Tomorrow I make my venture to Tyler's Gallery to "weigh the competition". I suppose it is rather devilish that I would not be likely to set foot in the place, were it not for it's employment of a living, breathing enigma.
Today I decided not to open the Crowe, and to be honest do not believe I lost much business.
I suppose these pieces will be set, framed, and hung along my other sketchbook works.
Rather ho-hum and drab, if you ask me.
Still I have not given proper attention to graphite use in a while, until I found myself in a most agreeable mood today and, whilst sitting in the cool of my studio with my cats, rendered these two simple, androgynous pieces.( sketchesCollapse )SM
Thought you should hear it from me if at all possible, but he may have already seen you. August Lowell has been asked to act as rehearsal pianist for the production of Die Fledermaus I am desperately trying to salvage - the producer has practically reduced it to The Bat, and I need Mr Lowell's help at the piano if I am to take over running rehearsals.
We open next Friday. He will undoubtedly be present for that. And I'm certain he is connected to our producer through his aunt. I'd like very much if you would come for opening, but I understand if the situation makes that impossible.
[not mailed, precisely - dropped into the mail flap of the gallery door that night]
On hearing the bell ring, I make my way down to the front door. I open it and find an attractive young man standing there.
"Hello," I say, "Can I help you?"
I am standing on the street with the advertisement I found for photographic models in my hand. I thought I was a bit lost, but it seems I've found the place; it looks very nice, like a respectable place. Hopefully the interested party is in, and hopefully he (I assume it is a he) will want me to model for him. If I read the advertisement correctly, I'm exactly the sort of person he's looking for.
I ring the bell and do a little shuffle on the doorstep as an icy wind blows up. The cold was, if anything, only become worse since yesterday. I've not adjusted to the English weather yet, which is silly, since I've been back for almost a year now.
It is one-thirty in the afternoon. We decided - that is, Dostner, Murphy, Mason, Burke, Violet, and myself - that we will go no further without the adoption of Dostner's translation, a competant rehearsal pianist, and a full run-through. This afternoon.
We are all seated - there are copies of Dostner's translation for everyone (typewritten for acts I and III; printed for act II since so many copies were needed). I have been elected rehearsal pianist and leader of the coup d'état.
Cornwell stands and is about to call rehearsal to order - my cue, as it were. But instead, there's a knock on the door, and Mr Dewing enters with a young man. A very familiar young man, unfortunately.
"Good afternoon. How is everything going?"
Cornwell manages to stammer out a reply that generally says "fine" but in far more words.
"I've heard you were a bit short-handed." Harriet Poole goes scarlet. "A friend of mine has come to our assistance. This is Mr August Lowell, visiting from America. He has kindly agreed to help in whatever capacity you need. Well, don't let me keep you. Break a leg!"
I suppose it would be far worse if Julian were being kept by Mr Lowell. But it is distinctly odd to find our lives suddenly entwined. In any case, it seems the script has changed, but we're still better off shot of Cornwell for the moment. I take Cornwell following Dewing to the door to be my cue.
"I'll get Mr Lowell up to speed - it's perfectly all right for you to check on the orchestra this afternoon, Mr Cornwell," I call across the room, hoping he'll take my suggestion. "So, we meet again," I say to Lowell. "I'll introduce you round - Karl Dostner, Eisenstein; Harriet Poole, Rosalinde; Terrence Burke, Alfred; Violet Simms, Adele; Patrick Murphy, Blind; Richard Cummings, Frank; Thea Brannigan, Orlovsky; and Bert Weller, Frosch. I'm singing Falke. We haven't had a full run-through yet, so we'd like to start with that, if you don't mind." I strongly suspect I've been speaking with a brave patter more suited to a modern major general, but I've got to get it out without being interrupted. "Do you know Die Fledermaus?" I toss in at the end, trying to keep the tone light, though I'm sure I'm lucky to have said so much without an interruption. Three of the chorus girls are whispering - drat, he was in the society pages. This could prove more of a curse than a blessing.
|» Mod post|
I've decided that I'm closing the community to new Boys; I think that right now we're at a good number, and any more than what we have will be too hard to keep track of.
I'm going to update the master calender soon.
I'm giving away the roles of Christian and Erasmus to new players, as their creators haven't shown up in a very long time and didn't respond to requests that they participate. I've got someone who might want Christian and I'm not giving it to anyone else unless she says no, but Erasmus is wide open for whoever wants him (except if you have a character already).
Anyway, glad to see newbies, and glad to see this place active again. Jonathan will be around soon. :D
|» Journal Entry: James Trent|
Friday 14th February|
Have placed advert in Times and local newspapers - hoping to get some more clients. More discrete adverts placed in the specialist papers for models. Just hope these are not too cryptic to be missed! Now I just have to wait for requests for appointments in the post, or people calling round to make them.
Met with my sister and her husband for lunch. Why did she have to marry someone with the name James?! Talk about confusion. At least they had some good news. Sarah and James are going to make yours truly an uncle in October. To celebrate the occassion I've taken some of my best work of the two of them as a present. Planning on framing the best photograph next week.
|» Journal Entry: Alleyn Wallace|
Christ, why does everything fall on a person at once? Tamara, Thea, producers, incompetant directors, St Valentine - cannot they leave a body alone? Do I even want to write it all out? It makes me weary to think of it. And I am not sure I want to remember it. Yet a brief aide memoire cannot hurt.
1) Tamara. Why must I be the one to end her engagement? all I did yesterday was meet with Sol, tell him that Tamara is too high strung to know her own mind for ten minutes together, and not to take it too personally that she doesn't want to marry him. He doesn't need to know that she claims she'd much rather marry me. He didn't take it well, of course, but at least he did not kill the messenger.
2) Signing this contract was the single dumbest thing I have done in my life. This production will be an absolute disaster - worst than the panto we do not name. The panto was competantly run, just a panto. This is a perfectly good script, about to be ruined. Let me count the ways:
2a) Thea Brannigan. She is as annoying as ever. I cannot believe how many nights I spent in her bed. And I begin to think she is old enough to be my mother. And I'll have to endure her playing Orlovsky for six weeks. It is embarrassing to have her around. It is embarrassing to have her fuss over my career like a proud mother. I never should have allowed her to seduce me. Or was it really seduction when I was so desperate to not give in to my other desires? It doesn't matter now. They had more influence on me than she ever did.
2b) Lloyd Dewing. Shit producer. Utterly clueless. We are suddenly not doing Die Fledermaus, but The Bat. Only in the worst possible way - we will continue to sing in German, but the dialogue will be in English. And the translation reads nearly identically to mine, but I don't actually speak German. Why am I writing any of this down for posterity?
2c) Michael Cornwell. Worst musical director ever. If this goes on for another day, I shall take matters into my own hands. He cannot even hire a decent rehearsal pianist. Dare I hope when we meet with the orchestra tomorrow they will be in any kind of shape? One more day, and that's it, I'm taking over as rehearsal director.
3) La fête de St Valentin. Rubbish "holiday". Sweets, cards, hothouse flowers - the capitalist in full bloom. Thea tried to give me a card - I wanted to rip it in two, but that would have been cruel. I simply handed it back to her and said "We're ten years older, ten years wiser, and I don't believe our relationship was the reason they created this holiday."
We open in just under two weeks. Friday the 24th. Do I invite Julian? Tamara will be working - and I think we should distance ourselves for a while, in any case. I don't even know if I look forward to opening as I usually do - the production is such crap, I'm fighting to avoid having to wear a fake moustache (it was one thing as Corcoran; it's quite a different thing as Falke), and I shall have to avoid Thea at the party without having any of my usual crowd there since nearly all of them are already working. I don't know that I want Thea to see me with Julian - she'll make precisely the wrong assumptions. But I'll need someone I can talk to. Perhaps he has friends he can bring along. I doubt we will sell out this thing. Especially with the crap translation of only half the show. At least we have a good pair for the pas de deux, and Sven Gunderson is supposed to be coming in for the party scene. I can think of much worse - I can also think of much better things Gunderson could be doing with his time.
Early night tonight - poor run rehearsals are exhausting.
|» Conversation: Julian Howard and Slade Montague|
It's three in the afternoon; I've been working for almost two hours without cease. I have charcoal in my eyes and there's paint under my fingernails. It feels so good to be at work, but my hand's cramping up in the cold. I'll not be able to convince anyone to model for me if it stays like this; much colder and my paints will freeze in their tubes. The place does have radiators, but apparently the furnace blew last night. I'm just glad it didn't spew its dirt into my studio and onto work.
Ah, well. Time for a break, I suppose.
I make an unenthused swipe at my face with a towel; the hot water's out, too. No one cares about a bit of dirt in this neighborhood anyway. Maybe if anyone asks, I'll tell them the charcoal is dust from the furnace. That will make me seem such a labourer; interesting.
I pull on my coat, trying my best not to get paint on it. That would irk my mother, she just bought me this coat back in November. Before that I hadn't needed a winter coat for a while, as Bernardo liked to spend the cold months on the Mediterranean.
Once outside I stand in the doorway for a moment, feeling indecisive and reluctant. That first step out is always the worst, being faced with the dirty London world after having been ensconced in my little world of art. Where to?
I turn right. I noticed a new place on my way to the studio today; its window informed me I could get coffee. That does sound nice. It's cold, I want something warm to drink, and as I'm thinking of Bernardo's summer home, I think of my pretty little bedroom with its view of the sea and the coffee the maid always brought me in the morning. No tea in Bernardo's house.
After a few frigid blocks I arrive. It was further than I remembered. I look at the facade; rather faux Tudor, but nice enough. According to the window sign it's also a gallery; I do hope the environment isn't too awful. Can't be worse than the place I work, though.
I open the door and step in, pushing my rather wind-swept hair out of my face. I see a flash of red; seems I got paint in my hair. The only person in the place is behind the counter with their back to me. Dark clothes and longish white hair, but surely that's not the form of an old woman, or man.
"Hello?" I say
|» Journal Entry: Slade Montague|
Friday February 14th 1014am.|
Ungodly hour to be awake, especially on a Friday. I've not yet adjusted to the practice of waking up early and opening a shop. So much of a shop it is, I've hardly had any visitors since I've opened. Only sold two paintings and one sketch. How annihilatingly depressing that no one in this town will so much as look at my paintings, let alone buy them. If this keeps up, in three months time I shall have to rent out the shop below and hole up in my flat above.
Valentine's Day..... Twists my stomach just to think of it. This was Jacky's favourite holiday. 365 days ago we were in the country in a small cottage. It was stunningly romantic and remarkably affordable. But here I am babbling about unimportant things. Jacky was in fine form, probably the happiest I have ever seen him. He was so prone to severe mood swings and outbursts, but not once during our get away did he react or explode. I have never held much stock in Valentine's Day. I am a hopeless romantic the other 364 days of the year anyway. Though I am determined not to be depressed, down, and lonely today. I am still alive. I am breathing. I am capable of love.
Perhaps the allure of love and[or] lust will draw a few visitors into my midst. One can only hope. It is an uncommonly warm day today, the sunlight streams in shafts through the warped glass windows. It casts a nostalgic, beautiful glow on the artifacts contained within this musty shop.
I am currently sitting behind the counter, musing over this journal and burning some of the vanilla and sandalwood incense I was given a few years ago by a friend. I wish I had a pair of green eyes to lose myself in, or a rich topaz to capture on my pallet. Listen to yourself Slade, babbling like a school girl, and what's worse, you're doing it on paper.
The light cascading in really is lovely. It is creating some truly amazing highlights and shadows. Time to retire this ink pen for a soft graphite pencil and my beloved sketch book. It and this journal are the only friends I have these days. From this vantage point, there is a sensual, perfectly musty corner in which I would love to seat a beautiful brunette with wavy locks. The light would fall so perfectly on cheek bones and jawlines, and create an angelic hazy aura around him. Such an aesthete am I, imagining drawing the creature before I even meet him. I only hope such a man comes into my shop today. I shall draw the corner now, and leave the center bare, in a kind of bitter hope? Well, here's to the day.
|» Journal Entry: Julian Howard|
Friday, February 14th|
So today it is that most accursed holiday of "love." Sticky-sweet sentiments abound, and I am avoiding Penelope as though she were a rabid dog with a plague-carrying rat in its teeth. I'm sure she expects something from me, though lord knows why; she knows as well as I that I cannot send things to her home. Maybe I'll dash something off for her tonight; she would like a sketch, I'm sure.
I have a feeling she'll come calling here this afternoon, so I am going to make it a point to be otherwise engaged until at least six tonight. In the evening she'll surely be occupied with the man she’s meant to love. And tomorrow she'll be awfully frustrated, I'm sure, so I think I may try and find an end to my own means tonight. I'm no good for her when I'm in need; I only think of men and it doesn't help her cause much. The fact that I'll likely be thinking of her ickle Auggie then only makes it worse.
Though I'm obviously feeling rather vitriolic now, I've had a perfectly nice week up to this point. I spent a wonderful afternoon and evening with Alleyn on the 10th, just chatting and having a very nice time of it. I've said it before, but it has been far too long since I had someone I could talk to about anything and everything. We attended "As You Like It" that evening; it was perfectly nice, though I cannot say it ranks among my favorites of the Bard's works. Alleyn seemed rather distracted, something to do with the woman who came to visit him. Seems she's an old friend, and she wanted to marry him. An interesting proposition, but Alleyn wouldn't have it, apparently; I don't think he's one for living the double life, really. But then, are any of us? It will run me into the ground one day I'm sure, but for now I am surviving.
I've been painting some. I believe the rather indecent sketch of August I made after our most recent tryst could be the start of an interesting turn in my art; I'm finally feeling inspired again.
It's nearly one, so I must be off; Penelope always calls between luncheon and teatime on cold days. She says she stays warmer that way, though I'm not sure I follow her reasoning.
|» (No Subject)|
Friday, February 14|
It has come to my attention that when one is in particularly low spirits, and in a singularly vile temper, there are three main steps one can take to contentment.
1.) Announcing to all servants, colleagues, coworkers, and friends that Damien Hall is gravely ill and will need a minimum of a week's convalescence,
2.) Stocking up on all stores of absinthe, fine teas, and comfortable clothing,
3.) Decreasing all stresses to the environment. Stressors include:
First, the Cat, Feline silverstris, or any other creatures,
Second, any tasks that may be referred to as "work",
Third, and most crucial, August Lowell, or any other creatures that wander the earth like him. (god forbid.) It is worth noting that the removal of all thoughts, words, deeds, and actions pertaining to August Lowell is essential to my sanity.
( I think I have done a fairly good job of following the Collapse )
|» Enter James Trent|
Name James Trent|
Place of Residence Berkeley Square, Mayfair
History James has always been facinated by the human form and the ways it can be captured by the camera. His recent move to London and purchase of premises in Mayfair have been made possible by a substantial inheritance he received on the death of his uncle. He specialises in portrait photographs, and in recent years has taken some more candid images for a different market. In both lines of his business he has come into contact with men who, like himself, are more interested in their own sex than in women. Some are clients; some are models. He is discrete about these liasons as he requires a respectable image for his business.
|» Journal Entry;: Slade Montague|
Thursday February 13|
June twentieth will mark the one year anniversary of Jacky's death. At random intervals I will catch on the variable spring air a distant whiff or scent which will remind me of him. Nearly everything reminded me of him in the beginning; The sky watched me as his eyes, blank, unresponsive, ultimately absorbant and almost reflective.. If it be that I look on my own life and perception,.. his eyes composing the sky. Wilde once referred to the sky as an inverted teacup, but I rather find it as an upturned metallic bowl, hung from chains and swung in a circumference of one's head, so force would keep the water in.. keep Jacky in. My angel, with his white cloud skin, sleeps with his head on the shoulder of the land, as he once did on mine, his ebony hair glinting by moonlight forms stars. The land is alive with his breath, the wind, and he is alive in me.. and I him. My love, my love departed.
Today I feel particularly brown and bland. Viscious bile, clogged and closed,.. I just want to hold on to him. I feel slow and sallow, thick as cum or clotted milk.
[earlier entry, undated]
I do not want to leave this house, it feels like a betrayal... to you, Jacky.. though you no longer live..........here. I can hardly conceptualize living without you, let alone in a town so far away from what once was 'home'. But I must,.. it's nearly too late. I feel like I am already gone. Hell. Almost like I never was here. This room supports me momentarily, but for how much longer? I'm nearly gone, just a past tense verb, "was". I breathe against the binding of my own clothes and cannot fathom a year from now. Bristol, 'home', is to be left for London. I have rather severe anxiety over this. Last night I cried with the rain and soaked myself to the kneecaps, walking through wet grass, to your dark grave. I wanted you to hold me, but you were not there.
These reflections and thoughts are jumbled and are getting me nowhere. I must venture out of this house and immerse myself in the populus of this city. I've no friends or consorts in this town. Sex as a singular, empty, act does not entice me. I need conversation, aestheticism, intelligence,.. and above all, human connection,.... Love.
|» Master Calendar|
My God. What a lot of sex was had on 29 January. ;D|
Some entries don't have dates for them; look and see if you have any entries under the heading of Unspecified Date (that aren't introduction posts), then edit the entries and comment, giving me a link to the edited entry so I can fix the calendar. After this, I'd like us to try to have our entries be closer to each other datewise; we're varying from 30 January to 10 February at the moment.
I am very proud of all of us. I had to re-read everything to figure this calendar out, and we've all created some amazingly complex and fascinating characters.
( The Master CalendarCollapse )
|» Mod Post|
I've been really horrible about doing anything with this place lately; well, no longer. The Memories section has been thoroughly updated, and my project for tonight is to start a master calendar. I think some of our characters are days ahead or behind of others, so on the master calendar you'll be able to find out what happened on what day (within the timeline of the game, not RL). Hopefully this will, along with the updated memories section, help us all keep straight (no pun intended!) what's happening. :D
The master calendar should be up later tonight, and will have a link on the user info. It will be updated periodically as the game progresses. :)
|» Enter Slade Montague|
Name: Slade Caspian Montague, named for princes and true love, or so the orphanage nurses told me|
Age: Twenty Six, my birthday is the thirtyfirst of October
Family: I was adopted at a young age by a darling couple, Stefan Roderick and Admilla Roderick, they preferred I keep my given name. I was born an only child and the Rodericks did not have any children of their own. On my 18th birthday I revealed my true sexual nature to my 'parents' who cast me out. It was more my Father's doing than Mother's, she loved me but never had the ability to stand up to Father. I have neither spoken nor seen either of them since that day.
Appearence: I'm rather tall, about six foot two[standard units], with a lithe build, long legs, and a long torso. I have a slim, shapely neck which I value. My eyes are steel gray and reflective. My white hair is cut unevenly and haphazardly, hanging down around my chin in it's longer segments. I'm rather pale, with long fingers and an effeminate jaw line. My trademark physical feature is a pair of vertical freckles beneath my left eye. I tend to enjoy dark silks of black and violet, though light cotton shirts under my dinner jackets do frequent use.
Education: My adopted parents put me through a standard, relatively respectable public school while living in Nottingham, when they ostracized me I moved to Lincoln and continued my studies, focusing on fine arts and art history. Leonardo daVinci and of course Oscar Wilde are large influences in my life. I write and paint to exercise my thoughts.
Occupation: I currently live in the bohemian central of London where I work as an art curator and dealer at a small, relaxed gallery/cafe. My paintings are sold individually to whomever I choose. They are not auctioned or billed or simply picked up, most of the work sold, is work commissioned. I read a great deal and enjoy philosophical conversations. Psychology interests me highly, and I have a tendency to be rather analytical.
Sexual History: From ages 17 to 25 Jacky Bourne was my angel, life, and soul. He committed suicide last year, swallowing a molotov cocktail of razorblades, gin, and medicinal powders. I've still not fully recovered. Jacky was my only lover,.. until Dante came along. Dante Bastian was a German with a surly, dark attitude, an inclination for percussion, and a sexual fire I had never before known. Jacky was always of a tender, playful nature. Dante was fire and brimstone and I lost my head and nearly lost Jacky to the passionate relations we both shared with the foreigner. Shortly after nearly destroying our relationship, Dante returned to his homeland and I've not heard of him since. I am still greiving for Jacky, who I loved more than any other, but do wish to move on with my life.
( rough imagesCollapse )
My name is Alice.
|» Journal Entry: Alleyn Wallace|
Tamara has just left. She interrupted a perfectly nice conversation with Julian Howard in order to propose marriage to me. The irony is that I had actually contemplated proposing to her last night - it is patently obvious that though Sol cares for her, she can't bear the thought of being attached to him.
It had been a nice conversation with Julian. We've more in common than we ought to have at half a generation's separation. His family are better than mine - could afford to send him to a public school and Oxford - but they're not so different, really. Thoroughly bland, normal people who have decided to indulge rather than punish the frivolous interests of a middle son. Is that why I am so adamant he do for himself instead of have to be kept? He is not me - his pride bears it just fine. I would sooner die than find myself in such debt to anyone, man or woman. For it is a woman who keeps him, not the uber-spoiled Mr Lowell. I still do not know whether to be comforted or annoyed by the sex of his master. I must call her 'master' for 'mistress' implies that he keeps her - a grotesque reversal of language there.
But to return to Tamara. ( Cut for lengthCollapse )
|» Conversation: Julian Howard and Alleyn Wallace|
I stand outside Alleyn's flat for some five minutes after I come into the building. I know it has been five minutes because it was ten after when I came in, and now I hear the clock in the hall below chiming a quarter past.
This is ridiculous. Don't I want to see him, to talk to him? I know he has no ulterior plans for me. This should not scare me.
I ring the bell.
Mon cher beautiful_boys! It has been too long.
|» Letter: Jonathan Winter|
It's a bit cold for a punt, isn't it? Although it does seem to be getting warmer in recent weeks.
Everything is very uneventful with Malcolm, which I think (and hope) can only be good news. I have not heard from him nor Violet, and have only heard things about them from letters my father sends me. If Malcolm is still determined to win over Violet, either his plans are not working or my father does not know about them.
You'll never guess who I saw in the street the other day; it was that man from the hotel. He looked at me, looked away, looked again, and gave me a furtive sort of smile, a smile that was almost like a code.
Arthur has been ill again recently, so I don't think you'll have a legitimate excuse to come down this weekend, but come anyway.