There was a musical accompaniment to go along with the ‘shades of gray’ project from 2004 – and as we re-explore that written work, I offer the following playlist as recommended listening for when you go through these vignettes. It’s largely contemplative instrumentals, but there are some traditional pop songs as well. The latter selections are lyrical wonders, echoing the spare power of carefully-chosen words. All serve to evoke an air of
Dinner at eight was okay
Before the toast full of gleams
It was great until those old magazines
Got us started up again
Actually it was probably me again
Why is it so that I’ve always been the one who must go
That I’ve always been the one told to flee
When it fact you were the one long ago
Actually in the drifting white snow
You left me
A centerpiece would have to be ‘Dinner at Eight’ by Rufus Wainwright, which features an exquisite piano treatise on love, family, and the eventual need to find acceptance and move on; as evidenced by the lyrics running throughout this post, it’s as poignant and powerful as it is sorrowful and resigned – a gorgeous mess of emotion set to glorious song. The following songs follow suit – give them a listen as you revisit this project from two long decades ago…
We’re a little over halfway through presenting ‘shades of gray’ already, so there is some more to come, and just around the Thanksgiving holiday – the way that life’s little fuck-overs often come at the worst possible time. We don’t choose these things – they choose us, or something like that. I’m out of banal platitudes and all the rest of it.
I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser Midnights become my afternoons When my depression works the graveyard shift All of the people I’ve ghosted stand there in the room…
My 8th grade class at Wilbur H. Lynch Middle School in Amsterdam, New York had the usual cast of teenage characters – football players, cheerleaders, band members, slack-offs, fuck-ups, nerds, jocks, beauty queens, drama kids – the typical coterie of children masquerading as adults, just beginning to find our way and carve out identities of who we might be. Despite our varied interests and the panoply of society under one roof, we lacked one essential ingredient: a villain. Because of that, and despite the usual drama of teenage angst and budding hormonal avalanches, school was a rather dull and boring affair.
It was up to the one person with the flair for the dramatic and diabolical to set things into some semblance of half-interesting motion – and I was the only one wiling to do it. Did I sacrifice a certain mainstream popularity to do it? Perhaps. Did I throw away my chance at being voted Best Dressed Man when high school rolled around and those designations were really just votes on who was well-liked? Probably. Did I sink my teeth into the role with the relish and zeal of someone desperate for something – anything – to shake up the dull hallways of that school and wreak havoc with friendship circles? Better than anyone else.
I should not be left to my own devices They come with prices and vices I end up in crisis (tale as old as time) I wake up screaming from dreaming One day I’ll watch as you’re leaving ‘Cause you got tired of my scheming (For the last time)
It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me At tea time, everybody agrees I’ll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero
Looking back, it was all so much silliness, but at the time how malevolent it seemed – and how terribly was it taken. I watched the maneuverings of the girls in my class, how they wrote notes to one another, passing them back and forth when the teacher’s back was turned. I saw their friendship circles and noticed the whispers they would adopt in favor of some and against certain others. I was a master at appearing uninterested and uninvolved, while all the time not one single side-eye or shifty gaze escaped my notice. I was also adept at sneaking these notes out of their bags when they weren’t looking, and reading what they wrote about everyone else.
It was a glimpse into a secret world I would later access through more benign means – at that time it was a brutal violation of their privacy, but what cares a villain for such codes of honor and simple human decency? Nothing would jolt our narrative or change the dull doldrums of Amsterdam unless I did it. And so I hatched my simple plan, stealing the notes of my classmates and putting them into the hands of the very people they were maligning. Words never meant for certain people were deposited by me as the secret villain – and I left a trail of hurt feelings, betrayal, and distrust in my undetected wake. Supposed friends turned against supposed friends, wondering at first how things came to unintended light, struggling to repair wounds, holding on to not being hated. In the justifications that I conjured as I gave myself over to such darkness, I reasoned that they had a right to know what others were saying, that truth and transparency were better than polite deceit and tolerance. In reality, I think I just wanted to fuck things up. Out of boredom, out of wanting to be part of something, out of sheer mean delight.
Sometimes I feel like everybody is a sexy baby And I’m a monster on the hill Too big to hang out, slowly lurching toward your favorite city Pierced through the heart, but never killed
Eventually I revealed myself as the perpetrator – and then the real fun began. When I managed to procure an especially juicy note, I held it over the writer as a form of power and persuasion. My reputation was earned and burned and sealed in stone right then and there – and though there would be redemptive movements and saving graces, I’d take that villainous persona with me wherever I went – even when I tried to kill it. Like most villains, my path would always and only end with my own internal consumption.
Did you hear my covert narcissism I disguise as altruism Like some kind of congressman? (Tale as old as time) I wake up screaming from dreaming One day I’ll watch as you’re leaving And life will lose all its meaning (For the last time)
It’s been a long time since I felt that way, however, and the image of a villain has remained latent and silent all these years. Only when faced with certain pain and childish acting-out have I thought about revisiting such merry mayhem. Villainy has its benefits, foremost among them a freedom that comes only when you’ve given up all the fucks and are ready to let the world find out. Am I reveling in such an idea? Absolutely. It’s time I once again had some of the fun that everyone else has been having. Will I get called out on it? Unlike the others, of course I will. That’s the way it goes (see previous reference to having no more fucks to give). There will come a time when all grievances come to light, and while I won’t dare to judge anyone for it, the truth has always spoken louder than anything I could ever shout. When put down in words, the most atrocious acts are suddenly contained, and often that mere capturing of them somehow lessens their atrociousness. Or so the justification for villainy goes…
It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me (I’m the problem, it’s me) At tea time, everybody agrees I’ll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero
Music on the wind, swooping in, nestled among fantastical feathers. Color seen through the darkness, impossibly bright, and glowing brighter as the breeze nudges us toward midnight. The veil grows thinner, and this is when it’s easiest to fly between worlds. Sometimes we want so badly to escape this one. Fly, my pretties, fly…
Know, know too well Know the chill Know she breaks My Siren No teenage flesh Know that she’ll Know she breaks My Siren
It was winter in Boston. Late 1990’s. Snow was there, and snow was melting. There was water in the air, ice on the wind, and witches seem to like when the weather gets hazy that way. Water as smoke, water as fog, water in the winter thaw. On the molecular level, water moves mountains, cracking stone and splitting rocks. It sparkles and stuns, like a gown you will only wear once.
I moved through that winter, I moved through that snow.
I moved through that spring, I moved through that grass.
I moved through that summer, I moved through those moons.
There were witches to guide me, witches to right me, witches to pick me up when I fell or simply gave out.
They rode on the night, gliding through folds of blackness, showing me the way through the stars.
Now I know that you know I Never was one for a prissy girl Coquette, call in for an ambulance Reach high, doesn’t mean she’s holy Just means she’s got a cellular handy Almost brave, almost pregnant Almost, ya know, in love
Then I arrived at fall.
Fall with her fiery splendor, fall with her flaming finale, fall before she shed herself into winter.
Fall with her welcoming arms, open like a freshly-dug grave site, earth so deep it’s still wet – like where we all began…
Fall brought me here, through all the years – the moons and suns and days and nights – brought me to where I would finally take flight. Spurred on by the Siren, imaginary exoskeleton fluttering and protruding from my back, lifting and placing me on the wind, I learned to fly when they first let me fall.
“Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air.” ~ Washington Irving
A companion playlist to our Fade-to-Black listening experience for this fall, here is a bewitching collection of songs to add an element of witchcraft and magic to this most terribly enchanting of days. All sung by women, they are a siren call for my heart – strange twist in the mind of a gay man – and maybe that’s why I’ve always been more drawn to women when it comes to what counts. Give them a listen if you’d like, though I take no responsibility for any spells that may be cast upon your fancy.
Some call her sister of the moon Some say, illusions are her game They like to wrap her in velvet Does anyone, ooh, know her name?
A holding place for magic, then.
A sacred circle of sorts.
Some say ‘witch‘ like it’s a bad thing, the same way they say ‘bitch’, and the same way they mean it. Casting a spell of words is a dangerous ritual, and how quickly we throw them out. Ropes of words, magical lassoes – as if anything could truly force a person to tell the truth. Where does such a magic land exist?
Rings of fire once populated these flaming autumn days; rings of cock twirled and spun their circles of burn too. Lace of florals, fabrics of sheer, and the power of pretty – it all seems so flimsy, so easily torn. Satin sheets of leopard seemed very romantic as a wise woman wondered what happened when we weren’t in bed. That same sense of female empowerment comes across in the bop and beat of this Chappell Roan song, and female empowerment is about the only hope that seems to exist in these dark days.
You know what they say: Never waste a Friday night on a first date But there I was, in my heels with my hair straight And so I take him to this bar – this man wouldn’t dance He didn’t ask a single question And he was wearing these fugly jeans It doesn’t matter though He doesn’t have what it takes to be with a girl like me
Some songs remind you of what you needed to be all those years ago, and if you stomp through today with a little extra casual cruelty, the piercing punctures of stilettos piercing hearts that didn’t quite deserve it, more power to you. A riveting thread runs from Madonna through Lady Gaga all the way to this pulsating pussy-power anthem – and self-empowerment lifts everyone, regardless of gender labels and limitations.
Years ago, long before Andy, and somewhere after yet another failed romance, some hyper mega bummer boy, I remember walking through Copley Square on a windy, sunny, and somehow still-cutting day, blaring the bridge of Madonna’s ‘Express Yourself’ and pounding the pavement with purposeful strides, “And when you’re gone he might regret it, think about the love he once had…” My heart was as hurt as it was hellbent on hurting whomever was next.
I’m not proud of all the collateral damage that I left in my wake, and all the pain that begot more pain. All I cared about was that my coat billowed beautifully behind me, that I could walk fabulously forward without looking back, and that I would do the dancing and the trouncing and the pummeling on hearts that inadvertently crossed my dangerous and ridiculously dramatic path.
Get up off your feet, get up on that bar Walk that walk from Tokyo to New York With everything you feel and everything you are Walk that walk, flash the camera Flash the camera, flash the camera, you’re a star!
Perhaps this false confidence was a major misstep, and I’m not averse to acknowledging the many flaws in the way I executed portions of the past. Perhaps my strut was a mask; perhaps it was the key element to my survival. Perhaps it was the only thing that kept me in existence. Whatever the case, it got me through – or maybe I got through in spite of it all. I still revere the power of a pop song, and the song of a siren who is thoroughly sick of the fucked-up patriarchy that has informed centuries of who we are.
A super graphic ultra modern Ooh you got me la-la-la-ing Hyper-sexy top to bottom girl like me.
Stevie Nicks is about to provide the bulk of the soundtrack for our October listening list (coming up shortly, since we just released the Fade-to-Black Fall Playlist). I hear her siren’s call, drawn to the sweet music, and the spicy scent of pine warmed by the afternoon sun in our little side-yard, and I try to join in the dance. It’s there in the wind. It’s there in a falling leaf. It’s there in the soft and sticky brush of pine needles.
I’m tired I’m thirsty I’m wild-eyed In my misery
Timeless in your finery It’s a high price For your luxury
In times of doubt and uncertainty, I find it best to reconnect with nature. Sitting in the soft blanket comprised of leaves and moss, the earth embraces all of us if we let it. There is healing in that embrace, and in the music of a woman who has seen more than most of us. She knows our secrets. She knows a way out. She knows.
Sorcerer Who is the master A man and woman on a star stream In the middle of a snow dream Sorcerer Show me the high life Come over Let me put you on ice
The wisdom unseen by men, the wisdom gleaned by women, and the wisdom discerned by those somewhere in between or beyond such limited labels is the wisdom of the ages. It changes with the passing of time, something we as humans don’t always want to admit or acknowledge, because that might require a change in our own beliefs. We don’t usually like to change our beliefs – it’s messy and makes us uneasy – but if you learn how to do that, you learn a bit of magic that will unlock hidden doors for as long as you keep your mind open. It’s the kind of magic that lights the darkest black ink nights…
All around black ink darkness And who found lady from the mountains All around black ink darkness And who found lady from the mountains Lady from the mountains
Lately I’ve felt the downward pull of time and age – two of many things over which a person has little to no control. Time and age – the sorcerer and the sorceress that lord their ways over us all.
Our fall playlist is finally being posted here – a little late perhaps, but I hope you find it worth the wait. It begins with songs that inspired the ‘Fade-to-Black’ theme, segues into a rollicking femininomenon section with a couple of disco moments, and brings us all back to black in the end. Click and listen, preferably in the order in which they appear. (Apologies, I’m an anal-retentive Virgo after all.)
One of my favorite pieces of music is the Bacchanal from the opera ‘Samson and Delilah’. I’m not sure why it became a favorite, because it brings back bad memories of all the stress and worry and competitive ickiness of my time in the Empire State Youth Orchestra. That it contains one of the more celebrated oboe solos is one reason for how stressful those passages once felt, and I remember the first time we read through it – I think I had the solo and totally massacred it.
The orchestra raced ahead before I even knew where we were in the score, and I was left behind, eventually taking the second seat after tryouts. In truth, I probably had no business even being in the actual Empire State Youth Orchestra – and as much as I learned there, as much as the experience hardened and honed me, I wonder if it was worth the social anxiety and stress at that time in my life. It still haunts me, and I question whether that was the best thing to do to myself as a kid (not that I was given a choice in those early days) – and did it really prove the tipping point at getting me into all of the colleges to which I applied? I doubt I’ll ever know – and there’s no point in dwelling here. Instead, let’s revel in the music at hand, and allow it to fuel this fall’s reckoning…
If you stick it out and wait until about the 7:00 mark, you’ll hear when things really begin to soar – and it is here where I take all the trauma of the past and turn it into something else – anger, rage, triumph, revenge – and a power I’m still discovering buried within. Spreading the wings of a silky caftan, with a rope of pearls to harness the universe’s available energy, it feels like a moment ripe for flight.
The music is a seduction and a celebration in one, entrancing with its sensuous oboe solo, and then setting the scene for the destruction of a temple. Sexual symbolism and blatant hedonism brilliantly collide in a meeting of the minds and bodies of opposing forces. Prepare the way for aural ecstasy and orgasmic, orgiastic might.
Who knew that opera could be so gorgeously filthy? It’s a perfect treat for the fall season.
Ever since Dad died, this song has taken on a deeper meaning – and it was pretty deep before then, so this one goes far down. For our fade-to-black fall, it gets resurrected and brought back with even greater resonance. Life does that – it sharpens some things, dulls others, and reconfigures the world in a way that makes you realize it was all perception and perspective – and hopefully in that realization there comes a certain peace.
When I was a young boy My father took me into the city To see a marching band He said, “Son, when you grow up Would you be the savior of the broken The beaten and the damned?” He said, “Will you defeat them? Your demons, and all the non-believers The plans that they have made?” “Because one day, I’ll leave you a phantom To lead you in the summer To join the black parade”
A world that sends you reelin’ From decimated dreams Your misery and hate will kill us all So paint it black and take it back Let’s shout it loud and clear Defiant to the end, we hear the call
Ever since I was a boy, I’ve felt old. Not physically, just in my head. I had no patience for childish nonsense, and all the silly things the other kids were doing. I felt weary, like I’d done it all before, and I was already tired. I felt jaded, not better than anyone – never better than anyone – just like there was nothing new under the sun. I felt entirely too serious for my own good, and my earnestness was never taken at face value, jumbling things up in my head even more. I felt stressed and worried – about everything. And what should have been one of the only truly carefree times in a person’s life was never meant to be, at least for me.
Do or die, you’ll never make me Because the world will never take my heart Go and try, you’ll never break me We want it all, we wanna play this part
I won’t explain or say I’m sorry I’m unashamed, I’m gonna show my scars Give a cheer for all the broken Listen here, because it’s who we are
Just a man, I’m not a hero Just a boy, who had to sing this song Just a man, I’m not a hero I don’t care
We’ll carry on, we’ll carry on And though you’re dead and gone, believe me Your memory will carry on
I cannot regret that, any more than anyone can regret things over which they had no control or say. Who knows why I felt that way, and what does it even matter at this point? That was a long time ago, and I’ve never been one to hold onto the past, even as I recognize the need for a reckoning about certain things that have occurred. For now, I think of my Dad when I hear this song, wondering how he would react to everything our world has become. I have my own idea of what his take would be on various situations, and it keeps me going.
One of my favorite moments of last week was driving home from a family dinner with Andy, and having this song come on the radio. I’m not going to pretend I was ever a huge fan of the Carpenters, but I had a few favorites, and they definitely knew their way around a melody, and a harmony for that matter, so let’s indulge in a bit of optimism. Andy reminded me of that during this darkening fall, so I turned the music up and let it play.
Such a feelin’s comin’ over me There is wonder in most every thing I see Not a cloud in the sky, got the sun in my eyes And I won’t be surprised if it’s a dream
Everything I want the world to be Is now comin’ true especially for me And the reason is clear, it’s because you are here You’re the nearest thing to heaven that I’ve seen
For a Monday afternoon post, a bit of optimism makes all the difference. Go ahead, sing along.
I’m on the top of the world lookin’ down on creation And the only explanation I can find Is the love that I’ve found, ever since you’ve been around Your love’s put me at the top of the world
{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}
We existed in a land of letters. Furtive messages left for one another on a shared computer, before there was e-mail or social media of any kind. Lyrics mostly, the occasional letter, snippets of songs and poems and phrases we’d heard whispered in a dream. That’s what we were in – the fever dream of being eighteen years old and just beginning to find yourself. Seeing glimmers of who you might want to be in another person was intoxicating.
From the not-so-hallowed halls of high school unimaginativeness, we found each other like weak beacons in a tormented sea. Our lights having been wasted for years amid kids and adults who were always somehow lacking or limited, we found kindred spirits in each other, and when you find a twin flame at such a lovely and atrocious time in your life, it ignites something that can never be fully extinguished.
With you I’m not a little girl With you I’m not a man When all the hurt inside of me Comes out, you understand You see that I’m ferocious You see that I am weak You see that I am silly And pretentious and a freak
She had come from another school, and back in those days I disdained anyone new. She was also outspoken, unafraid to be the center of attention, and brash in a way that intimidated others; for those reasons, and more, she eventually gained my respect. She also had similar taste in music. Embroiled in the typical maelstrom of adolescent angst and drama, we each found comfort and thrills in Madonna, for no one spoke to that more succinctly than her. It was a rare treat to find someone as enamored of the pop star at that time – there was something decidedly uncool for a boy to like her, if not outright offensive. I was just starting to learn not to care about such things. When messages started appearing on the computer I used in an early computer class, I knew instantly who they were from, and in that dreamy period of teenage infatuation and insecurity, I wrote back with similar messages and strings of words. We each needed a friend then.
But I don’t feel too strange for you Don’t know exactly what you do I think when love is pure you try To understand the reasons why And I prefer this mystery It cancels out my misery And gives me hope that there could be A person that loves me
At the time, I was seeing another girl, so my side of things had to remain – and did remain – strictly platonic. Admittedly there were some flirtatious moments, but when you’re eighteen that seems the least of any transgressions, and I never cheated on my girlfriend despite the opportunity. Still, I understood that meeting someone who understood me in a wholly different way was something special, something sacred, and we guarded that. In some way we sensed that we might be each other’s salvation at a point down the road, and in so many aspects we both needed to be rescued.
Rescue me (rescue me, it’s hard to believe) Your love has given me hope Rescue me (rescue me, it’s hard to believe) I’m drowning Baby throw out your rope
We were both confidently assured of our fabulousness and keenly insecure about who we were. It may likely have been no more than youth, but you usually can’t see that at the time it all happens. We spoke to one another in a language no one else would ever understand – at times I wondered if we even knew what we were saying, so complicated did our verbal sparring turn that we would occasionally get lost in woods of words. Being so perfectly matched in wit was as much a blessing as a curse; it made for the greatest moments of connection while proving fertile fighting ground. Our battles were as epic as our chemistry, and when my then-girlfriend and I broke up (in the best way we could manage, which admittedly wasn’t the best), we finally had the chance to see how we would or could work as a couple.
With you I’m not a fascist Can’t play you like a toy And when I need to dominate You’re not my little boy You see that I am hungry For a life of understanding And you forgive my angry little heart When she’s demanding
We shared a chemistry that transcended typical gender and sexual roles (especially seeing as how we would both end up realizing we were more attracted to the same sex in a year or so). At the moment, we came together in combustible and fiery fashion – an attraction built first on the intellectual, followed by the physical, which at our age meant burning up.
You bring me to my knees While I’m scratching out the eyes Of a world I want to conquer And deliver and despise And right while I am standing there I suddenly begin to care And understand that there could be A person that loves me
We would explore every configuration of how our bodies fit together, fucking everywhere from empty playgrounds to station wagons to the middle of a road somewhere after midnight. With the intensity and fervor befitting the verge of adulthood, our lovemaking was primal, animalistic; it was like we were trying to fuck our way through each other to some other place. She pulled me into her, locking her wrists behind my back as I wondered how close we could come to abandoning ourselves to oblivion. Our passion wanted as much to destroy itself as to build itself anew each day. We were both insatiable then.
Rescue me (rescue me, it’s hard to believe) Your love has given me hope Rescue me (rescue me, it’s hard to believe) I’m drowning Baby throw out your rope
Yet somehow I remained removed, like I was going through the motions of what a man’s supposed to do. There was a cool detachment that I thought was emanating from her, when really it was me the whole time; we so often attribute our questionable traits to others, tricking ourselves into believing we are but mirroring the state of someone else. My barriers were constantly erect, even as I was inside her, as close as two people might possibly be, and as much as we both thought it to be love, the clouds signaling the end of a season, like the clouds of our ending youth, rolled in from the horizon. Our one summer together had come to a close, and by the time I was back in Boston she had moved on to her first girlfriend, and I was kissing a man.
Love is understanding It’s hard to believe Life can be so demanding I’m sending out an S.O.S. Stop me from drowning Baby I’ll do the rest
Rescue me (rescue me) Your love has given me hope (your love has given me hope) Rescue me (rescue me) I’m drowning Baby throw out your rope
Even if we hadn’t awakened to our diverging sexualities, we could never have survived in a world of reality. Our drama was too intense, our ways with each other too extreme. We couldn’t inhabit the real world – and we both understood that surviving meant living 95% in the real world – navigating its awfulness, getting down in its ditches, dirtying the very pure realm in which we carved our love. Our final break was a messy, splintered, half-assed affair – and we had hurt each other beyond a point where we might be friends.
Love is understanding It’s hard to believe Life can be so demanding I’m sending out an S.O.S. Rescue me, rescue me
It’s not my business to decide How good you are for me How valuable you are And what the world can see Only that you try to understand me And have the courage To love me for me
Looking back, with the keen sensitivity and wisdom of time unrushed, and with a willingness to acknowledge and own any bad behavior, we may have rescued each other after all. For that brief, glorious, tender time in our lives – a time that would inform all we would ever become, solidifying our souls in ways that remain true to this day, we did our best to save ourselves, and each other. Every once in a while I’ll still think of her, wonder at where she might be, how she might be, what she might be doing – and I hope she is safe and happy. After all of it, I still wish her happiness.
I’m talking, I’m talking, I believe in the power of love
I believe in the power, I believe you can rescue me
I wore all black today – it’s the uniform of this fall season. It also marks a shift from my typical garb of crazy colors and wild combinations; it also fits the mood at hand, which is black as the night.
Before a late meditation, I stepped outside and looked up at the dark sky. An airplane blinked and slowly crossed in a gentle arc, then the stars began to appear as my eyes adjusted. They are always there – sometimes it just takes a bit of effort and patience to see them.
“Very few beings really seek knowledge in this world. Mortal or immortal, few really ask. On the contrary, they try to wring from the unknown the answers they have already shaped in their own minds —justifications, confirmations, forms of consolation without which they can’t go on. To really ask is to open the door to the whirlwind. The answer may annihilate the question and the questioner.” ~ Anne Rice
Once upon a time I lived life like a vampire. Inhabiting the blackness of a castle – yes, a true castle, which is never nearly as romantic as one thinks it is – I roamed cold and clammy hallways, floating down dim stone stairwells, and avoiding the piercing bits of light that peeked into tiny windows of turrets. Castles are only good for their gorgeous darkness – they offer little comfort otherwise, unless you are in need of defense. And even then they can only keep things out of themselves; not once did they protect my heart.
I learned a lot in that castle, and during that part of my life, which should have been far lonelier than I ever allowed myself to feel. Some self-preserving instinct deep inside of me signaled a dire warning that if I had faced the loneliness then it would have won, taking me down entirely, and likely forever. The castle outwardly illustrated how to construct a fortress of the heart, though I may have known that before I ever stepped into such a cruel edifice. And perhaps my heart didn’t deserve such protection. God, if such a thing exists, may not have had much empathy for my existence, and being a vampire was probably a step up from what certain others actually thought of me.
Hate to give the satisfaction, asking how you’re doing now How’s the castle built off people you pretend to care about? Just what you wanted Look at you, cool guy, you got it I see the parties and the diamonds sometimes when I close my eyes Six months of torture you sold as some forbidden paradise I loved you truly Gotta laugh at the stupidity
Vampires have long held a bad reputation. I’m not saying they don’t deserve it, or even that they’re real – I’m just saying it’s bad, and as someone who’s been vilified in ways both just and unfair, I know what that’s like. There’s a loneliness there, and occasionally a stance of sympathy from those who enjoy a dance with the devil, beneath the pale moonlight or not. (You know the moonlight of which I speak.)
Like the vampire, I’ve committed acts of atrocity, mostly in my youth, the way most of us do – being careless with the hearts of others, caring too much for this heart of mine, and behaving in cruel, reckless, feckless, fuck-them-if-they-can’t-take-a-joke form. The unevolved part of me that relishes in such villainy takes a degree of pride in that, the same way that I pretend not to boast about my penchant for making people cry.
‘Cause I’ve made some real big mistakes But you make the worst one look fine I should’ve known it was strange You only come out at night I used to think I was smart But you made me look so naive The way you sold me for parts As you sunk your teeth into me, oh Bloodsucker, famefucker Bleedin’ me dry, like a goddamn vampire
Did I mean to hurt the people that I hurt? For the most part no, and that may be the tragic irony of it all. Because the people I intended to hurt didn’t always feel it – or if they did they never showed it, and where’s the fun in that? It only served to make me try harder, to raise the level of diabolical emotional pain I might inflict, ensuring that the next time I struck the wound would prove viciously debilitating. Innocent people got injured then – the flying shrapnel of my torment an unintentional but mandatory aspect when you’re out to cause pain of any kind. Destruction begets destruction, especially where emotions are concerned. Rarely does one heart get broken without others being affected. Back then I didn’t care. I couldn’t. Caring that much would have been a hindrance and a luxury, and my heart preferred to live in stark, unencumbered fashion; being selfish is always easier than being selfless – and who, in their heart of hearts, really wants to be without a self? “I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit” – and you will always blame me for your own weakness.
And every girl I ever talked to told me you were bad, bad news You called them crazy, God, I hate the way I called them crazy too You’re so convincing How do you lie without flinching? (How do you lie, how do you lie, how do you lie?) Ooh, what a mesmerizing, paralyzing, fucked-up little thrill Can’t figure out just how you do it, and God knows I never will Went for me, and not her ‘Cause girls your age know better
I’ve made some real big mistakes But you make the worst one look fine I should’ve known it was strange You only come out at night I used to think I was smart But you’ve made me look so naive The way you sold me for parts As you sunk your teeth into me, oh Bloodsucker, famefucker Bleedin’ me dry, like a goddamn vampire
It is in the vampire’s nature to kill. Murder, for them, is a means of survival. You can’t blame a polar bear or a hippopotamus for trying to end you if you’ve encroached upon their turf, and the shark that nibbles at your calf and the snake that bites you after a warning rattle are only being their authentic selves. If it was the vampire’s nature to be murderous, it was in my nature to be cruel. Maybe my nature was cultivated from nurture – I’m in no mood to argue that one way or another – I only acknowledge that by the time I moved into a castle my nature was set in stone, like some blue-ringed octopus that only wanted to be left alone.
Well, I’m giving myself too much credit in trying to take away the notion that my choices were somehow an inevitable and uncontrollable aspect of my being when they were, after all, choices; the purpose of this post is to own up to the evil that once entranced me, and may yet again, because once you’ve tasted such a thing it’s hard to not want it when the opportunity presents itself. Those opportunities arise when the heart is weak and the soul is weary; evil often flourishes in the aftermath of pain. A sadistic streak, having once calmed the hurt of a broken heart, might feel good again following similar circumstances of being wronged. The grooves are still there, the path remains apparent.
The surest way not to get hurt is to be the one doing the hurting; they leave you alone after that. They all leave you alone. Then, try as they might – and I am certain they have tried mightily – they cannot eradicate me from their mind. I simply won’t leave. It’s not something they truly want anyway, despite all lame protestations, and we both know that. That may be what ultimately makes me a monster – not my heinous acts, but the haunting that invariably ensues afterward.
You said it was true love, but wouldn’t that be hard? You can’t love anyone, ’cause that would mean you had a heart I tried you help you out, now I know that I can’t ‘Cause how you think’s the kind of thing I’ll never understand
I’ve made some real big mistakes But you make the worst one look fine I should’ve known it was strange You only come out at night I used to think I was smart But you made me look so naive The way you sold me for parts As you sunk your teeth into me, oh Bloodsucker, famefucker Bleedin’ me dry, like a goddamn vampire
“It was as if the empty nights were made for thinking of him. And sometimes I found myself so vividly aware of him it was as if he had only just left the room and the ring of his voice were still there. And somehow, there was a disturbing comfort in that, and, despite myself, I’d envision his face.” ~ Anne Rice
