Just talking.
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Author:  Farihah [ Wed Dec 03, 2008 10:32 am ]
Post subject:  Re: Just talking.


If there are any clubs out here for those who are like us (and what is us, anyway? Are we above, below, lucky, unlucky?), I've never heard of them. At the moment I'm in Ireland-I hoped that to travel here, among myths and strangenesses and things older than I am haunting every arch and old castle, I might find some answers. No luck, though. I even had a notion-well, now it's obviously foolish, but I thought of the Book of Kells, with its winding illustrations curving in and around and among the text. I wondered if maybe somewhere in among those silver and gold and red twists and turns I might recognize something close to the elegant lines that hide within my own artwork. No dice, of course. Nor did I have any luck asking the librarians at Trinity-either this thing is so hidden as to be obscure or it's new, new, impossibly new! I'm not sure. The streets of the city seem old and forgotten, but have there ever been such as we before?

I was desperate enough last night for someone new to travel with, but I couldn't find even the hint of a map. So I found someone, pretty and maybe not too bright. It was obvious he was just looking for a quick score, and luckily enough, so was I. I think I must have known it would be coming, or why would I have chosen a coed hostel room, bottom bunk? We tried to be quiet, him biting deep into my shoulder as he trembled beneath me before we collapsed in a quick and restless sleep. And he was there when I dreamed my way into the city, to what I can only assume is the place at the core of me. Oddly enough, it's a streetcorner outside a kind of church, or what looks like a church. The windows were like stained glass, familiar enough, until I realized they were just panes of translucent flesh, pulsing and growing happily into strange pictures that come from no mythology I'm familiar with. I say happily because as I came near the first time, I exclaimed aloud about how beautiful they were-just the kind of thing anyone might do. And they began to hum, or perhap sing, until the entire church vibrated, a deep thrumming sound that went deep into my bones. That's when Ben took off, his long red dreadlocks the last thing I saw around the corner. I guess he couldn't take the strangeness of it. I was going to go after him, but the doors began to open, a rich mahogany wood that reached arms towards me, beckoning. How could I refuse? It was grand and awesome yet somehow felt of home, of things I had forgotten. The interior was made up of what seemed a series of enormous interlocking bubbles, like living inside a Venn diagram. At the center, where all the bubbles met, was a stone statue of a woman, a mother, breasts dripping a pearlescent milk from obsidian nipples. Two stone children sat, or rather swayed, at her feet. I felt such a feeling of love and peace that I sat there besides them, clutching onto the warm, soft stone of her legs. As if I had done it a thousand times before, I tilted my head up and stretched out my tongue, letting the strange milk drip onto it. It tasted like wild honey, but with a darkness that nearly choked me. I could not drink it long, but I stayed until I woke.

I have to confess that I understand the one who brought me now. I didn't realize-I didn't realize that it was every time one of us was with someone that we brought the map to them. When I opened my eyes and saw the beginnings of streets on Ben's upper thigh, I panicked. Would he blame me? Would he understand what I had done to him just by my desire? I had just enough good sense to scrawl a phone number on a paper and wrap his fingers around it before leaving.

I hope he calls me. I hope he doesn't hate me.
I hope he wants to be with me again. I wonder where he leads.

If any are close, and think he might prefer meeting someone who didn't meet him, his name is Ben, and he's a Trinity College student. He lives above the arch, in the Gaelic speaking area-he didn't ask me, apparently he gets fined for every word of English spoken there. It's not far from the GPO in Dublin. I myself can be found around the corner from the main central bus station, though I don't know how long. If Ben doesn't want to see me, and there's no one else here, I might move on again.

Author:  GlitterGirl [ Wed Dec 24, 2008 12:41 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: Just talking.

I can't believe I actually found this site, that it really exists...with people who seem like me, who have experiences like I've been having. Please forgive me for gushing so, but it's just...I really began to wonder if I was going insane, with the not-dreams that keep recurring. (They always say the insane never question their sanity and all, but I wonder if that works if the insane know the insane never question their own sanity....logic brain says maybe not. But enough of this; I digress.)

So first, thank you for existing.

It was pure luck that led me here - I've been having these not-dreams for a few weeks now. It was only recently that I remembered a snippet of the first time, a word: quartered. I began idly googling for related concepts to that word, trying to find something that seemed to hit on the same pulse, but nothing, no keywords seemed to pull up anything of use. So rarely does google fail me that I was somewhat baffled as to how to proceed next. Finally I tried just typing words, possible URLs with just the word in them, quartered.com, quartered.net, and then, ah, at last, here: quartered.org. Sweet victory and treasure trove.

First of all, I didn't think anything of the map tattoo that had appeared on me. It was after YuleCon this year, and strange things happen at anime conventions, or so I assumed. I'm not as big a fan of anime as of fantasy and sci fi, but I've been to my share of sci-fi/fantasy conventions, and at a not-too-abstract level, they're filled with the same kind of things, the same kinds of people, beautiful in their obsession. So when I lazily woke up in a room strewn with boys and girls and wigs and glitter and pens and a new map tattoo similar to the one I had been admiring on the pretty anime boy the previous night, well, these things happen, right?

But when I was back home (I'm an Arizona desert girl, just for reference), those not-dreams kept on coming. I'd had a few recurring dreams before, but nothing like this - nothing with this level of persistence. After reading some of the posts here, at least I understand how I went there every night and why it was always the same there - I tend to masturbate before I go to sleep, and it's been a very stimulating few weeks.

And at least I've learned the name of the place now - I'd never run into the name of it before, while I was there. Strange, I suppose, that no one really felt the need to mention it to me. But then, I didn't ask many questions. I was too happy to find a place that felt good, that filled the ache inside me (please forgive the melodrama, but I've no other good way to describe it). And I didn't mind the tattoo, such a deep black thing, crawling across my right breast like a many-legged serpent.

But why can I never stay? Is it tied to our sleep? That is, if we found a way to sleep forever after sex, could we stay? Or is it something else, another way? I feel like the word quartered has something more to it, but damned if I can remember what. Quartered, cut into fourths...are we some how quartered? Are we only a fourth of ourselves somehow?

Anyway, I just wanted to post something here to begin with, to share, to...commune, I suppose.

Author:  Raven [ Mon Jan 05, 2009 10:07 am ]
Post subject:  Re: Just talking.

Farihah -- I know how you feel. No one will give me a second glance. My map is obvious, branching out from the root of my left middle finger. (Some who know me might say that's symbolic.) I don't have to dress strangely to show it, and like Dvash, I'm able to find people by letting them find me. But after once, no one will give me the time of day. Either they haul ass and I never see them again, or they give me the freezingly cold shoulder. After my boyfriend left me (it's been one week and four days -- I can only presume, though I still hope), I've been looking for other people and hoping to find him in the city. If not here, then maybe there? I miss him like hell. Anyway, no one will so much as talk to me after one night. Not to sound too egotistical, but... I know I'm not *that* bad a lover. Something else has got to be going on. I'm going to keep looking until I find him, no matter how many it takes. He's got to be out there. I know I can explain it to him if he'll just talk to me.

Author:  deluged_songbird [ Tue Jan 27, 2009 11:04 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: Just talking.

i...i hope this is okay. my name is actually lisle, but this makes me feel better. describes me better, somehow. i'm a singer, sort of a performance artist, and i feel like i'm drowning in this place, in this world.

i'm really not sure what's going on; i've only seen the city twice. i'm too scared to touch anyone right now, even myself. i ...don't really want to talk about how i got this yet, though i'm guessing that you all have a pretty good idea. maybe later.

it's on my arm, inner elbow, some kind of strange garden or park -- it wraps around the scars and blends with them, colors them black and strange.

this is kind of humiliating, but if you can't talk to people who live in the same world you do, who can you talk to?

i'm a cutter. it's how i feel better when the world gets crazy, and i can't. i mean, i /can't/ anymore. i'm so scared of this tattoo, so scared of what it might mean for me and for my life. i don't know if i'm more afraid that if i cut i'll bleed black, which would drive me mad, or that if i do i'll somehow bleed it out of me, and i'll lose the scent-memory of the fur and feathers, the glistening skin of the strange ripe fruits in the market, the touch of skin on skin on skin... i can't. i can't risk it.

i think this will help, maybe, talking about it with people who know. people who've been there too. who have looked into the eyes of the frog-woman and come out the other side with black marks on their skin.

Author:  GlitterGirl [ Wed Jan 28, 2009 11:32 am ]
Post subject:  Re: Just talking.

lisle, what scares you about going back to the city? It sounds like you really miss it, from the way you describe it. And it's true, it can be scary, but we've all been there and back and lived to tell the tale, as it were. (Though there are certainly dangerous parts, that's true enough.)

I don't know what to tell you about the cutting, though - I don't think you'll bleed it out of you, but I don't know what altering the marks does to your ability to get back to there. I feel like the city's made of stronger stuff, that simple changes on the skin shouldn't change where you go and how you get there - but I don't know for sure...

Author:  deluged_songbird [ Mon Feb 02, 2009 3:49 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: Just talking.

glitter -- it was a terrifying place for me because it invited me to be free of this world for a short time, but not forever. i have to wake up sometime and if i don't...
what will happen if i die when i'm there, if the things that don't want me there, those who threaten the dreamers catch me? people have talked about injuries sustained there leaking out in to this world. i haven't been hurt yet, but i'm afraid of it.
what would happen if i took a knife to my skin while i was there? what scars would appear on my arms here?

it was a wonderful place because i didn't want to cut myself while i was there. because everything was so bright and strong and intense, and that's what i want from living, is intensity. the stronger the coffee, the heavier the incense, the brighter the colors, the better. and that's part of what the city was for me. i fled through an alleyway darker than any i've met waking, surrounded by evil sounds and gnarled clutching hands and the omnipresent mechanical insects, into white hot sunshine, brighter than arizona or morocco. i felt grass softer than velvet and touched the fur of a man with the head of a wolf and escaped unbitten.

i have more sadness in my life, though with it comes brilliant pangs of joy.

my boyfriend found out about the incident that led me here. found out is the wrong word. i told him, because i couldn't think of any excuses to not touch him anymore. i can't decide if it was selfishness, wanting to keep this all to myself, or wanting to protect him. he thought i was lying and had contracted some normal venereal disease.

he left me, as normal people do when their lovers lie about having sex backstage with a fan with goldgreen eyes and a strange map tattoo. i explained it in the harshest way, wanting him to go without fear or regret.

i am selfish, i think, more than anything, and afraid. i've traveled this world pretty extensively, and have a taste for it, but traveling there seems so...dangerous. final.

what will happen if i find that person again, and we touch again, sleep again? i ... i think i'll go looking. i'll tell you what happens.

Author:  typhoidsamantha [ Wed Feb 04, 2009 12:33 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: Just talking.

Good luck, songbird.
Maybe we can bring some of that brightness to this world, if there are enough passageways.

Author:  Ninetale [ Fri Feb 06, 2009 1:04 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: Just talking.

This site isn't a joke, is it? One of those things that's gonna show up later on Slashdot or the Slog or something?

I want to talk to someone but I just don't know. I really, really want this not to be a joke.

How do we know?

Author:  GlitterGirl [ Fri Feb 06, 2009 3:37 pm ]
Post subject:  Re: Just talking.

Ninetale - I don't know what reassurance to offer precisely, but I've been posting on this board for around two months now, and everyone's experiences seem real enough to me. It's all too...similar...for it to just be by chance, you know?

Author:  Fantomiselle [ Thu Feb 12, 2009 6:08 am ]
Post subject:  Re: Just talking.

typhoidsamantha wrote:
Good luck, songbird.
Maybe we can bring some of that brightness to this world, if there are enough passageways.

Yes. Fiat lux and all that. The world is all grey slush where I am right now and it's Bergman at the movie theater--I can never get anyone interested during that, regular cold shower, but somehow fitting.

Might be off topic, but I get painfully frustrated here. I shop at the little overpriced hippie market off the square and I never find fruit I like anymore. It's not red enough or bright enough and it's not...

I wish the fruit was that bright here. I wish the world was. I wish I could be kissing someone during Svankmajer's Alice, feeling them come and watching both ways as a stop-motion fish clatters around after Alice and the lovelier, stranger, more intimate feeling of watching a dark line then another until there is a cartographic blossom I have given them like a bite mark, only it doesn't fade.

It's so hard to connect. It's so hard to find anyone. It's so hard for me to talk even here, among friends. Outside the fruit isn't red enough and I sit in a movie theater and wait and a car rushed by while I was in the crosswalk and nearly hit me and splattered me with slush.

Oh, how I want the world to be this beautiful. Till then, I have you who understand.

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