Cripes, dramatic overload. Shakespeare must've been a goth the way he understood how tragedies can leave you warm inside.
Othello was awesome. 'kay, this is the bit you're not supposed to tell anyone: Othello has always made me cry. The performance was lovely, and the company as well - something about being the only pair in the place that didn't smell of a geriatric ward was almost sexy. Okay, j'exagere. ;)
On the way to work this morning, dreading the packed-it's-winter-so-we'll-take-half-the-busses-OFF-the-road super long trekk to work, I finally finished Tam Lin. Wot a horrible book. I'm usually willing to sacrifice myself to reading 50 boring pages in order to secure a tight 300 pages ensuing, but 450 pages of ultra-boring intro to get to the fiery fey stories they'd promised? 450 pages of suffering the qualms of some young brat studying english at a community college - for 20 pages of bravado and sheer tragic love...
Tam Lin, at least, ended well, and I guess so does Othello, depending on what you prefer - being alive and having still more opportunity to betray yourself, or dying with honour and nobility.
Whilst I love the passion in Iago, I firmly disagree with his "I was born evil, all men are born evil because we are men". That's too fucking easy. Trust, me, as far as evil goes, I know... It's easy.
So again, we find our pathetic heroine dropping off to sleep last night, after having resigned herself to calling CHOM boy like promised only to find his line busy (woohooo!), dreaming quiet dreams where I sit back and watch the tragedies of these strange humans unfold.
Monstres do not play these strange games of love, but sometimes Monstres might wish we did, even though it's highly impractical and not very pragmatic or efficient at all.
I'm getting a little tired of efficiency. My bones ache, not with loneliness so much as with the only certainty that I have never been able to shake.
Even with my boys and the million smiles that greet my strange face every day, I am not of here.
Maybe it's cuz I'm an immigrant, maybe it's the slight residue of my father's chemical imbalance. Maybe my parents were right when they pointed their fat fingers at me as a child and doomed me and my wild hair to my aunt's crazy gypsy blood.
I like that story best. I don't belong in your concrete prisons, your assembly-line steel rules don't satisfy my heart with their convenience. Your laws are not mine...
...and yet I don't find myself fighting as I should.
My gypsy dreams, my faery blood, where are they when 9am boardroom moments roll around?
The first place I found love was in Fayryland. No seriously - the BBS where I met my ex-husband.
Sometimes I miss that world of flitling realities where love and passion and shining eyes blinded the truths I choose to follow now.
For now, my truths are about strength. Integrity? I am still learning what that word means within these new walls. Honour? I have not seen that colour of cerulean gracing the sky in many years.
From whence comes my next fear. Why strength and not power? So many choose power. It would be so simple, too. A quick dip in the brown with my nose, and Leon would carry me on his wings to power. I really hope that I don't go that way.
Please, please, please, somebody stop me if I ever do...
Anyhow, I have a VPN to shatter.
And none of this will really matter after my first coffee and after this blazing highway has snapped me up again.
But what about you and love?