Late at night
While you're sleepin'
Poison Ivy comes a creepin'
Currently writing the above for reasons. A goodly portion of those reason is the story's been requested. However, Harley Quinn reminds me of someone I care deeply for. Her relationship with the Joker is brutal and pretty one-sided as far as actual love is concerned. She deserves better. Poison Ivy is better. While also NuttButters, Ivy has a certain measure of common sense. She also retains, if written correctly, the capacity for love.
I think they're cute together. But even in the picture Harley is clutching a Joker doll. So, yush...drama.
Not really what I want to talk about though. The story is for a pseudonym of mine. I have no doubt that it will be worshiped as all things that alternate me writes are worshiped. It's only when I put my true name on things that they go terribly...wrong. That they get overly judged if spoken about at all, and mostly likely, ground filed and buried deep. It's a weird thing being me, capable and, yet, so very incapable at the same time.
I woke up this morning from a dream about zombies trying to eat me. I have the dream frequently, so frequently in fact that I know the streets and the hallways of the main building intimately in this city that doesn't really exist. In the grips of that particular series of dreams I have to rely on myself for escape that never ends. There is no end to the dream, just the next part, the next terror, and the next horde. Its a horror movie with no stops in which I am the star. Helplessly, I battle out of one life-death situation just to find myself in another without end. I wake up and at some later point I am thrust right back into that terrible battle world. Things clutching at me, grabbing at me, trying to turn me into something ... else. Something that I am not and am in horror of becoming. And it never stops while I am dreaming, not for a second. In the dream, I can't even pretend that I'm okay, that the situation is not dire, or that I'm going to survive without turning into what I can only view as a monster.
Yeah, cray-cray, I know...
I am beyond complaining about things at this point. Here, I am merely thinking out loud in a way, you can read it or not, fuck off or not, it doesn't matter much to me. But if you are reading this, I want to frame you a few questions that I've had to deal with in my time doing this. The kind of questions that might invite dreams about invasive zombies hordes trying to tear you apart.
Question 1. Do you get embarrassed at the thought of someone reading the things you write?
No, it's fiction. I do not write erotica because I am incapable of writing anything else. I do not view it as cheaply as that--a last resort, a cheap thrill. I think that's because I'm not full of shit and I don't pretend. As a matter of fact, I hate pretending. I am terrible at it and it's a huge problem in terms of progression.
I put a lot of work into the stories I write. I tend to be plot heavy in my expression of the worlds I am working in or creating. Nothing I do is cheap, and nothing I write isn't from the heart. I have stories in places where people are begging me to finish them, but the amount of time and effort involved is so strenuous that I have failed to comply with their demands. Even in fanfiction, I adhere strictly to the character as they were created by the original author and the same goes for the world they've kindly let me 'borrow'.
Too much work to be embarrassed, thank you.
Question 2. How much of this is from experience?
I have been asked this question again recently by someone that I like very much. Eugh, though.
All of writing is an experience and it draws on the things inside of you. Do I actually need to have a dungeon in my basement to write about one? Does Stephen King need to be a child murderer because he killed Ralphie Glick in Salem's Lot?
Is Anne Rice a goddamn vampire?
If I really fucked a bunch of fairies in some manor house somewhere, I wouldn't be here penning this dumb ass post, I'd be gone, baby, gone.
I use my imagination just like PBS told me to when I was five.
Where my imagination tends to go may be another question entirely, but I write more for other people than I do for myself. "See a need. Fill a need."
Question 3. When did you become interested in gay men?
If I support love, truly, then I support all of its consenting adult forms. Poison Ivy and Harley are up there today because I support that too--not just gay men. Ultimately, I support LOVE.
Because it's fucking right, that's why.
I support Civil Rights.
I want Bradley Manning to realize his dream and become Chelsea Manning (And to get the fuck out of prison, btw).
I don't believe in closets in terms of people.
Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, More-Than-Slightly Racist Gandhi, fucking Joan of Arc, William Wallace, the American colonists original idea before they fucked it up and killed all the Native Americans and enslaved everything they could get their hot little hands on...
Question 4. Don't you know what color you are?
A significant X asked me this question. It hurt me to hear it coming from him, but I understood it--nasty little swipe that it was.
Yes. I know exactly who I am. And I also know how the world perceives me at first glance. Those things are at odds.
In order to walk around in the world, I have to pretend, which, I have already said, I do not like to do and, truthfully, tend to forget.
A good example would be:
Standing in line at some counter in my neighborhood and this guy had on an The Art of War by Sun Tzu t-shirt. He was standing in front of me, minding his business, doing his own personal dance, when I began a conversation with the person I happened to be with about the book. That man turned around and stared at me like I had suddenly grown a second head.
My question is: Am I supposed to pretend like I didn't read that book, take notes, and write a thirty page essay on it with footnotes eons ago just so that guy doesn't feel uncomfortable?
Is this world the Hell I don't believe in?
That Is All.