The Country

 Last post, I remarked about how much I liked NYC. Seems no one else shares that sentiment. Let me remind all of you little mortals, 900 years of nothing-but-country cures you pretty quickly, particularly when you're still under the impression that light is a fatal entity.

But prior to the 900 years in god-forsaken Alaska, I did live in the country. I don't have to tell you about Taberleigh. It's history. Find it in a textbook, not here. I lived on the outskirts. I usually lived on the outskirts of every town -- just far enough that they didn't come bothering me, just close enough that I could go get the supplies I couldn't provide for myself.

Everyone thinks that the DH business is a glam-fest with immortality thrown in as a bonus. They teach you to fight, wear leather, look like a nasty son-of-a-bitch and then give you wealth to do whatever the hell you want, just kill the daimons in exchange. Sounds like a bargain, right?

What Ash didn't tell me was that after he taught me to fight and manage with all those other inconveniences like fangs and sunlight deprivation, I was going to be tossed back out into the great wide world to fend for myself. And I had to learn or I was Shade-fucked. No squires for me. Even with my single-minded devotion to those who had done their part to make me whole (and I *was* devoted -- Ash had been the single-most important, respected, loved person in my life at that time) I still wasn't good enough to be given aid. And no amount of daimon-killing, offered-assistance or show of dedicated admiration was enough to prove that I was worthy of a goddamn assistant. Olympians are ever the elitists.

So, I grew my own vegetables and raised my own chickens and geese and managed my own small farm for years, centuries. It was thoroughly 'country.' A donkey for the cart, self-made furniture, a shed that I was constantly repairing -- they were the happiest years of my DH life. I did hard work -- we all did. But my limbs were straight and my back was strong, and I had both eyes to see with and both hands to use.

In the summers, when the nights were warm enough and the daimon-counts were low, I would swim in the pond, feeling the silt between my toes when I stood, feeling clean and happy, for I was happy in those days. And the first place I lived, in Gaul, had this great pond where everything around it was quiet, and no one lived within an hour's cart-ride of my shack. From there, you could see the whole sky reflected on the surface of the water, as if both sky and ground were composed of nothing but celestial bodies. I was just learning how to read and write and I remember wishing so earnestly that I could put it into words to share with someone else.

But that was a long time ago, when I still felt like an injured pup licking my wounds and before one of my greatest betrayers was still like a brother to me. Now that great little pond is probably dried up and turned into a shopping plaza.

That Time of Year

Yeah, I live on Mt. Olympus most of the time, but when I'm not, I'm usually to be found in NYC. I know I've mentioned it before. New Orleans is crawling with individuals I have no desire to play nice with. Besides, there are enough DHers and formers there to form their own militia. Not a place for me. Astrid likes it. I did like it, roaming around as a semi-free-man when I got my brief reprieve from exile. But NYC is my place now. I have my studio there, I've made connections. It's my city. And while I am not the first DHer (or former) to roam its streets, I do believe I am the first to actually make mention of it.

I spend enormous amounts of time outside. I like walking. I like being able to look in any direction at any time of day and be able to go, just go, and see others and see things I've never seen before, take a new street, go to a new museum, walk through a weekend craft fair stationed in a park. I still have my cell phone in case Astrid needs me, and often I take my son with me. But I have finally discovered freedom.

(Apparently, I only wait weeks to post because that's how often I'm philosophical. Figure that.)
I'm not so sure freedom is something I've been given. It feels too often like I've just been handed off from this person to that one over and over and over again, and finally ended up being transferred to Astrid with whom I am expecting to stay for the duration of my unnatural life. I love her with all my heart, but there is a reason marriage is often depicted as a ball-and-shackle.

No, freedom was never something someone handed to me (with their blessing or not). It's something I've had to make for myself, every step of the way. And I affirm it each day I go off and do something new, something I *want* to do, with every decision I make. Before, I used to think it was about taking responsibility for my own actions, but then I started taking responsibility for everyone else's and I learned that it wasn't about that. It was about being *able.* You know the phrase that Ash stole (Just because you can, etc)? Sometimes you have to, just to know you *can.* I've lived such a powerless life for so long, I'm not about to sit passively and watch everyone else have say over me. Not anymore.

So freedom, in NYC. It's a beautiful thing. The leaves are turning again. With all the time I have on my hands now, sometimes I sit in the park and just watch. And though it is very likely my imagination, sometimes I think I can actually see the leaves turning their fall colours. I keep my notebook and my watercolour pencils on hand just for such occasions. And it's not just here in NYC.

I stopped by my sort-of-squire's place earlier today. His area is pretty rural compared to the city and he directed me to a few places that were worthy of a couple of sketches. He also invited us over to a party at his place tonight, but I don't think I could stomach the other people he's inviting. It's bad enough I have to deal with Astrid's family. I really don't want to deal with his.

Not sure what the deal is with tonight. I'm going as an artist (easy, no need for anything -- just wear what I have that's already paint-stained and clay-caked) and the babe decided he wanted to be a ... get this.... a sculpture (which is why I'm going as an artist). I'm not sure where he got the idea, but probably from my studio and seeing the things I did. Astrid said she was going as Galatea to fit in with the theme of 'sculpture.' I guess that makes me Pygmalion.


~Z

Being Complete

 Many of you are going to say 'Z, this gentle introspection has got to stop -- it's not like you." Well to those of you out there, fuck off. My journal, my thoughts, my goddamn business what I put on here.

So, during my shower today, a nice shower, where the nozzle is above my head and I don't have to bend over -- oh the comforts most of you screw-ups take for granted -- and I am able to relax for a brief moment, let down my guard and just let thoughts come and go while I groom myself and otherwise take care of myself, I came to a brief unoriginal revelation.

I am a Complete Being.

I am Complete. This doesn't mean that I am an island and desire to be left on my own, though often it seems that way. I can take care of myself. I do not need anyone. But this was more than that.

So many people say to someone that they love, "you complete me." I love Astrid, with all my heart. And I love my son, with all my heart. But they do not Complete me. I am who I am. From the moment I came into this miserable world to the moment I leave, if ever, this is all I am. And it doesn't matter who I am, or what I am.

I wasn't even sure why or how I thought this, so I went to the studio to see if I could represent it. And I took clay and made a flat triangle, wondering if it could represent anyone out there in the world, flat and only three sided. And then I made it a square -- still flat, but with a tiny more complexity, and then, deciding that even the flattest personality was a little more three dimensional, I made a pyramid with four faces and the bottom side -- far more representative of a human.

If you progress it, as I did, you'll get a square and then many other shapes with many other faces. True Completeness is a sphere. Ever see twelve-sided dice? It is nearly spherical. And it has more complexity and aspects to it than the earlier forms. It is no wonder that the celestial bodies are spherical.

I see myself as a sphere. I am not polished and not pretty, and as far from the perfection of the shape as possible, but there are so many sides to me that they blend in with the others and become an unending spectrum. And there are the inside parts that are there though hidden and do not get expressed. But they are there, nonetheless.

Everything in me, about me, everything I feel, everything I know, all that I do, and all else that makes up this personage we call 'Zarek' makes me Complete. There isn't anything missing. There isn't anything out there in the world that can make me anymore Me. It's all here.

And it is a very peaceful thought.

My Own Child

I have my own little boy. So why the hell would I want to watch another child, another FEW children, particularly when they're all goddamn little brats?

My boy isn't an angel, though he looks like one, and I'll be the first to admit that. But he's no brat either. He's been given proper discipline (though may the wrath of a thousand pissed-off gods befall me again -- and MINE were only negligent --- if I ever raise a hand to him, though that isn't to say that one or two well-placed and well-timed smacks off the rear-end don't happen now and then) and proper structure in his life. I don't need maladjusted whiny snots in my life -- that's why I'm not raising my son that way.

So, Astrid decided bonding time would be to visit other Olympic-acquaintances with children around our darling's age. Well, that meant "we" were considered baby-sitters. And by then, Astrid was so wrapped up in whatever she was doing (I think it's the Mt.Olympus paging system, though I haven't quite gotten the hang of it) that *I* was the one solely responsible for four children, my own, and the other goddamn whining screaming three. So much for fucking bonding time. Not to mention the fact that by the time Astrid's asshole relations decided to return and take "responsibility" for THEIR children (meaning that they deemed it acceptable to be in the same room), they criticised me for the way I watch them, and then scolded ME for disciplining them.

We can all figure out how that shit went down with me.

For bloody-hell's sake --- if you're not going to goddamn watch your miserable clodpole children, do the world a favour and don't have them which would otherwise give the world more neglected spoiled brats and continue to ensure that your Gene of Idiocy gets passed down along the rotting family tree.

Oh, and did I mention that they kept saying "do this" and "do that" any time ANY of them decided to speak to me? Why didn't they just snap their fingers at me, carry a whip and nail my hand to the door when I didn't open it for them quickly enough?!?!?!?! So sorry, bastards. I don't wear your fucking chains anymore and I don't take your fucking orders. And if my sweet boy hadn't been there, I would have told you where to go and what to do once you got there.

I like children. There's something so innocent about them that is impossible to replicate with an adult. We've seen too much, felt too much, hate and fear too much. But these nasty little worms ruined it for me.

Or perhaps it's the parents. They really are the ones to blame: negligent, permissive and enabling. They don't watch their children, don't discipline them, don't care enough to do it, though I would hope that they love them. It's a bad world out there -- always has been harsh and punishing, in every age I've seen. Why don't people do what's best for their kids? Selfishness? They ought to be ashamed of themselves.

On a lighter note, my dreams have gone from reliving the past to complete and utter oddity. Either way, it's a kind of horror.

What a couple of days this has been....

Alive

I don't know what the hell you've all been up to. In fact, I don't want to know, so don't go and comment on this thread saying "Oh Z, I've been sooooooo like, you know, um, busy! Doing this and this and this and that and..."

The above will only earn you a permanent ignore and if I cared enough, I'd see that your sorry ass was kicked to hell.

But I don't care enough.

Now that we've got that settled....


I'm keeping my life together. Astrid doesn't quite have her head on straight, and I suppose she never really did, but she's just going to have to pull things together for herself. I've tried. But I can't play nursemaid to her. I've got a child who needs ONE of us to be there for him. Just because he's got two screwed up parents doesn't mean he needs to suffer for it.

We've patched things up sort-of. It's working out. We're not throwing the wall decorations at each other.

I take the child to the studio often. He's painting -- with his hands. He gets great joy putting little orange and green hand prints on everything. And he plays with my little carvings which I do mostly for his enjoyment. But he's forbidden from clay. He eats most of it. To see it, you'd think we starve him.

He's taken to calling me "Fyothe" which, according to him, means "Daddy" in some language that I don't know. He keeps me going even when I don't want to.

On a light note, I took Astrid and Child to Central Park for a hansom ride. I think they enjoyed it. Little One was more enamoured with the horse than anything the Park had to show him. And when it was done, he sat on my shoulders and spoke the to driver and pet the horse, switching in and out of his languages, though he kept remembering it was English for most people now and when he'd slip with the driver, he'd translate and continue in his intelligent babble.

When we were done with the Park, I asked him if he thought it was nice and he looked at me oddly and said, "You know. You were there" in Greek. He's too smart for me. How did I father this little thing?

Sometimes I wonder if I would have been anything like him had I had the advantages he does. Probably not. I was never so clever or so intelligent. I don't know what he gets from me except his dark hair. He should be grateful from my lack of contribution, I suppose.

Check In

Yeah, I've been gone. Go to hell.

In case you losers are wondering, that's where I've been for a while. Major shit has gone down and well, yeah, I'm one of the recruits. Just as well when there's nothing else to do. 

Time with Sundown

     I thought, since I've been gone for so long and particularly after a very unpleasant situation (understatement of the past century), it was time to post and give everyone a heads-up that I'm still kicking (and biting, and clawing and tearing people apart) because no one as of yet has been well-meaning enough to put me out of my misery after these long years.
I've been with Sundown. Never thought it would happen but, hell, I'm not a DH anymore so sure, why not? He invited, I went. The little one has been with his mother. I had no obligations and a very real need to get away.
J was a much needed cure and, unlike most of my other DH encounters, a positive bonding experience. He's always had some misguided faith in me and was never quick to believe the stories that circulated about me. It also helps that he's a bit crazy himself -- not in the insane way, well maybe, but more in a social impulsiveness that balks at the reserved withdrawn individuals (like me) and flies forth, heedless of what any other asshole thinks. So he got me drunk.
Well, I should preface this. DHs don't get drunk. You get drunk, you pass out, you're dead. That's the way it goes. You get tipsy, but nothing like drunk. I didn't quite realise this. I've never been drunk before. Of course, I've guzzled down hard liquor before like it was water but it didn't effect me too much. So at this bar he took me to I didn't even think that I could get drunk -- but then, I'm not a DH anymore, and I could. And I did. Drunk isn't the word. Shitfaced. He got me shitfaced. And then proceded to teach me LINE DANCING of all things.
I know you're all waiting for the answer, so I suppose I'll gratify you. Yes, I did it. And I was drunk for the first time in my whole fucking life. I think the chance to "ride that goddamn buckin' bronco like it's [my] last" was well deserved. But I did have enough sense to turn down the boots and the stetson.
It sort of reminded me of singing bawdy songs in Middle English while I was working on my farm once upon a time ago. I don't talk about it much -- but I enjoyed myself then. And drunken line-dancing was probably the most "fun" I've had since or before then. Thanks be to Sundown for that.
I won't be back home for a while. So with great hesitation, I continue to leave Valt in charge.

~Z

Sort-of-Squire Hijack: Real Concern

Valt again
Update on Z:

I have been Z's squire for a good while now. I know him. I understand him.

I didn't see him yesterday; naturally I assumed he was out with Astrid, doing something particularly romantic as it is his hidden-nature to do, perhaps reciting Shakespeare to her in some natural hotspring with floating rose petals as he had once tossed my way as an idea for the occasion. I didn't expect to see him.

I saw him today, only briefly. He did not look at all like the demi-god I know. Instead of radiant from the inevitable incessant love-making of the day before, he looked sleepless, haggard, red-eyed (I dread to say, like he had been rather emotionally upset for hours).

He behaved so distractedly, I questioned him. He made a mention of how sleeping in a cold bed had kept him awake, that he was going to take a little vacation somewhere -- alone. I asked him if everything went all right for V-Day. He practically withered right there. But that was the end of the conversation. He wanted to go talk to the baby.

Z doesn't get emotional over trifles and now I honestly fear for his happiness. Whatever happened yesterday was bad -- really bad. And Astrid won't talk to me either.

Sort-of-Squire Hijack: Pick Me Up

Hallo all!
It's Valt here, Z's sort-of-like-a-squire (only because the Council doesn't acknowledge me), bringing everyone a little change from the usual Z-ness.

Seriously, babyface, I'm not comandeering your journal. I promise! I just know you are having a bad spell and thought everyone needed a little pick-me-up! I promise that's all!

So let the fun begin!

Thanks to Canada for the idea, I decided I would offer a little practical advice to all of you aspiring squires out there, even for the non-aspiring squires. Heck, it's for everyone, and particularly for anyone who thinks they could do my job.



Ways to Deal with Your Hunter

1) Never offer your assistance: assume he doesn't want it, doesn't need it; he'll feel as if he really is self-sufficient and independent, and most of all, that you've finally learned your place. How could a low life worm like you be any use to him?

2) Never fix your mistakes: the more you try, the more you'll screw it up. Leave it for him. After all, *he* is the one who will do it right, like it should have been done, the first time.

3) Don't have a social life: what's that, you've got a girl/boy-friend? Oops, it looks like you're going to have to break it off! When you've got a child to watch that insists on speaking in tongues (that you don't know!), a nymph who can't keep track of her husband and his extended family who punishes you in his absense, there is no way you're getting sleep -- let alone having time to keep friends.

4) When he wants to know why in the gods' names he keeps you, reply "fatum est!" (it's fate!).

5) When in doubt, blame Ash. If you screw up big-time, don't worry! Ash screws up all the time and still looks like an angel.

6) If you can't blame it on Ash, blame it on Zarek. After all, Zarek gets blamed for everything he didn't do. Anyone would believe it!

6a) If your Hunter happens to be Zarek -- like me -- blame Valerius. There's no reason Valerius would have anything to do with you, but Zarek is more inclined to dislike him anyway.

7) Make bold (and definitely unprovable) assertions. One I find very useful: whenever he tells you to do something you don't want to, reply "Malim lingua mea cloacam maximam purgare" [I'd rather lick the Cloaca Maxima (ancient Rome's sewer) clean]. He can't make you back it up!

8) Know where Delos is and why it's (un)important.

9) Don't expect sympathy from your Hunter -- under any circumstance! If you do, you know you're just setting yourself up for some good quality whining-time. If you don't feel like listening to the whole "woe-is-me" ballad for the thousandth time in the past week, take it to a therapist. That or learn how to play the violin for accompaniment.

10) Never make fun of your hunter. Shit.



Cheer up all, even if it is Valentine's Day.

Peace, babyface.

Valt

Love on the Rocks -- No Ice

     I once told Astrid that I sometimes wanted to be mortal again. She didn't understand why. I told her that love doesn't last forever -- but I wanted it at least for a lifetime. She kissed me, told me not to think about those things; it would, in fact, last forever. And while I worried, I never doubted her. If she said it would last forever, then of course, it would.
So when I started feeling estranged, I thought "don't take it personally. It's not personal. She needs space." And I gave her space. I know what it's like to have to step back from everything and regroup, gather pieces of yourself and fit them back together -- nothing broken, just general repairs of the soul. But now, it seems to have surpassed the need for space.
For the past two weeks, she has not said one word to me. I know only what she does through the child. It seems she is always busy with others, never has time for me. Before these past two weeks, she would tell me herself. She'd be busy but we'd make a date for an intimate little restaurant in New York to spend time with each other while her sisters took the babe. And I'd get to the restaurant -- and she'd never come. She never apologised either for standing me up -- told me she was busy, lost track of time. I allowed it, knowing she would never truly or intentionally do that to me. We would start to have a conversation, and then she'd tell me she had to leave for something, hold that thought, and never come back. We had a period where neither of us said anything to the other for four days prior to this.
I would say it is as much my fault as hers -- after all, it takes two for a conversation -- but even when I have tried to talk to her, address her, if she doesn't find something else to do in the middle of it, she ignores me.
I suppose she woke up. That's all I can think of. She woke up and realised that whatever else I am, I'm not good enough for her -- that others deserve her time, her affection more than I do.
I can't say I didn't see it coming. I told her she'd get tired of me, no longer want me. She told me it was nonsense. I told her it was true.
Maybe she'll come out of this, and I can go on with my life, feeling like I haven't lost the (second --after all, the baby comes first) best thing that's ever happened to me. If she doesn't.... I don't want to think about what that would mean.

Sort-of-Squire Education

I've been having fun tormenting the poor little sort-of squire. I am having him brush up on his ancient civilisation geography. He is pretty okay with the Roman geography from Republic to Empirial times. Deep in his core, he's Roman. It's almost revolting. He speaks Latin pretty well for a contemporary mortal.

It's the Greek he's having a little problem with. I gave him until tomorrow to know it. The only places he knew were Mt. Olympus and Athens. That would not cut it. After all, he should know where Sparta and Mycenae are at the very least. And I thought places like Delos, Dodona and Eleusis would be beneficial for him to know as well. It is my chosen culture -- he should know something about it.

Seriously, he should just be grateful that I have not enrolled him in a Ancient Greek language course. I've tried to at least to get him to use the letters and start trying proper pronunciation. He makes it up fairly well -- his actor's training coming in. The little one helps him too -- poor Valt, so humiliated by being instructed by a babe. But hey, if he knew it before he came to me, he wouldn't have had to start learning it now. No sympathy.

A regular slave-driver,
Z

So, how about this one?


Valerius walks into a hotel, throws a couple of nails on the counter and asks the manager, "Can you put me up for the night?"

Too Bloody Perfect

I know "they" say that life has a habit of taking over. And like many other things "they" say, I thought it was complete bullshit. I mean, after all, 900 years of nothing to do pretty much cures you of saying "well, things just got in the way, and I was too busy" because, face it, there's nothing to do in Alaska. But even we fossils can be surprised sometimes -- and yes, life did get in the way. So I wasn't here, as I am sure you all noticed.

Now, just because I'm out there battling the "forces of evil" for all you spoiled little brats to continue living life as you know it, don't all fall apart at once with your overwhelming gratitude and concern.

So, what was the fearless Z doing? Good question. I ask that myself now and then. Making an ass out of myself probably, or at the very least, doing the wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong place -- particularly if my astounding (bad) luck continues to live up to its reputation. So what was I doing? That's right, voluntary active service for the undead army of the Virgin (read in: slut) Goddess, brought to you by Hell's one and only Acheron (the brand where you can shit on everyone and come out smelling like roses!)
As if fighting along side those dead-beats isn't enough, there was no internet, so I had to endure their company as well. I don't know about any of you, but being in Ash's company for anything more than a few hours makes me look for the vomitorium. Was there anyone ever alive who appeared more disgustingly perfect? He doesn't let you know that his words of wisdom are plagarised from some of us (like me) who had more sense than he did when they (I) met him. He doesn't let you know about how many minds he's screwed up with fictitious thoughts (like blaming a certain person for the destruction of an entire town left to that certain person's care). The way he likes to drop melodramatic little hints about his life to arouse sympathy and then act as if he never meant to say it. He doesn't even tell you that he has made mistakes. Ash? Make mistakes? Oh, neeeeeeeeeveeeeeeer. Ugh... It was a terrible terrible time.

Ash, dude, just like, look in a toilet after you've gone and see that your turds are brown and stink like the rest of ours. Sorry to break it to you, but they are not diamonds. FYI.

But! It wasn't all Ash talking about himself. The others talked about themselves too. Okay, you know what? If any of you bastards are reading this: if I wanted a friggin biography, I would have asked you for it. Likely, if I can't find it in a textbook, then your life really wasn't all that interesting anyway. Why would I want to know about them two thousand years later? Yeah, that's right. Point.

I did get a little free time in the midst of this boyscout one-up-ya camp-fire story-telling time however. And I made good use of it. I found myself a studio. I like Mt. Olympus and all that. Really, it's amazing to be living there, among the Gods and Goddess I worshipped in my lifetime -- underdog success story, slave turned demi-god. But.... Yeah, don't I sound ungrateful? But, it's not a good place for me to work -- and when I say work, I mean sculpt. I like the glass enclosure, I like the sun coming in at every angle. I don't like when one of the muses (I can't tell them apart) comes tapping on the glass and then tries to use sign language to tell me something that I could have lived without knowing. Or when Astrid's sisters come into our apartments and stand there watching me as if I'm some sort of exhibit. I can imagine them thinking "I never get over how much those humans look like us. It always looks like an ant farm from up here." Not for me. So, hopefully, I will be able to outfit the new studio with everything -- maybe even start branching out into metals. That would be very interesting.

Worn out Z, signing off.