should be very proud of her for such an achievement. I send ehugs, which she can take whenever she likes. This is most exciting news!

I'm feeling much better today, even managed to sleep a little (camped under my desk, I like my little fort). Sleep does wonders for a brain, as does long quiet hours to think and clean the entire house. And so today, I'm smiling. Everything's going well for both Amber and me, we're both alive and healthy and looked after, and everything's gonna be okay in our individual lives, with some effort to get things rolling. I think knowing she's doing well is the thing that nudged me over into the area of "See, look, you're okay, she's okay, nothing's exploded and good things are happening, we'll both be fine so now you can stop driving yourself insane and go back to normality." In information vaccuums, I can and usually will get trapped into anxiety and terrible thoughts that I usually can't get out of without help.

I talked to Pete, which was a great help. Lancing of venom kind of stuff. A good slap around the head to shift me over closer to normality, so today when I found out about her successes things could go clunk into place. Oh god, it feels good to smile.

There's a cat on my desk. Hello, Sita. You're not helping, but you're so damn cute.

My letter got read (first!) on ACTFur On Air, the best furry podcast in Australia (and the world atm, though I know/have met the cast and my knowledge is limited to only two podcasts so I might be biased). Thank you Kraden, Jen and Carni! You guys made my night, and made cleaning the house much more fun. Many hugs to each of you, and soon a picture of a frill-necked cheetah once my art mojo is duct taped back into my brain. It keeps falling out.

The creation of a taxidermy minotaur costume head *WITH MOVING JAW* by a genius on the LJ Fur Hide And Bone community has kicked me into overdrive. Must make some leatherware, NOW. I will be sculpting out a jackal face out of clay as soon as I finish cleaning, this will be usedas a solid form to build the leather mask over. I picked a jackal because the canid face is easier to do with a single piece of leather, which is what I want to do (absence of seams = more difficult but more win). And then there is the acquisition of heads from the knackery and a very nice man at a local meat processing place (cattle might be easier to start off with... plus, horns, brilliant). Oooh, I get all twitchy just planning it.

Hello to Tangie. I liked talking to you yesterday, was great fun. :)

Well, back to cleaning for me.

Found in Bangkok after hanging himself in a hotel room.
A sad end to a legendary actor. Goodbye David. Thank you.

I just read the intellectual equivalent of hatefuck porn. It was wonderful. It's been a long time since a piece of writing so fully encapsulated PWNED as this:

thejewelryboxstudios.deviantart.com/journal/25111473/#comments

The journal, not the comments.

It takes a very, very brave person to stand up for fur farming at all, but to put it in such concise wording without dissolving into STFU-raeg, as I admit to doing in frustration a lot of the time, means this person surely deserves a medal.

In all things that involve animal products of such public volatility as skins, bones etc., it is important to actually do your research of INDIVIDUAL places, not to fall into the trap of us vs. them, a la PeTA and the fashion industry. A prime example: the knackery I go to is a small old-style slaughter establishment, run and operated by around 11 people, with no machine automation. Everything is done in the open-air shed work area, by hand; slaughter is by individual .22 bullets, skinning and carving is done by hand with very sharp knives, on tables and meathooks. This is in sharp contrast to what I will call modern Western-style slaughter facilities, which tend to show up in PeTA documents and are usually as automated as possible. The animals are often stunned then slaughtered, rather than the simple bullet-to-the-head outright kill, and machines handle the carcass transport and such. The knackery I go to handles one horse at a time, maybe going through 5-10 horses a day at the very most. The automated Western-style slaughter establishments are designed for optimum profit, some designed to 'process' over 100 animals in a day. This desire for speed equalling profit means that not only are the animals not shown the proper amount of respect and individual attention, but the speed demanded of the processing means that 'accidents' are commonplace, such as tearing/destroying of the skins, tearing the intestinal sac and tainting the meat with fecal or digestive matter, and so on. I wish I could say that human-consumption slaughterhouses are not like this, but...

A simple rule of life. The three choices are fast, cheap and good. You can have two of each at any one time. Fast and good will not be cheap. Fast and cheap will not be good. Good and cheap will not be fast. Simple as that. When it comes to animal products, I have the patience required to choose the last option, knowing it to be the best option for the animal and for me.



IN OTHER NEWS:

* My binder just arrived in the mail last night, from the terribly-awesome Big Brothers used binder charity program. I will send off a thank-you email in a moment; right now, I'm too busy adjusting to wearing it most effectively (a slight use of tape underneath it and then folding the lower half over the top half seems most effective and comfortable/secure) and nearly exploding in joy. It is unusual for a piece of clothing to make me this happy.
* I have bought a new knife sharpening gadget at Mitchell's, an army disposals-type store in the city. My knives are now all evilly sharp and ready for every use. The sharpener is fleurescent orange, and has a hole for lanyarding onto things, so I won't run the risk of losing it despite its small size.
* I have looked upon the world's most beautiful knife whilst in Mitchell's Depository of Wonderment. I will not rest until it shall be mine. And on the day it becomes mine, I shall have no need to strive for any further purpose. It is that beautiful.

Most people don't know how to dream lucidly. Most people, in fact, don't even know what that means. People would get much more of a sense of freedom, creativity and control if they knew how to properly utilise their dreamscapes, I think.

Most people sleepwalking through their waking lives and day-walking through their dreams, treating dreams like finite reality. Either way, they don't get much done.

Sleep and death are siblings according to legend and myth. So, what if the things we think about the afterlife is entirely wrong? What if, instead of our souls going to Heaven or Hell or wherever we believe they go, the afterlife is just us returning to the dream world, but we can never wake up? This could either be terrifying or exciting. I think the key lies in learning how best to dream while you're still alive. I mean, would you rather go through eternity (or however long it lasts) in a regular dreamstate, blindly following some script you don't know in a world full of subconscious cues and triggers you don't understand or register? Or go through an eternity of lucid dreaming, doing whatever you can think of forever and ever with no consequences but what you choose?A world that is truly *yours*, in every way and including everything, even the laws of physics, for all time. Now isn't *that* the heaven we want most?

Or is it just what I want most. To actually have the world fully grasped and in my control, rather than just knowing I could have it all if I wished, just as soon as I figure out a way to get into the blasted thing. Like trying to peel an orange with your hands tied behind your back, and with you tied to a chair. That is life to me. And every second we're growing and learning, while we get hungrier and more tired and frustrated.

In regards to my waking world, I want to schedule regular "adventure days". One day set aside every week or every month or something, to go and actually do the things that are normally labelled "one day I'll do this" or "one day I'm gonna go there", the things that too often get forgotten or passed by. I refuse to have a future in which I'm sitting, looking back on my life, and realise I've wasted my opportunities to live to my fullest extent, that I've wasted my dreams and hopes for adventure.

I have, this very moment, finished (minus detailing) a small white rabbit taxidermy piece. He has been named Teatime (pronounced "Teh-ah-tim-eh") after Mr. Johnathan Teatime of Discworld notoriety, one of my favorite and most personally resonating characters of all time. The rabbit has been named after him in virtue of his flat black (matte) eyes, which are obviously in contrast to the albino's general pink-red eye color.

Resisting all impulses toward rushing and impatience, I instead spent around 12 hours on him from form-build to final pin (this being literal, as I have run out of pins entirely). I'm still tweaking ear angles, but so far I believe him to be the very best I have achieved thus far in the area of bare-bones-supplies-and-tech/bloody-minded-stubborn-Luddite-primativist small mammalian taxidermy. Although, despite still being a small mammal, Teatime is in fact the largest animal I have completed.

The reasons for this are simple, elegant and offer a good view on my merciless beration of self; small birds and mammals are much more difficult than larger ones. Since I did not think myself worthy of moving up a work scale, despite the presence of far larger beasts in my morgue, until now I have completed exclusively rodents and small birds up to blackbird-size.

Now that I am satisfied that I have reached my learning benchmark, with the new acquisition of ear-cartilage removal, ear lining and nose detail intelligence, I am free to complete my wider array of larger rabbits, assorted birds of medium-to large-size, one fox and one gargantuan housecat.

Speaking of housecats, Sita, my own, is very concerned and frightened by Mr. Teatime. This must mean I have done a good job, as she tends to want to eat my pieces (and often succeeds, much to my displeasure).

I spoke to a nice young man (named David) at the local knackery 14-18 hours hence, who was quite a delight. I am pleased yet baffled by the knackery processing the slaughter of both horses and cattle. Perhaps a disease issue making them unfit for human consumption? Nevertheless, he has offered me the unheard-of price of $20 (Australian) for an entire horsehide. I am unsure as to whether the tail and hooves are included, but it seems a moot point for such a massive discount on raw skin. He assured me that, despite rumours to the contrary I gleaned from other workers, I could get a horse head from them quite easily. I thanked him very much, and wrote down his name next to the number of the tannery to add to my ever-growing list of helpful contacts. I do so love this city, despite its flaws and cancerous nature as with all cities. But it cannot be blamed for its nature.

Phrases I heard today in assorted areas that stuck in my mind will be written now. They aren't in order, or indeed have much meaning to many except they resonated with me at the time.
== "His mind is like a shattered mirror; brilliant, dazzling and sharp, but dangerous and irreparably broken."
== "The blood is the life" and the entirety of "Love Song For A Vampire" by Annie Lennox (I was watching Bram Stoker's Dracula after Rocky Horror)
== "The falcon cannot hear his falconer."
== "Not all scary-looking things are monsters. Nice-looking things are monsters too."
== "And superheroes / Come to feast / To taste the flesh / Not yet deceased / And all I know / Is still the beast is feeding."
== "Now the only thing I've come to trust / Is an orgasmic rush of lust / Rose tints my world and keeps me safe from my trouble and pain."
== "What do I want, what do I want... The world. Yes, I think that will satiate me."
== "Night? How can you give me what was always mine?"
== A good deal of 'The Hunger' by Whitby Streiber (my spelling may be off a little.)

Had an idea to do a little UStreaming to get on the bandwagon ironically late.

If I were to do a UStream thing while I do some taxidermy stuff (not skinning just yet, I have a good few skins to work on as is, so no actual gore this time around), with my own random ramblings and some music and what have you for audio, would anyone want to watch?

Comment now, dammit!

EDIT: Here and on LJ, a few people seem interested so it'll be going ahead. The show seems to be labelled Lazarus and the Scalpel for reasons that seemed clear a moment ago but are hazy now.
Witness my video test. My housecat makes an impromptu cameo.
http://www.ustream.tv/mybroadcasts/343702

I fail to exactly comprehend what I want, specifically, out of life. The rest of the world seems to have these long-term goals. I have much ambition, but not in a long-term goal way, more in an ongoing pursuit of happiness and perfection. My actions are definite and bold but without planning, and as such I tend to be quite erratic. I've been told I'm hard to understand. I can see why this would be so. I stopped trying to understand myself long ago, resigning myself to just Be and Do. This doesn't bode well for any kind of financial success, however. What artisan has ever been financially successful while not hating themself for it? Perhaps I'd be better off poor and happy.

To do that, however, means I need to sort out the more detrimental aspects of my life. Whatever little parts that still need to be pruned away, the things that make me angry or sad or trapped in some way. That sounds easier and simpler than it is. My complex mental pack heirarchy has shifted and changed considerably in the past year; unfortunately, many of the people in that heirarchy do not know this yet. I suppose I should merely be happy to be above omega status, but then ambition has always been my downfall. Or is that pride? And is there a difference?

I need to go back to the museum, on some bright new day I can spend a good 8 hours. For a dollar an hour, then, I can spend in quiet contemplation of ancient artifacts and replicated bones of monsters, converse quietly with long-dead beast and bird. Stand in the older halls and collections and let the thousand voices wash over me, a hundredscore screams and howls and whimpers, tales and epics of lives and sudden deaths and slow demises of disease and, every now and then, old age. Where else can you hear the voice of a tiger in the same room as a buffalo? If you listen in just the right way, of course.

I'm seized with unreasoning restless panic today, starting from the 5-minute delay between waking and the rush-back of dream memory and continuing until now and possibly continuing all day. The idea of leaving the house today is unconscionable. My only wish for today, oddly, is horseriding; to take off across grass and treeland, borrowing a four-legged gait from the helpful, benevolent equine, becoming in essence a centaur in fuction if not totally in form. But my sudden agoraphobia, coupled with a lack of horses, makes this a foolish wish.

Asked for dreams, I did, and dreams I did recieve. Not the ones I wanted. Perhaps I should be more specific.

---

I had finished the footpaws, somehow putting in green and blue LED lights. I was unsure how I'd done it, and worried that they wouldn't last long as I hadn't attached any batteries or other power source. I boxed up the set and sent an unknown male, a friend of some description though his face was unfamiliar to me, to take the box on a bus, thereby to get it to a postage place. His phone went off, and with every repeated ringtone another of the bus doors slammed shut. He was moving so slowly, fumbling the phone and I grew very anxious, mindlessly panicked because the doors were closing and I could do nothing to hurry him. The rain came down, sky dark with black-grey clouds, and the panic drove me off the street. As I fled I yelped my fear to the sky, who did not care for my anxiety.



I found myself in a park. The rain had stopped but the grass was still wet, glistening like green glass shards. Decorative pebbles lined the flowerbeds, and the park was full of the usual groups of humans, students and lovers beneath the trees, lone and paired singulars walking dogs, that sort of thing. My gut seized in sudden pain; something I had eaten was not digesting. I was torn between the sudden inescapable compulsion, instinct-driven, to swallow a few of the smooth pebbles to aid my digestion -- the pain had bent me double by now -- and the fear of those hundreds of humans eyes upon me, expecting human behavior, which I simply could not do as the pain drew me down to pant upon the ground. I felt a sharp piece of bone twist in my gut, punishing me for ignoring my instincts and I could barely breathe.



And now somewhere else, rural, dry. Baked yellow and brown by the sun, dead grass limp and dry like dead hair clinging to a skull. The sun beat down upon me, unforgiving, leaving me ashamed for leaving the dry lands of my birth. My skin burned and tingled with the sun's righteous fury.
A man, around mid-40s and unremarkable in his typical farm-dweller appearance. He was speaking to me, though I did not trust his words, describing this area as a 'refuge for animals' that had been 'abandoned', saying that people didn't think about their safety or their wellbeing enough. He painted himself as a savior of the unfortunate, offering them a place to stay where they would be sheltered and looked after. As I looked around the pens, I saw this to be only half-true. I wished I could have been surprised by this, but I knew it to be typical.
There were a few straw-lined pens under a roof of corrugated iron that superheated the air beneath them despite the open front. The animals in these pens were obviously hot and thirsty, but I saw no water or food aside from the straw they lived on, which did nothing to help the carnivores. A litter of three lion cubs looked thin and mangey, with no mother I could see anywhere. A Suffolk ewe lay in another pen, obviously unshorn in many a season, strangely nursing a litter of kittens. A dog and her pups lay listlessly in a corner, and I saw one of them was dead, a smaller pup that did not get enough nutrients. From the gaunt pups that were left and the glazed eyes of the mother, I knew her milk had dried up days ago. A bison bull stood in the sun in a small exercise yard with two horses and a few rams. He stared dully in my direction. I wondered how he'd gotten here.

I left the man behind, who had disappeared into a shed with a strange alkali scent emanating from it. I made my way along the outer pens, the ones out in the sun with no relief in sight, made of ramshackle assortments of wood and wire. A large, proud-looking albino ibex stood and allowed me to touch his coat, bearing the sun's punishment with silent dignity. He had but one horn, the other hacksawed off fairly recently and leaving a bloody stump that drew flies like honey. There were eggs already laid upon it, and on the burnt-raw skin of his face. He would die soon. I carefully pulled away a section of the weak fence, but wasn't surprised when he didn't move; what was there for him out there but more sun? He seemed to thank me nonetheless, but still said No quite clearly, gently.

Two foxes, one on either side of a fence. The red, wild-type fox in a larger pen, circling and pacing in obvious distress, barked repeatedly in frustration. His mate in a smaller pen, the size of a sheep holding or inspection pen, a beautiful amber-coated vixen with pale green eyes, thrashed and yelped. Wire was tied around her neck in a crude leash attached to the far end of the pen. I saw in the larger pen the corpses of many other dog foxes, called there by her cries and shot in the gut with a large-grained shotgun shell. The vixen was terried of me, but did not bite when I let her loose. I pushed the dividing section of fence away and she joined her mate, but the two did not leave the larger pen to my frustration, until I saw the glint of traps outside the pen's walls.

I caught sight of a spool of barbed wire hung on the fencepost. A kestrel, obviously a young male, was impaled upon its many points like a crucifix. He appeared dead, and I apologised and prayed under my breath as I reached out to free him from the wire. When I touched him, he moved weakly, eyes on me as he tried feebly to flap his wings to get away, tearing them nearly into pieces. And god, the hunger was upon me, unbidden but unyielding, and despite my sincere wish to help him somehow my mouth watered at the scent of blood and the sound of his weak cries. I begged forgiveness and leant forward, my mouth close to his neck, smelling his dusty plumage and his fear. A chorus of silent accusations, and I turned to see the wall beside the pen covered in the bodies of birds, mainly crows and hawks, nailed to the wood and staring at me, and suddenly shrieking and struggling against their pinned wings. I did not know what they wanted, if they were angry at me for wanting to kill this beautiful little prince upon the wire before me, or if they too wanted death and release from this sunbaked hell.

The ibex looked at me, walked out of his pen toward me on stiff arthritic joints and stood before me. Leaning his head right back, his one remaining horn dug deep into his back, releasing fresh blood to enflame my hunger. Looking into my eyes with understanding and acceptance, he stood by the dying kestrel and tilted his head back and to the side, baring his throat to me and patiently waiting for me. I wept for him, and reached toward the kestrel once more to begin my long, grisly task.



The phone went off then, disorienting me. It was Amber calling, and from the clock it appeared to be midday.

Sick. Flu or something. Throat's bleeding. Feel like death, except when the drugs kick in.

Applied for vet nurse job. Got rejected by mail today. Suck.

Back to looped Zero Punctuation videos and dull, fever-dry monotony.

I've had a few "well, of COURSE!" moments today. First the tail puppetry idea I posted on FA and the fursuit community (which gave me good feedback and help so far), then earlier (perhaps a different day) the idea to make taxidermy forms from tinfoil and mortician's wax. Or beeswax/candlewax in a pinch, if you're quick with the sculpting and don't mind a little heat and pain. And just now, reading Beetlecat's extraordinarily useful tutorials, had the idea to buy a cheap painter's jumpsuit and get the helper-person to pin it in and staple+cut it into a form-fitting shape before using it for pattern drafting. Why in the hell didn't I think of that, and with a painting supply store literally at the bottom of the hill?

Nonetheless, I have been pleased with my cleverness. Nothing makes me happier than finding a clever answer to an awkward or puzzling question.

---

The cat seems to have wormed her way in behind me on the chair, taking advantage of my perching-to-reach-over-absurdly-cluttered-table-to-keyboard posture and position to take up most of the chair and nuzzle into the small of my back. Her nose is very, very cold. I'll have to tip her into the couch cushions in a moment.

---

I have been terribly slack in taking down my dreams lately; I have let go several which would have been most interesting to catalog. No matter; last night's will have to do. Not that it is lacking in any way.



It was warm. That's what struck me first, that simple fact that there was a good, fierce heat seeping into my flesh. When I opened my eyes, I was in a room I'd been in in my dreams before, on a leather sofa. The sofa had been pulled rather close to the huge fireplace, with some kind of furred skin thrown over me as a blanket, from the texture and length I'd say wolf. I wouldn't have been surprised.

The fireplace was stacked with blazing logs, really near whole branches. Oak, it smelt like. I love the smell of burning oak. The darkhair stook near the fire, facing it, looking into the flames silently. She felt me wake and smiled over her shoulder at me, her eyes and hair catching the firelight, her skin glowing beautifully with it as if alive.

She didn't move or say anything for a long moment, just looked at me with that slight smile that didn't really say anything except a denoting of affection. She stood perfectly, disturbingly still, as she always did, her every motion always being possessed of the utmost purpose and control no matter how small the gesture. She blinked, carefully as always. She knew I found it unnerving when she forgot to blink, which was often.

She came to stand in front of me, gestured for me to stand, and wrapped her arms around me, resting her forehead to mine as she smiled. Her flesh was deliciously warm from the fire and I clung to her happily. Her hair smelt of rich earth and fresh green grass-- no, not grass. Not quite. The stone-and-leaf smells of moss and fern. Her skin like steel and jasmine, as always, and felt like warm smooth slate swathed in good doeskin beneath my fingers. The black silk of her dress tickled my feet with its hemline.

"I shouldn't go away so long, dearheart," she said, brushing the hair from my face with a precise hand. Her fingertips were cooling already.

"I needed you," I said simply. She nodded, looked into the fire and back at me, and neither of us had anything to say about it further. She stroked the back of my neck. I was happy here, like this. In the bright glow of the fire, her eyes no longer looked black, showing jewel-like iridescences of whiskey and wine colors. And wasn't she just intoxicating, here, like this.

"Will you show me what has happened to you?"

She asked so softly, so carefully, I smiled a little. She didn't have any reason to ask; she could take whatever information she wanted, had more than the power to do so. And yet she asked, at least this time. I didn't ask why, it's no good asking her why on such things. Perhaps my mind was too jumbled and chaotic lately, perhaps a slight sedation would help. Or maybe she simply wanted to try and pluck any painful memories out as she could have once, though we both knew she couldn't here, like this. Otherwise she would have; she'd had the opportunity and the desire to do so many times over.

She did not lay me beck onto the sofa, or onto the floor. This wasn't the same as other times, which were more for gratification of our hungers. That would come a little later, I knew.

She sat on the sofa, drew me down beside her, very close, leaning my back against the high padded armrest. My head was supported comfortably and I rested there, looking at her quietly, simply delighting in her presence. She smiled again, a more reassuring smile. No teeth. She took my right hand in hers and laid down close to me, leaning against the armrest on one elbow in a way I would have found painful after a very short time.

She kissed me, very very softly so I could barely feel the fangs against my lips. The hand of the arm that supported her started stroking my hair as she leant back from me a little, calming me. So much careful concern over me; I wondered if she was purposely blocking her mind from mine, and if so for what reason. Again, there is no asking why with her.

Her eyes, always back to her eyes, always. Inhumanly beautiful, in that way that only the inhuman can be beautiful.

"You know how to do this, my love. You remember. Show me now, everything and anything that haunts you. Let me take it away." I found I couldn't look away from her eyes, how perfectly doll-eye still they were without a single tremor or flutter. I literally couldn't look away from them, and gradually some part of my long-locked memory spoke up to tell me this was right, this was familiar, before her single fang delicately punctured the centre of my palm, the soft-rough tongue lapping the blood reverently and without hunger, and the world collapsed.

I showed her everything and anything, as she asked. What had seemed like little, like nothing at all, suddenly surprised me with their weight. One by one, I felt her mind gently nudging mine, softly and relentlessly pulling up each image and thought and memory, bringing with it the emotions and everything I'd not known was there on every subject and person. With every single one that was laid bare, I felt her soothe me and wash it away, making it feel small and manageable again but taking away all the venom and pain that had been seething within each box, each masked and covered thought and memory. She saw and knew things I couldn't accept to myself, let alone anyone else, and she made them feel okay again.

We came to my restless hunger for violence, that beautiful pacing beast that whispers so sweetly and convincingly at the end of its thick chain. She gave me something I don't think I could express properly how much it meant for me and what it meant coming from her. She gave me her hunting memories, put them in a box in my mind and let me have them. With a rapid silent series of images, three-frame sequences, movements, she showed me something else about them; every kill was made with a mirror nearby. I could watch her kill a hundred times at least, maybe more, and she made sure I could study and pay attention to every single one. And was that a knife in her left hand? She never used knives, had no reason to, her body was all she needed. Quite a gift, one that must have taken a very long time to compile.

*Come back to me, love.*

I opened my eyes; I reeled, my eyes suddenly blinded from the firelight, and feeling nauseous and panicked at the loss of her from my mind. So close, goddammit, so fucking close and nearly right, nearly fixed. Gone again now, and the silence returned at full force to howl in my ears. So this is what she wanted to calm me for. Hot tears, sudden, unwelcome, inescapable and inevitable.

The nausea hit me harder, contracting every stomach muscle just as her hand curled around my shoulders, lifted me with as much effort as picking up a piece of paper, her flesh suddenly soft and yielding. She curled me close to her, cradling my neck and spine with far more care than was necessary, with one hand. With the other, she dried my tears, stroked my hair back again. All in the space of a bare second, maybe a second and a half. She must really be concerned, she was forgetting to control her movements.

A fingernail slicing her throat, a two inch incision at most, designed to release a lot of blood at once, at least from those with a heart that could still beat. As it was, it was a lot but nowhere near the right amount for a living human. These thoughts seemed inescapable as much as they were useless and meaningless.

"Join me," I whispered, the nausea agony now, my eyes losing ability to focus correctly. It was a plea.

She laid a hand on the back of my head and patiently guided me to her throat, said nothing until she felt me drinking. "You think it doesn't make me ache as much as you... That my heart cannot break for the silence. But if it didn't cause you so much harm, I would do that action with you every night of your life, dearheart, just so we wouldn't hear the silence so keenly without the other's voice. Perhaps you would learn to speak to me again. For now, this is all we have, perhaps all we'll ever have left. So let us have this and forget..."

She tore the shirt from my shoulder in her unthinking haste and sank her fangs deep into the flesh of my shoulder, the closest part she could reach. She wrapped me in her arms so tightly I couldn't move save to breathe, seeming ready to never let me go again. It felt right again, as right as it could be now, and through her blood I could literally feel the fierce, furious heat of her anger, of her love for me, as if they were seperate. I felt her helpless frustration, an emotion she was ill used to and despised with a hatred greater almost than that for the faces and voices in her mind of those who had done this to us. She would kill them soon if they did not tell her the hows and whys of what she needed to know. I felt her lonely, trapped sorrow, saw the concrete room I realised she only ever left to hunt where the red haired one had nearly killed us both, and a million rooms very much like it made of brick, before that stone. And aside from all her discontentment in the waking world, the pure wild joy of this, the blood between us seeming to sing as we flew far away from everything and drowned in each other, just for now, just for this moment before it had to end and we'd be seperate again. The waves grew and pulled and finally broke over us, our world in each other's arms, bound frozen-still with ecstacy that set our skin on fire and made us finally break with screams, and gasps and groans and finally purrs.

Her skin was warm again, from the inside out. I was colder now. I clutched her tighter and let her wrap the wolfskin around my shoulders and closed my eyes. She didn't let me go for a moment, and kissed my lips one more time before settling to watch me rest, to watch the fire. She tried to breathe for me, to soothe me to sleep easier, but the rhythm wasn't familiar to her anymore and she kept forgetting to breathe in.

Both were only semi-lucid due to a generally interrupted sleep cycle. My memory doesn't serve me so well at such times. Where have all the vampires gone.

The first, worryingly, involved tooth loss again. I had a pain in a couple molars, my lower back right to be more specific. Poking and scratching at them helped a little, though it did nothing useful but still the odd itch inside the teeth, and eating was out of the question entirely. I set my mouth open wide to examine myself in the mirror, as I often do in real life purely to admire the strange savage prettiness I find in rows of pointy teeth.
Amber came into the bathroom and said that they'd have to come out and that I should go to the dentist. I did not want to go to the dentist; no one touches my weapons, and by extension my teeth, but me. This was brushed off as silly, and despite my protests and threats to bite fingers off Amber reached into my mouth (which somehow easily accomodated her hand up to and past the knuckles) and took hold of one of the offending teeth, pulling it loose easily with a soft, meaty slipping sound. While I watched in horror in the mirror, I saw short yellow bone spires laid bare protruding from my gums where the tooth should have been, stained with brown and black. The next tooth, a wisdom tooth at the back, was taken just as easily while I sat in shock.
I was angry; I needed them to eat, to bite, and I was sure they would have gotten better on their own as they always did in real life. The bone spires retracted away into my gums, shunning the exposure, and I couldn't bring them up again. I tongued the holes in my toothline uselessly, growled impotently and felt old and useless.



There was a phone noise that woke me. I don't know what exactly now. I think a text message. I went back to sleep soonish, after a little shuffling and turning.



There was a wedding of some kind. I wasn't particularly certain whose; something to do with Dorian, obviously, since he asked me to come along with him. There seemed to be much of his family there; not that I'd met them in real life, my subconscious mind seemed to just assign random faces to names Dorian said. A good many grated on me terribly, which Dorian seemed to know. They were not terribly kind to him, it seemed, and on a few occasions Dorian would stand behind me while I sat, wrapping arms around my neck and shoulders in what looked to be purely for affection's sake but seemed to be more to stop me lunging across and tearing off someone's face. I was well-behaved.
There was a man, older-looking with mostly-blackish hair and a well-lined face, talking to him and I at one point; I forget what was said, which meant it was probably more for Dorian's ears than mine. I liked this man better for some reason. He had a plate with a well-cooked softshell crab on it in front of him, and I was captured with watching his method of opening the shell and eating it. It appeared somehow stuffed with saffron rice and the shell gave way under the fork with little resistance at all. One was brought to me a little later, which I shared somewhat with Dorian despite his lack of appetite; it was very tasty.
The rest was somewhat nonsensical to me, mainly involving some kind of wedding preparations or other, things I didn't quite follow but I walked along beside Dorian as these things were being told to him nonetheless. There was a large hall in which said organisation was happening, and towards the end of the night cot beds and sleeping mats were brought out. Dorian chose a camping-style sleeping mat by the corner of the room; I tucked myself into a thick blanket I found and curled up near him, hands crossed at the wrists beneath my chin and keeping watch over things while Dorian slept. People muttered in corners and occasionally looked in our direction, but I couldn't seem to understand words. I flicked my tail in annoyance and decided not to sleep, preferring to make sure nothing happened to Dorian while he was asleep. I did not like the muttering sounds. Dorian's hands twitched.

---

My birthday was/is the 13th of April, depending on your respective date line proximity. Here in Australia, it's just been, though if I count the U.S I have another day.
Mum gave me a new MP3 player, which I have been needing since the old one died and was subsequently taken apart and not put back together again. It is two inches tall by one wide, and is black with red accents. Mum also gave me an old towel for taxidermy purposes, a bunch of large ziploc bags for same, a crime novel, a large pack of Fererro Rocher, a DVD of Death Proof, a bottle of L.A Ice cola, a jar of peanut butter and $20 in Australian currency. I was pleased, very pleased, with all of this.

Into the city tomorrow, to see a second cousin from a train onto a bus, which will take him to a plane, which will eventually take him back to the jungles in the northern islands where he has lived as a Buddhist monk for a few years hence. Interesting man who before this used to be a drummer in a rock band from Tamworth. His name used to be Kevin, but he has a new name now and I cannot wrap my mind and tongue around it.

It's been a strange sort of day. Nice, not unpleasant. Just... Beige. Feels like Zydrate.

Enough for tonight. Happy birthday to me, and to Karmicbunny. The former being 19, the latter being 20.

We found an exercise bike by the side of the road, perfectly functional so we took it home. I just put new batteries in the information screen and now it works just like new. Why do people throw these things out?

I have it pointed in the general direction of the TV so I can jump on for a little exercise when I'd otherwise be sitting there bored. Just now I hopped on the exercise bike and rode a kilometre in 2.53 minutes on full difficulty. I am quite proud of myself. Will continue doing random 1km bike sets whenever the impulse takes me, and this should yield interesting results. I can already do up my knee-high boots again, so I'm pleased. Too bad the seat's so damn uncomfortable.

---

Supanova was... something. The second convention I'd ever been to, and the only non-furry convention at that, the con itself was a wondrous ball of shiny, bemusement and Twilight-based Tourettes Syndrome. Much to the amusement of  apocastasis I suspect. My reasonless twitching fury at Twilight is often quite comical.

The costumes did dazzle me though, in keeping with the Twilight theme in a vague way. So many fandoms and fabrics, bizarre short V's and elves and delightful tall androgynes in corsets. Shiny objects of all kinds, free lollies, disappearing comic-artist man-divas and other artists with an endearing absence of knowledge for the appearance of ferrets. Books and fabric bolts offered to sign and draw on, giant screened tablets to draw on (in green, to symbolise my own seething envy). And I amongst all this, a very lonely Graverobber with a keychain-overdosed manticore to escort and a pathetically modded foil-covered gluegun to wave around theatrically.

Such fun, indeed. I gained a small sack of swag in lieu of a conbag (I neglected to grab one), mainly containing stickers and a Lost Boys shirt of awe-inspiring niftyness. I aimed to get a Watchmen smiley badge, but of course they sold out rather fast. In my alone times, I struck up conversations with the constaff and the stallkeepers, occasionally commenting on the costumes of the more spectacular cosplayers. I refound a man who we found earlier, who had engaged us in poking with empty drink bottles, and chatted for a while, then left and realised I'd never asked his name. Other times I merely sat outside with a cigarette watching the people walk past in a child's kaleidoscope of colors, for once feeling completely comfortable in the crowd in the pure bizarreness of the thing.

But being alone was a rare thing, and I much preferred the time spent with Dorian. It is best to have a companion to be your co-conspirator in these group situations; someone to make laugh who will help make it the adventure it should be. Often I actually despise being alone in groups; the activity around me serves to isolate me more than it would if I were merely looking at the crowd. With the proper compay, I can actually feel I'm a part of the crowd, rather than being apart from it. And smiling with a good friend is much easier and gratifying than trying to smile alone.

More people need to learn about Repo, so I won't be the only Repo cosplayer. However, then I'd have to make my costume and makeup more impressive... the conundrum.

---

And now, a little thing that will definitely make you laugh, and helped pull me from the homesick emotional void caused by his song, "White Wine In The Sun". That song, incidentally, is what caused me to call up my aunt, and decided to call the rest of my family tomorrow.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-lkt.....5&index=10

I have many names. Some are nicknames, alteregos, simply other names, and the rest tend to be names given to me by others (often random peoples at places I frequent).

Here are some. I answer to many of them. Do not call me Lor; I do not like this.

* Dandy (duh)
* Lazarus
* Laz
* Fang (dental defects are win)
* Leo
* Laurent
* Louis
* Daniel (not sure; I just like the name)
* Kitty (only  witching-hour-wolf calls me this)
* Chef (self-explanatory; I like to cook)
* Ledarius (only  apocastasis calls me this)

And if I do the standard drag name test (first pet + first residence's street), Spike Thirteen. Which is awesome.