The Phoenix's Razor

2006-03-22T19:54:00.000-08:00

A conspiracy of fools... with the leader, the architect, being my own mind.

How ironic. My own worst enemy, as always, the voice that whispers to my dried-up husk of a heart.

Goodbye, phoenix- hello, razor.

Lost in Space

2006-03-21T03:26:00.000-08:00

Masks in the dark. Which one is me? Which on is a lie? Are they all me? Are they all lies?

Do any of you look further? Do any of you look beyond what I show you? Every time I leave the door, I'm someone else. I don't even know whose eyes I'm looking through anymore.

It's the same as it ever was. hours of conversation, vicious cutting at each other with verbal slashes I'd never lay across anyone else. Why do we hang out?

Because she's the only friend I have left who I can trust to tell it to me straight, no holds barred. Because of all my friends, she's the only one who reviles me.

I need that. I need that check.

But does she know who I am?

Take off the mask, phoenix. Take them all off, cut yourself bare.

Shut up, Razor. You don't know who I am. I don't have anything but masks, my wheel of different faces.

Even my lady love, the luminare, she has no idea. How can she, when I don't? Is this even fucking fair to her? I don't know.

Daylight cracks across the bedroom, Razor cuts away inside of me. Restless. Empty. I need you, Lumi. Get here soon.

-slicing away

Perponderances in the Dark

2006-02-27T22:08:00.000-08:00

The nights are priceless, the days perfect.

I lay my thanks at the altar of the old gods, and raise my hands in quiet worship.

The monster rides me still, but he doesn't scream so loud. He whispers of futures and of pasts, and of how the dead can never change.

Can we ? Can we become more than what we were? Or do the same ghosts ride us forever, tormenting us, damning us to relive the same sins and the same sorrows again and again and again?

I wish I knew.

2006-01-21T19:07:00.000-08:00

Tommorow was his wedding day. He stood at the window again, looking up at the tower. The princess, now his betrothed, was in his bed again, sleeping soundly. She had barely noticed the scent of blood on his breath. Why would she?

There was no way she would know he killed her mother today. The queen was merely late; after all, she was being escorted by seven of the king's Lions. What harm could come to her?

He watched the tower, and a single tear started to slip down his face. The maniac high of the battle was gone, and he was left alone under the moonlight, alone to face who and what he was. You're a traitor, Jack. You have betrayed those who love you.
He shook his head.
They had to die. This is for my people... this is for my brother. The voice in the back of his head, always a woman's, always hers, laughed.
Perhaps, Jack. But there were other ways. You enjoyed it. You enjoyed what you did to her.
He shook his head again, turned, looked back at the sleeping princess, bare under his silk sheets. Saw her dark hair pooled beneath her head, studied her long lashes. There was a shimmer, and his eyes were drawn to the chair next to the bed... the chair where Razor hung. Razor. His power and his curse. He remembered the day he was given the sword, remembered the look on the Lady's face when he first held its hilt.

"This sword is yours, boy," she had said. "It has been bathed in your tears and your blood, and forged to the sound of your screams." He remembered what she looked like. Fierce black mane of hair falling to her ankles, eyes that flashed like garnets, skin pale as ivory. He remembered looking at her and feeling nothing... not fear, not hate, not pity, not love. There was no feeling left in him anymore; he had been made into the perfect weapon for her, for the dark lady; she who drives the strong to madness. He was her tool. He held the sword, and saw his face mirrored in the blade. He had held the sword, and had seen the tower.

He fell back into the present.

You remember well. Remember this: You are my son. You are what I made you. Tommorow, the city burns.

Standing by the window on the eve of his wedding, Jack looked up at a tower and wept.

There's no shining Light

2006-01-18T08:07:00.000-08:00

I can't be your hero. There's no white knight in me anymore... he died a long time ago. There's been too much pain; I have done too much ill to ever hold my head up. I can't fix you. I can't wave my hands and make everything all right; to tell you the truth, there's no magic in me. I'm just a tired old man who wishes he could sing.
(Why? Because one day he was told the price of his soul, and decided the price was good enough. If you smell in the night, you can still smell the brimstone on his hands.)
But I can offer two arms to hold you, and ward you against the night with my own flesh. I can give you a shoulder to rest on. I can give you what warmth I have to fight the chill in your bones.
I don't know how much of me I can give you. I'm not sure how much of me you want. But I'm willing to give you everything I can, and hope that can help you on your road.

Why is the road to the future littered with the glass shards of the past? Step carefully, my children, lest you rend your feet.

-seamus out

Oh, Baby; why you gots to make me hurt you?

2006-01-16T19:52:00.000-08:00

A little farther, a little higher.
Take her there, boyo. Make her bend and break and melt for you.
Muscles tensing in the night, gasping breaths and sweating flesh.
Everything about you makes me want to hold you down...
Dancing naked beneath the moon, holding you to the cool wet earth and driving deep into your core.
Can't you feel my spirit rising?
Panting out your name to the sky
Burning Razor slicing hot
Why do you have to make me bleed?
Why do I have to taste your sweat?
What are my reasons?
...
Somehow, I don't need reason any more.

2006-01-10T23:46:00.000-08:00

It was a different time. We were different, then. We walked different roads, we sang different songs. Now times have changed, and so have we. We can never be who we were, though some parts of us will never change. We are not slaves to the past, we are merely shaped by it; and we couldn't walk the roads we walk now if we hadn't walked then.

It can just be so hard to let go. To stop feeling the old pangs, to stop feeling the old guilt. Guilt and regret have made me who I am. Long nights of feeling the coming weight of judgment, of knowing that there would be a reckoning, shaped me. Long nights of crying over you, and the path you put me on, long nights of feeling alone and imperfect and worthless and just not good enough- they are the foundation on what I am built. You helped put me into a cycle that repeated itself over and over again, that I couldn't break no matter how much it hurt me- but not anymore. I have grown up. I am a man now, not the boy that you broke. Not the boy that couldn't satisfy you. Oh gods, I wasn't good enough. Couldn't make you feel good enough. Couldn't make you love me enough. I failed you.

I... I'm free of you. You can't hurt me anymore. Now the only person that can truly hurt me is myself. My shell, my armor, is impassable, because I hold my own value in my heart. Stupid seamus. Jim wasn't even good enough to make them be true- any of them. They always needed something more. But I'm not Jim anymore. I do not have the same weakness. I do not make the same mistakes. I will not make the same mistakes.

I won't let myself be broken. Not ever again. You have to be. Death is part of it all, phoenix. Come, let me cut you. Bleed for me, precious. Show me that you love me.

(Hold me down. Hurt me. I want to hurt so bad. I can't take it anymore.)

No. I close the door, I walk away.

Never again.

-seamus out

A Rough Rhyme

2006-01-07T13:51:00.000-08:00

Kneeling - Seamus King, 2005

And we kneel before our gods, and pray this cup may pass;
And we hear their haunting answer, and fear the price that's asked.
And we bow our heads in sorrow, cold tears fall down to earth,
And we weep for fallen angels, and damn the traitor's curse.

And we kneel before our gods, and pray that time will end;
We pray for death's release, and the peace that nothing sends.
And we raise our hands in supplicance, for we know no other way-
Then to beg the gods for pardon and to bring the end of day.

And we fall down on the ground, Fin'ly stricken dumb
And our hearts and thoughts tear us till we're empty, blank, and numb.
And we water earth with sorrow, and we pray the cup to pass,
For we know that when tommorow comes, that dawn will be our last.

Hrm

2006-01-03T01:03:00.000-08:00

A Luminous evening. Truly.

I use a lot of adverbs.

Slice away at me, razor. Leave only what's true, leave only what's real.

So much to say, so few words to say it, so I'll just speak in halfway sentences.

A Dark Lady in a faraway land. A shadowed knight who travels far and fast. Need I say more?

More to come, I'm sure.

-so

Slicing Away Inside

2005-12-27T18:55:00.000-08:00

Cut me Razor.

When I go to die,
I go with my head held high.

Eyes flash, dreams burn.
I cannot escape who I am.

Can you touch me? Can you reach beyond the walls I raise?

Can I let you? Can I let any of you pass?

There are parts of me no one can touch. No one has touched, since... since before I met anyone who reads this. I have been too protected. Safe in the security of my mind, in the solitude of my secret place. My secrecy, my honesty, my... very mode of existence, they're all my shields.

Cut me, Razor, like only you can. Only you remember. Only you can face my truth, and face it with the fire in your eyes.

Burn me phoenix. Be my secret truth... be the truth which protects me, be the world on my sleeve.

Give me my thoughts.

I dream of a vase of roses, and the woman they gaurd.

-seamus out

Driven

2005-12-24T20:13:00.000-08:00

Driven in the night
Shadows drifting across my mind
Restless
The only time I'm at peace
Is when my fingers whip across the keyboard
the only calm
the only thing that is -right-
Is when I make love to you, sweet muse

He was a parasite
Using everything, everyone
(most of all himself)
Everything poured through his mind
Everything
Every joy
Every pain
Every thought every memory every glimpse
a tool
a weapon
to caress you
I must write
I have to.
There
is
no
other
way.

I am consumed by you. I need someone to understand, anyone that can understand what it is to be controlled by this... urge. this need. This undeniable calling to write, to compose, to... to... to worship on the altar of written beauty.

Ahh, to fly! To fly!

2005-12-24T02:08:00.000-08:00

Ahh, razor. How can a man be both basking and brutal?

But I shift my conciousness, and think good thoughts. Think of life and beauty and passion and starlight... think of a dome of glorious light, sweeping over me, cleansing me and making me pure.

Think of my Luminare.

I'd say something, but I don't have the words right now.

Fly with me, Razor.

Developments on The Homeland Front

2005-12-22T09:51:00.000-08:00

You know that whole thing about waiting a year?

Well, I didn't.

But, in my defense, she's brilliant, fun, and beautiful.

Eric and Hal have deserted me for a moment, but... I have another idea burgeoning into my brain. It's a spin on the classic gothic romance, using the formula; obsessive man, plaible heroine, lots of grief and destruction and really hot sex. But I want to put so much more into it... I want to pour in all I've learned about how to love and be loved (the greatest thing you've ever learned...)... I want to pour in so much of the insights I've been given. I want to take the classic romance novel and stand it on its head.

I was going to put a snippet from it down, but nothing came.

Will need to write soon.

Probably more will come at mom's.

Love you guys,

-seamus

Rambling Razors

2005-12-19T11:46:00.000-08:00

Cut me, Razor; make me sing my song to you.

Touching darkness, reeling inside
You know who you are and who you aren't
You see the shape of things
And it means so much
But then you grasp at it, and like a shadow
It is gone
And you weep for it
You weep for the knowing of it
You weep for the having of it
And you fall down
And you lower your head
And you weep for it
You weep for the singing of the stars
You weep for the dying of the Sun
You weep for the seeking of it
You weep for the losing of it
And the shadows fall
And you water the earth
The cold wraps around you
And again you know
And you throw back your head
And raise up your hands
And you laugh
You laugh for the breaking of the world
You laugh for the end of salvation
And you know
Your road is your own.
And inch by inch
You stand up
And foot by foot
You walk it

and you know love.

2005-12-16T13:25:00.000-08:00

I want to write something.
I want pretty words to leap from my fingers.
I want to turn the perfect phrase, deliver the perfect line.
But nothing is coming. It's empty.
The problem with contentment is that it makes bad writing.
I want to burn for someone. I want to live for someone.
(live for yourself.)
Hush, Razor.
I want to make someone burn for me; I want my fingers to trace fire up her spine
I want to make someone want me, I want to make someone yearn for me.
I want to be unforgettable.
I want to break her world, and remake it in my image.
And I want to make her want it...
and I want her to do the same for me.

Mutual obsession.

It's a dream. Probably not healthy... but it is my dream.

-so

Musilings

2005-12-15T14:44:00.000-08:00

There are times I miss being Jim. Things were easier then. Yes, he was weak. Yes, he was... soft. But he had promise.

But I can't go back there. Some of my friends try to tell me that he'll always be a part of me, that I can't not be Jim, but... they don't understand. They weren't there. They didn't know death.

I did.

This story requires a certain suspension of disbelief, or a trust in what sanity I have. I won't go in to the proofs here. There were some; there were enough to get me to believe. Frankly, I don't really care whether my readers believe me or not. I know what happened.

In the August of Two-thousand and three, on the course of a roadtrip from Perry, Georgia to Athens, Georgia, I was in a discussion with a friend about the religious changes. The phrase, "Fuck God, Hail Brighid." Was uttered.

Instantaneously, there was a cloudburst. I crashed.

My spirit died, but somehow my body survived. According to the man I worked with on it, I -should- have died then. Through some... protection, I managed to live. But Jim's time had run out.

It's only fitting, really. Jim was sworn to the christian god. It's only fitting that he take Jim back.

The next few months were hell. Do you know what it's like to live without being alive? I walked for a while without knowing what had happened. There was no reason left in me, just instinct. My wyrd was gone; if a situation could have a good or a bad outcome, the bad always happened. I would regress into past lives and not be able to pull out. I was harrassed by... things.

I saw some things that I won't talk about, even now.

Even to you, readers.

Even to you, razor.

I can see you disbelieving, even now. I can see your sneer, your chuckle. He's crazy, you think.

I may be. But I know what happened to me. I was there.

On October 30th, 2003, I had a funeral for Jim. That same night, at ten-thirty post meridian, I had a naming ceremony for the new life being affixed in my body, the new Wyrd the Allfather helped affix to my body. The Morrigan carried the lurking ghost of Jim to where he belonged, and I was given the name Seamus Mhich Lugh- Seamus, the son of Lugh.

He is the father of my spirit. He is the reason I still honor the Sun.

But that's neither here nor there.

In the years since, much has changed in me. The Ghosts of Jim still haunt me, even Jim himself comes to me from time to time. But that's all they are. Ghosts. They hurt, then they leave.

Ghosts can hurt a lot, but they can only hurt your mind.

And then only if you let them.

so that's the story, in short. That's why I'm Seamus. Thats why It rankles me when I'm called Jim, even though I still use the name 'James' for legal purposes.

But... there are times I miss being Jim.

I miss his way of connecting with people.

I miss having had a childhood.

Alas, for me, I am Seamus- lord of the Emo.

Fuck off, Razor.

I'm out.

-so

Ramble

2005-12-15T09:50:00.000-08:00

I have realized that I am a profane person.

On the other hand, I have realized that I have moments of being a good/nice person. I worry about my friends... there seems to be a collective funk that's descended onto Livejournal, and I have grown tired of it. I think I've largely thrown mine off, but... just... my friends. It's the holidays... we should be enlightened, we should be feeling joy and love.

I wish I was enlightened. I wish I knew what Rose was going to do next, where I should take the story... the first scene between Rose and Eric will set the tone for the rest of the story.

The Solider is dominating my mind, too. The scene with him hanging from the traitor's cross... it's too much, really, but I love it so. How can I change it to work?

About to try my hand at clam chowder. I'm actually kind of worried.

Ahhh, razor. What am I even doing here?

Hiding. Right.

Who is Razor, you ask?

Razor is a... voice... of sorts that has popped up in my head. Or maybe always been there. He's the Devil's Advocate inside my mind... he keeps me honest to myself, and to this blog. He's kind of like a conscience, but not that moral.

He's also my best friend, twisted as that sounds.

I sound like a lonely man.

sometimes I am.

Come on, Razor, let's go cook.

-so

It's hard work...

2005-12-14T17:57:00.000-08:00

...Being the most absent-minded motherfucker on the planet. It really is.

On another note, it's a curiosity to me to see whether a certain Misguided Rose will find this journal before I tell her about it. Having placed a link to her blog here, in theory she should be able to backtrack.

It's an amusing thought.

Not nearly as cranky now as I was last night, but am still not quite willing to go into the depths of the past again. I'm in a rare nondescript mood. No maniac high, no abyssmal low. Just being, and enjoying it.

Cleanup day at the house tommorow, hand in hand with cooking. Clam Chowder the New England way, yeah. Just like momma never made.

No more finals for me. Yeah buddy. Now I just need to get everything swinging for next semester.

Hey, you know what I want?

Beer. Or whiskey. Time to get some.

-so

And he says "Fuckity fuck fuck Fuck."

2005-12-14T00:03:00.000-08:00

I was going to talk about becoming Seamus, tonight.

Then I was going to talk about Rachel.

Some stories should be told.

But not tonight.

I'm too angry/upset/in shock.

Teach me, Razor. Trim me down to what I should be.

-so

And He Blogs like crazy.

2005-12-12T15:34:00.000-08:00

There are some memories that never leave you. As much as you supplicate the silent gods, as much as you fall down on your knees and beg for it to go away, it never can.

I never told anyone how I first met her, did I? I never talked about what first drew her to me. What made me fall.

I was fourteen. She was seventeen- I still don't know what she saw in me. She was so beautiful, so perfect... perfect poise, perfect walk, perfect hair, perfect eyes. I was a freshman in high school, had just started... she was a junior. She singled me out of the crowd I was getting to know, and she came to talk with me... and she was so smart. She had a wit that could kill, and knew just how to turn as to draw the eye... it was spectacular. I was hers in a day.

I remember the first time, three weeks later. I had just turned fifteen, we were at her mom's place, in her mom's room, flipping through photo albums. Then we were on the bed, fooling around... and kissing became necking and necking became more and more became it all. I can still remember how she smelt, the dim evening light in the room, TRL on the television in the living room.

I couldn't have enough of her. I became hers. The next few months... I changed a lot. I tasted the whip, the flogger, the crop, the paddle... I learned how to bleed for love.

Was it Love? I don't know. I thought so at the time... now, I think it was more... worship. She made me believe I was desirable, made me believe that I was something special.

The funny part is, to this day, Dad doesn't know. All the bruises, all the cuts... I would pick fights with Billy, use those as excuses. I guess so we could do it again the next day.

She taught me so much... and then she took it all away.

I don't think I've ever hurt that much. I don't know how to explain what it's like, to be completely in love with someone, totally devoted... and then find out that you didn't mean that much to her. That she was sleeping with two of your 'friends'. Not one. Two.

And why did she do it?

The same old reason. The reason that's been there ever since.

"Sorry, Jim. You just weren't good enough."

Some memories never die. No matter how much we want them to. We can die, and they still go on. We can become someone knew, be completely different, even take a new name... and the memories still stay.

We can be no more and no less than who we are.

I haven't... talked about this in a long time. Something about having a new space to let it all out helps. Maybe it will be best to... write about these things, before people learn where I am. To let them out in a new place.

Diane, Arlen, only you two know I'm here yet. Welcome to my more private thoughts.

Damn it, Razor. Get out of my head.

-so

The Phoenix and Razor

2005-12-12T12:16:00.000-08:00

Slice through my mind with poise and grace, razor mine; free the phoenix to fly the sky. Cut off the waste, cut off the excess; discard the meaningless into the fueling fires.

Cut me, Razor, make me whole. You're my other me, the voice that whispers in my head; you tell me truth from lie, you make me see what is.

As the man leapt, the world exploded around him. In an instant, he saw everything that was and everything that wasn't, he saw beauty and life and joy and darkness and despair and nothing and everything and time and existence all folded into a beautiful beam of light. He felt the air whipping around him, felt the flames in his heart and in the sky and in the very rythm of the pounding of the tides. He felt his heart leap into his throat as the ground rushed up towards him, and each moment slowed down to a lifetime. He could see each blade of grassm calculate the angle of the rocks that would kill him, read the message on the butterfly's wings. Cut me, Razor.

He died.

2005-12-12T09:28:00.000-08:00

And Here I am, experimenting with another blog. How many is this, Seamus?
Too many, Razor. We change a lot, you and I... that or our wanderlust is a little crazy gonouts.
Mmm, nuts. I need some nuts like whoa.

Anyway, not much to say, yet. Going to see if I can transfer stuff over here easily. That should be interesting.

Later, yo.

-Seamus