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Lestat de Lioncourt
11 August 2016 @ 08:25 pm



How long has it been since I've been in this place where so many words were laid upon virtual paper for the eyes of strangers to peruse? If anyone still wanders here, I want you to know I stopped by and etched my name onto the wall once more. I am still around. I had thought the last post was a magnificent way to leave this journal, and so for over a year it has remained.

But you should know my vanity and curiosity would lead me to brush the dust from the windows for a brief glance.

Always I am drawn to the empty stage.
 
 
Lestat de Lioncourt
26 January 2015 @ 09:45 pm
“Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing.” Camille Pissarro

pissarro_1876_le_jardin_des_mathurins_pontoise_720

Have you ever studied impressionist paintings? They're made of hundreds of brushstrokes, thousands maybe and yet in the end they make a cohesive image. Because of the spacing and varied depth of each stroke however, the scene can seem to change depending on where the viewer is standing; Landscapes may allow the viewer to imagine they see the sway of the leaves on the trees, or the ripples on a river may seem to flow realistically toward the horizon. A funny thing is, the closer you get, the more the illusion is lost. Van Gogh's Wheatfield With Crows (one of my favorites) or Renoir's fancy luncheon scenes become nothing but smudges and dots. The pleasantry and wholeness disappear and dissolve into singular meaningless colors that while not unpleasant, are definitely not as pleasing to the eye and spirit as the concept of the whole.

There is a larger metaphor there, or at least it seems to me that with many things in life, we see them as we want to see them or as we ideally want them to be - and then when we get closer we find that they're not really meeting our expectations. Sometimes it's something easy to let go: Your meal at a restaurant doesn't even remotely resemble the advertised special? Eh, try it out, or take it home and feed it to the dog, right? Of course, there are those unmet expectations that are a little harder to swallow, figuratively if not literally. Now people will say, "What do you mean I had expectations - I didn't go looking for something to be a certain way or another!" I would argue that to be rarely true. Most of the time we pre-hear, pre-see, pre-judge and pre-estimate everything and everyone we encounter. Now whether that's nature or nurture could be debated, but in the end there you have it. As a result it seems that like the impressionist painting, the closer we step toward what it was we saw as a whole, the concept is broken down and usually, unfortunately, disappointment replaces the initial fascination and familiarity. Occasionally, the viewer pauses before their concession and touches the canvas with a sigh. Some may wonder if they might have been better off not even bothering to look in the first place, but others, ah well, they may find a brushstroke or two heartbreakingly worth the regret. Incidentally, don't actually touch the artwork or you'll give the security staff a chance to earn their paychecks.

And so while I'm speaking of artists, the brilliant, much-lauded photographer Ansel Adams once said that no man has the right to dictate what others perceive, but that all people should be encouraged to reveal themselves, their perceptions and emotions and as such, build confidence in the creative spirit as a whole. If only Ansel would have known that one day there would be an entity known as Facebook where people revealed themselves flagrantly, right? Still, there, here, in a gallery or on the street, the idea is to be applauded. Life is unscripted, darlings. UNscripted. If you look at a painting or photograph and see just one thing as a whole, you're missing out. If you enter into a conversation with preconceived outcomes, you're missing out. Unscripted. Remember that. If you decide it's not worth your time the minute it isn't what you wanted it to be, you'll deprive yourself of what might be just around the corner. Then again, if you go around the corner with any similar specific outcomes in mind, you'll feel the same thing all over again. Put your expectations in the coat closet as you enter the Gallery of the World. Make no mistake: Life is freeform work of art in progress, unfolding onto the canvas minute by minute. Shelve preconceptions and your idea of what it should say, how it should make you feel and what you want it to be from the start. I say touch the hell out of it and screw the guards who tell you to behave.
 
 
Current Mood: Metaphorical
Current Music: Shame - by Ciaran Lavery (Spotify)
 
 
Lestat de Lioncourt
21 January 2015 @ 07:32 am
If there were no wind, if there were no tides, if there were no zip-zapping molecules, particles and atoms, that would be a problem.

Agitation begets life. The stir, hum and whirl of everything from human DNA to the tiniest cilia in the tiniest organism, is life, moving.

Perhaps that is one reason why, when I become agitated for better or worse, I find it to be a compulsory thrill, and I sink my teeth in to the hilt. You better believe I want to taste it fully until I'm drunk from the flavors. The problem with this is when inadvertently, I am overly aggressive (again for better or worse) and leap out of the box so enthusiastically, that the one who opened the box so hesitantly in the first place, is scared off from examining the contents, or in some cases, rediscovering the contents after they've aged a few years.

I really don't mean to, you know. My reputations as a lover of companionship and the magical stories two souls can create is well documented. So when an idea... when the spark is ignited or reignited in my brain, particularly if it's a re-ignition, then Vvrroooom, I'm ready to go, baby. I want to take that spark in my hands and lay it on the kindling, I want to tease it with my breath and then stay close and silently beg it to flourish. Would you understand and expect that this is the point where that agitation, that outright childish excitement can get in the way? I poke here and there, add just a little more fuel and blow gently to see if I can get it to do... to do what? Hm, to get it to do what I want it to do? It might appear that way and I can't deny that in some instances the agitation and insistence is self-serving, but not always. In some cases, again, particularly if it is something I want to rediscover, something that once was so illuminated... oh honey, I want to stoke the fire and jump into the cauldron and bathe in the essence. But therein lies the problem: Overzealousness. What I really want to do is take your hand and pull you toward what I see, but instead wind up burning your delicate fingers. I want you to say, "Ah, yes, how warm and lovely!" but instead your silence speaks volumes.

All I can do is ask once again for pardon. If you love me at all you'll know that you'll be doing that a lot, sometimes with a smile and sometimes with a look of great consternation. What can I say in the end? I'm easily drawn into unfolding mysteries, warm and wonderful and I want you to experience them by my side.

I'm not so sure that's something to be sorry for, but if I've unintentionally scared you off or singed your fingertips in my excitement, then in as much as you pardon me, I offer my apologies. I'll climb now out of the caldron, wrap myself in a warm blanket and watch the embers to see what happens.
 
 
Lestat de Lioncourt
17 January 2015 @ 09:22 pm
Speak to me about love
Tell me again of the tender things
Your beautiful words
My heart never grows tired of hearing them
As long as
You repeat these beautiful words
I love you

I'm sure you know
That I don't believe a word
But however I still want to believe
In these words I love
Your voice and your cherishing words
With every murmur and quiver
Deludes me with its beautiful history
And in spite of myself I want to believe your words

It is so comforting
My dear treasure, to be a little mad
Life is sometimes too bitter
If you can't believe in a dream
Sorrow is quickly lost
In the protection of an embrace
The heart is strong enough to heal a wound
Made by the oath which created it.

Lucienne Boyer, From 1933

 
 
Lestat de Lioncourt
11 January 2015 @ 07:55 pm
It seems my posts here are becoming infrequent, yes? I would like to at least feel that I want to apologize, but I have to say that really it's simply because I've been otherwise occupied and better yet, occupied in a good way with this thing called life - and that's something no one should feel badly about, ever. Louis and I are managing, finding our way back to one another as we and everyone else knew we would; Did I mention before that we were putting the whole thing down to paper for voyeuristic pleasure? Mm, well, it won't make much sense unless you've read the mammoth e-book "To Every Season" which we compiled over a year's time. It's 60 chapters, some of them hefty in size, but probably worthwhile. That and the new writing can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2803211/chapters/6292967 Please take it as is, without question on the location or pen names. I can assure you it's our writing - and if you read it you'll be able to discern the style, I'm sure. This new writing will end up around 28 chapters. How does it end? Stay tuned, as they say.

Lastly, tonight I'm feeling...I don't know, not quite maudlin, but something toward that end. And when you've gone/ Further away/ I will be calling to you...Someone perhaps knows the sentiments of this quote very well:

I am tired, Beloved,
of chafing my heart against
the want of you;
of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.

~Amy Lowell, "The Letter

Sometimes I really do wish I could hold private conferences. Sometimes that in-your-faceness without time to think about an answer leads to more honest conversations. I guess there's always Yahoo messenger, since I'm old school that way. People know what name to look for, I'd hope.

Peace, my lovelies. Make this your year to shine hm?
 
 
 
Lestat de Lioncourt
30 October 2014 @ 03:44 pm
Old habits die hard. I was asked about being fallible, and without truly thinking over the word or the implications of my response, I announced with a laugh that I was probably the most fallible of all the vampires. The person asking the question didn’t flinch at all before asking me for examples. I said I’d already proven it countless times in written form – and I stand by that answer. Hell, anyone reading this can probably join the chorus and cite situations in which I not only failed others, but myself. I told the questioner “I think I'm the most fallible because what I am must mirror mortality. I believe it must do that in order to exist.” She then argued that what I meant surely was ‘fragility,’ and I would say no. Fragility is very close to vulnerability, and I’ll admit to being vulnerable on occasion, but I wouldn’t readily agree that I’ve been fragile in this or my mortal life. Fallible on the other hand, that’s a different story, isn’t it?

Understand: I know the difference between fallible and failing. I also understand that for one reason or another, it isn’t a good question to ask me because when I do stop and think of the answer, it brings up memories I’d rather not confront. A good psychiatrist might say that’s why I’m prone to impulsively flinging words out of my mouth, though I like to think there are occasions when the words though impulsive are ultimately accurate either in meaning or in hitting their intended target. . A good psychiatrist – ha, that’s a laugh. Our whole clan needs couch time, I say. David is far more stable, far less likely to let you down. Perhaps as one who had time to accumulate a greater number of mortal years, he had time to outgrow the flagrant behaviors I’m known to show. Louis, ah now he is the Yan to my Ying or vice versa. He takes time – in and for everything. He is the embodiment of subtlety, patience and forethought. I know, what’s he doing with me right?

When I contemplate the meaning of the word fallible- being capable if not in fact prone to err or mistake, there are names that come immediately to mind. Shall we run down the list? My father, Nicolas, a few mortal hearts that shall remain unnamed, and of course my beloved Louis have borne the pain of my fallibility. I failed them because I failed myself, and this… oh this yes, this was part of the long conversations I held so long ago in the warm, straw-scented rooms with Nicolas. I can never be completely what I see myself as being and so is the way of humanity. To bring our conversation into using modern analogies, let me put it another way. We carry on and have an image of ourselves in our minds; we think we’re one thing, humming along in the driver’s seat until a crash throws us a few hundred feet and we’re left on the outside looking at the empty car, realizing it’s all a big, fake movie. The problem is, there are usually casualties alongside the road, bleeding from our carelessness or shivering in the cold shadow of our self-absorption. Yet in the end, even us standing at the side of the road is an illusion, isn’t it?

Anyone who knows me understands that I love words – and so I say that perhaps "fallible" isn’t the right label for me, if anyone including myself thinks labels are something I or anyone should wear. What then? On the negative side, I can readily see the use of the following words: Unreliable? Untrustworthy? Selfish? Impractical? Self-Centered? Callous? Cold? I’m all these things, and yet as in mirroring mortal nature, I am so much more. Perhaps it is why I’m prone to falling in love with mortals. In them, I see myself: A vulnerable heart, a false belief in what they are and are not, intoxicated for better or worse with life they are, and how I love them. I want to embrace them as I embrace my fellow immortals. I want to sacrifice myself for them, to show them I am nothing less than a fallible but (you want to choose words, here’s two more to remember )– let’s add “resilient badass” who can, will and does get up when he’s knocked down to do it over and over again.

Perhaps this does not answer the questioner to their satisfaction, but c’est la vie, non? Another problem with humanity is that people operate preemptively on what they want to see or hear, not what words and scenes come to life from other mouths and in this case, fingertips.
Tags:
 
 
Current Location: Amid the acanthus columns
Current Mood: Docile
Current Music: Johannes Brahms Feldeinsamkeit Op 86
 
 
Lestat de Lioncourt
29 October 2014 @ 11:40 am
No one messes with my dick unless I say they can mess with my dick. Got that? And semen? Oh trust me when I say that hasn't ever really been a missing thing. How? Why? What? I'm sure there are many who'd like to be privileged enough to find out, including perhaps those who deign to write about it in such an incredulous manner.

Just ask Louis if it's ever been a problem. Ask David.

As some might expect, I'm softly fuming over here... Nothing to be done about it, but I think I'll go out and remind people who the fuck I really am.
 
 
Lestat de Lioncourt
27 October 2014 @ 01:25 pm
Everyone take a deep breath.

In.
Out.
Repeat.
 
 
Lestat de Lioncourt
21 August 2014 @ 11:52 am
Prince Lestat ~~*~~ Chapter One

The Voice



Years ago I’d heard him; he’d been battling. It was after Queen Akasha had been destroyed and the mute, red-haired twin Mekare had become Queen of the Damned. I’d witnessed all that – the brutal death of Akasha and the moment when we all thought we’d die too, along with her. It was after I’d switched bodies with a mortal man and then come back into my own powerful, vampiric body, having rejected the old dream of being human – again. It was after I’d been to heaven and hell with a spirit called Memnoch, and come back to earth a wounded explorer with no appetite anymore for knowledge, truth, or beauty. Defeated, I’d lain for years on the floor of a chapel in New Orleans in an old convent building, oblivious to the ever-shifting crowd of immortals around me. Hearing them, wanting to respond yet somehow never managing to meet a glance, answer a question, acknowledge a kiss or a whisper of affection – and that’s when I heard the voice.

Masculine, insistent, inside my brain. Hear me, Come to me, and he’d say that over and over again, night after night until it was noise. The voice rumbled, bellowed and whispered whenever I was there, rolling their names around in a stew of invective and rumination and demand. One evening, the voice said beauty is what drove it. Don’t you see? It was the mystery of beauty.

A year later I was walking along the sands of South Beach in Miami when he broke that one on me again. For the moment the mavericks and rogues had been leaving me alone. They were afraid of me; afraid of all the older ones – but not enough.

“Drove what, dear voice?” I asked. I felt it only fair to give him a few minutes before shutting him down.

You cannot conceive the magnitude of this mystery,” He spoke in a confidential whisper. “You cannot conceive this complexity.” He was saying those words as if he’d just discovered them. He wept, I swear it, he wept. It was an awful sound. I don’t glory in any being’s pain, not even the sound of my most sadistic enemy, and here was the voice, weeping.

I was hunting, thirsting, though I didn’t need to drink – at the mercy of the craving, the deep, agonizing lust for heated, pumping, human blood. I found a young victim: female, irresistible in her combination of filthy soul and gorgeous body, white throat so tender. I had her in the fragrant, darkened bedroom of her own lodgings, lights of the city beyond the windows, having come over the roofs to find her. This pale woman with glorious brown eyes and walnut-shaded skin, black hair like the snakes of Medusa, naked between the white linen sheets, struggling against me as I sank my teeth deep into the carotid artery, too hungry for anything else.

Give me the heartbeat, give me the salt, give me the viaticum: fill my mouth.

On this dreary, cold night I’d been thirsty; more thirsty than I can bear. Oh, I don’t technically need the blood anymore. I have so much blood from Akasha in my veins, the primal blood of the Old Mother that I can exist forever with feeding… but I was thirsting and I had to have it to staunch the misery, or so I told myself on a little late night rampage in the city of Amsterdam, feeding off of every reprobate and killer I could find. I’d hidden the bodies, I’d been careful, but it had been grim: That hot, delicious blood, pumping into me and all the visions along with it from filthy and degenerate minds – all that intimacy with the emotions I deplore. Oh the same old, same old. I was sick at heart. In moods like this I’m a menace to the innocent and I know it only too well. At four in the morning it had me so bad. I was in a little public park, sitting on an iron bench, in the damp, doubled over in a bad, seedy part of the city, the late night lights looking garish and sooty through the mist. I was cold all over and fearing now that I simply wasn’t going to endure: I wasn’t going to be a true immortal like the great Marius or Mekare, or Maharet or Khayman or even Armand. This wasn’t living what I was doing, at one point the pain was so great it was like a blade, turning in my heart and in my brain. I doubled over on the bench; I had my hands clasped on the back of my neck and I wanted nothing so much as to die – to simply close my eyes on all of life and die.

And the voice came, and the voice said, “But I love you.”

I was startled. I hadn’t heard the voice in such a long time, and there it was that intimate tone, so soft, so utterly tender like fingers touching me, caressing my head. “Why?” I asked.

Of all of them, I love you the most.” The voice said. “I am with you, loving you now.”

“What are you, another make believe angel?” I asked. “Another spirit pretending to be a God or something like that?” No. The moment he’d started to speak I’d felt this warmth in me, this sudden warmth such as addicts describe when they are infused with the substance they crave – this lovely, reassuring warmth I’d found so fleetingly in the blood. I began to hear the rain around me, hear it not as a dismal drizzle but as a lovely, soft symphony of sound on the surfaces around me.

I love you.” The voice said. “Now get up. Leave this place – you must. Get up. Start walking. This rain is not too cold for you. You are too strong for this rain, and too strong for this sorrow. Come on, do as I tell you.”

And I had. I’d gotten up and started walking and made my way back to the elegant old hotel Deleroc where I was lodged. I’d gone into the large, exquisitely wallpapered bedroom and closed the long, velvet draperies properly over the coming sun. Glare, white sky over the Amstel river, morning sounds. And then… I’d stopped. I’d pressed my fingers against my eyelids and buckled, buckled under the weight of a loneliness so terrible that I’d have chosen death then, if only I’d had such a choice.

Come now, I love you.” Said the voice. “You’re not alone in this – you never were.”
I could feel the voice inside me, around me, embracing me. Finally, I’d lay down to sleep. He was singing to me now, singing in French some lyrics put to the beautiful Chopin Etude, Tristesse.

Lestat, go home to France, to the Auvergne where you were born.” He whispered, just as if he were beside me. “Your father’s old chateau there – you need to go there. All of you human beings need a home.”

So tender it sounded, so sincere – so strange that he would say this. I did own the old ruin, the chateau and years ago had sent architects and stone masons to rebuild it, though why I did not know. I saw an image of it now, those ancient, round, stone towers rising from the cliff above the field and valleys where in the old days, so many had starved. Where life had been so bitter – where I had been bitter… a boy bound and determined to run away to Paris, to see the world…

Go home.” He whispered.

“Why are you not winking out the way I am, voice?” I asked “The sun is rising!”

Because it is not morning where I am, beloved Lestat.”

“Ah then you’re a blood drinker, aren’t you?” I asked. I felt I’d caught him. I began to laugh, to cackle. “Of course you are!”

He was furious. “You miserable, ungrateful, degenerate brat prince!” And then he left me again. Ah well, why not? But I hadn’t really solved the mystery of the voice – not by a long shot.

When I woke, it was of course early evening and Amsterdam was filled with roaring traffic, whizzing bicycles, myriad voices and the scent of blood pumped through beating hearts.

“Still with me voice?” I asked. Silence, and yet I had the distinct feeling yes, that he was here. I felt wretched, afraid for myself, wondering at my own weakness and ability to love… and then, this happened.

I went to the full length mirror on the bathroom door to adjust my tie – you know what a dandy I am. Well even down and out, I was in a finely cut Armani jacket and dress shirt. And while I wanted to adjust this bright, flashy, beautiful hand-painted silk tie… my reflection wasn’t there. I was there – but not my reflection. It was another me – smiling at me, with triumphant, glittering eyes, both hands up against the glass as if he were in a prison cell behind it. Same clothes, yes, and me down to the last detail of long, curling blonde hair and glittering blue-grey eyes – but not a reflection at all. I was petrified. The dim echo Doppelganger rose in my ears and all the horror such a concept connotes. I don’t know if I can describe how chilling this was, this figure of myself inhabited by another, leering at me, deliberately menacing me. I remained sober faced and continued to adjust my tie, though I could see no reflection of what I was doing. He continued to smile in that icy, mocking way as the laughter of the voice rose in my brain. I went to Anatolia to escape it all. I wanted to see the Hagia Sophia again, to walk under those arches; I wanted to wander the ruins of Göbekli Tepe, the oldest Neolithic settlement ever discovered.

To hell with the problems of the Tribe.
 
 
Lestat de Lioncourt
17 August 2014 @ 10:04 pm
I have uninstalled Skype from my computer simply for the fact that I didn't like the way it misbehaved. I won't elaborate on what it did or didn't do, it's just gone. Unless anyone has a better idea, I'm going to reinstall Yahoo Messenger which at least seems consistent in functionality.

In the meantime, if anyone wants to contact me you can always email me at lestatdelct@yahoo.com or leave me a message here.