Ghost

Wednesday, May 8, 2002 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

The Fiend won't be surprised by the previous entry, if he should happen to read it. At least, I don't think he'll be surprised. I haven't talked to him about Peter, but he knows about Peter. He knows Peter. He knew Peter before I knew Peter. Erik and I became friends while I was rapturously in love with Peter. And we were friends when Erik fell rapturously in love with Blaine.

(Don't forget: The Fiend = Erik.)

Erik is 31. I'm 27. We have histories. We have mileage. We have ghosts. Whenever we're in the mood for melodrama, we can be haunted by the mortality of love as much as the next guy. Pining for a lost love builds character, gives you depth. And it's good for a nice self-pitying wallow. Hell, pining for love is a mainstay of our culture. Half our poetry, and ninety per cent of our pop songs, would have been never written if somebody's poor heart wasn't aching over lost and/or unrequited love.

The problem with Blaine is that he is neither lost nor a ghost. He is a living presence in both our lives. Admittedly, he is a geographically distant presence, since he lives on the other side of the continent, in Savannah, Georgia. But we both work with him, each in our own semi-professional capacity. The Fiend is the co-author of a language, or a family of languages, called Ye�ghennish, that is being created for Blaine's not-quite-finished, yet-to-be-published magnum opus, a big fat sci-fi novel called Two Thousand Pages Of Raw Genius And No Plot. Of course, that's just the working title. For myself, I'm doing some research for Blaine, for a novel he's ghost-writing for a Rather Famous Author Who Cannot Be Named. Blaine has written all but two of the Rather Famous Author's books, including the one that received the most critical acclaim. (Yikes.) I'm sure you'll understand and forgive me if I don't yield up even a hint of the Rather Famous Author's identity. I can't even tell you what I'm researching, in case you read the Rather Famous Author's next novel about love, life, death and furballs among catfighters, and remember that I wrote an entry on June 6, 2002, about Famous Catfights In History. Blaine is very well-paid for his labors, and I've received a nice fat check too, so I ain't gonna do nuthin' to screw up this gig.

But I will say that it's a bit odd, and somewhat ominous, that I'm doing any research for the Rather Famous Author's book, because that's the part of the job that she supposedly loves to do. According to Blaine, the Rather Famous Author has always been very thorough with the research for her novels, meticulous to an absurd degree. Which Blaine thinks might be the main part of her problem as a writer. She puts so much of her energy into the research of a book, that when she finally gets to the actual writing, her passion for the project has been satiated to the point of exhaustion.

Some of you out there are now thinking, Aha! The Rather Famous Author is a woman! And some of you, of slightly more subtle character, are thinking, Aha! The Rather Famous Author is a man! Because you are assuming that I would disguise the Rather Famous Author's identity with the wrong sex. (But I keep trying to tell people, there is no wrong sex, as long as you are happy and consensual and do no permanent damage.) And those among you of even more devious character are thinking, Aha! The Rather Famous Author is a woman! Because you figure that I figured that you would figure out a simple ruse like using the wrong sex. (Remember: Happy, Consensual, No Damage. Can't be wrong.)

You wanna know the real reason I used the pronoun she? I'm listening to Roy Orbison, Mystery Girl. Two tracks ago, he was singing "She's A Mystery To Me."

Haunted by her side
Is the darkness in her eyes
That so enslaves me
But if my love is blind
Then I don't want to see
She's a mystery to me

Night falls
I'm cast beneath her spell
Daylight comes
Our heaven torn to hell
Am I left to burn
And burn eternally
She's a mystery to me

~

Oh, yeah. Wallow in it, Roy.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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