Snowbound and Irate

For the last week, I've only come out of my room for classes and rehearsal. Which admittedly is most of my free time around studying anyway, so who knows if anyone's noticed. I'm looking forward to Sunday's final curtain call, because it means I can come back. If there's a cast party planned, I think I'm skipping. If you think I'm showing up at the dance tonight, you're badly hallucinating.

There is no option I appreciate more right now. Either the world is as Hamlet says, and I'm simply haunted in one form of the term or the other? Or it's not paranoia when they really are out to get you, in which case I can't for the LIFE of me think of why. Either way, it makes the bottom fall out of my stomach.

Sometimes, the sinking feeling is realizing that your facade is fooling even the people you care most about, who you thought knew better.

The rest of the time, it's getting incontrovertible proof that you cared more, and you aren't even worth telling that they're not coming back. Because nothing says "I cared about you" like letting you read that you're taking a quick vacation to Italy before your house arrest elsewhere in Europe as an off-hand comment in someone else's journal.

I'd swear off women, but Dot's right. That I couldn't manage. Instead, I'm swearing off the whole god-damn human race. I think I'll take up alcoholism for Winter Break. I have to do something with my time.

Oh, and George? Lesson learned. I just didn't realize your cock was so small you had to overcompensate to that degree. But as they say: knowing is half the battle.

I've never done well with silence. Maybe it gives me too much time to hear what's going on in my own head...though I think that may be a cop-out. I know what's going on inside my head half the time, after all. I like it in there; it's warm, and dark, and a little squishy in the right places, and private. I don't necessarily like what I find, though, which may be closer to the crux of the problem.

That, or maybe I'm simply a dancing fool, always looking for a song cue. Which is a note as good as any other for seguing to the next topic. Namely: I've been crowned king! Come on, not Homecoming, I know that's been a regular topic around here with me, but you've got to keep up. No, I got cast as Charlemagne in this year's production of Pippin. I'm kind of glad I know most of the lyrics already, as we're doing a sort of crash-course in rehearsal-and-production timing. Really, I sort of wonder if this was all planned and meant to be some devious drama department development to see how many of us crack under the pressure. (And for those interested? I'm starting a betting pool. Get in touch, we'll talk.)

There was indeed a Black Friday Turkey-a-thon, with a bigger crowd that I expected. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that I'm not the only one too far out of reach of parents, and that didn't even factor in not wanting to see family. Dot's turkey was divine, and my pumpkin pies didn't turn out half-bad, so I think I'll call it a success.

That was the high point. The week or more since has been a slow, steady descent into less pleasant times. The weekend was shot entirely for reasons I don't want to get into, rehearsal schedule on top of studying and paper schedule is hellish, and plans for this past Friday? Shot down by a combination of bad timing, unavailable train tickets, and an emergency rehearsal. Which means it'll be two weeks after Thanksgiving, at the earliest, before I get a chance to see Neela. She's going to kill me. At least my originally planned travel companion is still up for the trip. We just have to find time for it. And soon. I can't keep putting it off, for a thousand reasons.

It's been an interesting scattershot of social time across the rest of the week. There was the study break that turned into no study at all, there was some unexpected comfort offered on THanksgiving, there was a bit of chatting about my impending madness, and then? I met someone old who's new again, and I think scared them off. Which was a shame, since she was fun to talk to. Actually, most of the scattershot was up rather than down, just...not peaking above the general downward trend.

Which leads me to my second awkward admission of the day: I don't understand people. Women in particular, but I think that may just be because I pay attention to them more than the men. Most men, after all, are still struggling to rise above the level of barbarians. And I include myself in that assessment.

I don't understand why it's been radio silence for so long. Is it that hard to say "we're over", if that's what you've decided? Or...Krishna, I don't know. You don't want to know how many disasterous possibilities have rotated through my head in the last week.

Unfortunately, there is no excuse when it comes to me. I understand me. I know exactly why I react the way I do, most of the time. But that doesn't make me happy about it, or proud, or...anything terribly positive. Blushing women of the world, lured in by my easy smile and my admittedly charming banter? Get away while you still can. Just trust me on this one. I'll miss you, but it may blow up less in all our faces.

Well, I got what I wanted in some senses, and what I deserved in others. Which is probably the proper balance for that sort of thing, but that's a very zen sort of way to look at it, and my feng shui is all sorts of fucked up right now.

Homecoming was...well, not exactly what I expected it to be. However, I'm fairly certain that I didn't make a fool of myself playing with the band, so I'll at least count that part of things as a success. Honestly, the whole event made me inclined to give out extra awards. In fact...

* For "Shortest Reign of a Queen", Dot Rothschild. I mean, we're talking putting Lady Jane Gray to shame. However short, she was spectacular in her noblesse oblige.

* For "Best Catch of the Crown", Jane Austen. Because taking over after the abdication with that much grace and style takes talent. Plus, the crown was cute perched on Howie's head.

* For "Most Spectacular Failed Kidnapping", Chris de Troyes. Because that level of death-defying stupidity in the name of a girl is hard to resist. Especially if the girl is smart like this one.

* For "Had Most Fun On the Dance Floor", Hildy Doolittle. I'm sorry, the band has the best view of that sort of thing, and she wins hands-down.

* For "Clearly Born To be King", Nico Machiavelli. I mean, the man even arrived with appropriate entourage and courtiers. How can you beat that?

* For "Cutest Band Groupie", Anne Bronte. Even if she was technically our only groupie. And not my groupie, at that.

Aside from playing with the band? The rest of my evening could have gone better. Spectacularly so, in fact. Let's just leave it at that. The appropriate parties know what happened. Maybe they'll be kind enough at some point to even tell me.

Also, you all can consider this your official notice that announcements will be forthcoming regarding Dot's "Took the Crown" celebration, with the funds gathered up at the fundraising pizza bash. I'm aiming for a good weekend after this one, but well before finals. Suggestions welcome on all fronts: location, DJing, specific timing, and so on.

In less official and more 'keeping the rumors in check' news, word has it that the king -- at least the crowned king, since Freddy didn't make the dance -- was felled by a mysterious ailment Sunday night. As one of the guys on the spot, I can say that yes, he was taken away by ambulance. I can also say that, as of the very next morning, Nico was also awake and bored out of his skull in the hospital. He's already posted himself, I know, but consider this secondary confirmation that his majesty is in need of distraction. So drop by and drive the nurses up the wall.

Which brings us to Thanksgiving. No way my parents are fronting for a flight to India, so I'm on my own recognizance for the holiday. I did have plans for a road trip, but those seem to be unexpectedly nixed by fate and the legal system -- and honestly, I'm not entirely certain they wouldn't have been canceled anyway for other reasons. There had been nebulous plans elsewhere for a shorter road trip, but given the events of the last week, I'm not sure those are game either. So I'm weighing the benefits of taking that shorter trip on my own, so I'm not sitting around MacArthur alone for Thanksgiving. After all, I can come back and sit around for the rest of the weekend just fine.

Maybe I should bring back a turkey and try out the kitchen in MacArthur on Black Friday. If I even really leave town. Anyone who's sticking it out is welcome to come by. If you do? Bring pie.

To: Karen Dinesen [kdinesen@euphememail.net]
From: William Pendennis [wpendennis@euphememail.net]
Subject: Events at Home (was: Out of Town for some time)

Tanne,

I'm sorry you're telling me over email as well. Please, be careful; I'm sure the Machiavellis will do their best in these matters. You can call or write at any time, if you have need.

Speaking of Machiavelli: I attempted to reach you before your flight, but you either weren't answering your phone or had already turned it off. Nico was taken to the hospital last night; it's unclear exactly what happened, but he passed out in someone's room and was foaming at the mouth, and they had to pump his stomach. I went to the hospital first thing this morning, and he was awake, coherent, and seemingly fine. I'm not certain what happened, but I wanted to make sure you heard from someone directly rather than through the grapevine. The nurse seemed to think they'd be keeping him there for observation for a few days. If I hear more, you will be the first to know.

Is there anything that you need taken care of, while you're away, that I can handle? I imagine you will let me do that much, still?

Bill

They say Spring is the time for romance. I think they have never had to endure a New England Winter. As I ward off the ever-present threat of frostbite, and watch my fellow animals in this zoo we call Icaria, I've come to the conclusion that while Spring may be a time for lovers, these dwindling days of Autumn are just as much an aphrodesiac. After all, when you're snowbound inside, what would you rather be doing?

a. Homework
b. Gossiping about who's sleeping with who
c. Expanding the range of possibilities vis-a-vis who's sleeping with who

Let's just say I'm putting my money on the last two options. Maybe it's more than the cold; even a tropical snob like me has to admit that the leaves are gorgeous this time of year, the forest aflame in ways that I'll leave it to much better poets than I to attempt to describe. I'd quote Robert Frost, but all that comes to mind is Fire and Ice:

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

At least it's poetry that's vaguely on-topic, as well. We've certainly got enough ice around here these days, and I know it's just going to get worse. As for fire...well. We can count it a blessing for some that I wasn't burned like Guy Fawkes at Dot's Fundraising Dinner -slash- Pizza Extravaganza. Perhaps she's saving that for Homecoming, though; I would go up in a pretty good blaze if we soaked me in all the alcohol we can afford from donations. That, or maybe she'll toss me to the other girls who didn't have Campaign Managers. I know we've got to have a bacchanal around here at some point, dammit!

(Special note to someone who shall remain nameless: You still have three days. If you haven't yet, ASK HER.)

Of course, the girls apparently lost the lottery to see who would tar and feather me first. As previously and briefly reported, I was given what I do believe the young kids are calling "a trouncing" after the party. Four guys, none of whom I saw real clearly in the dark, and a pummeling later, and into the dumpster I went. Wounds were relatively minor: a black eye, some scrapes, a twisted ankle, a wounded ego, and one unrepairable shoe. Somehow, I was lucky enough to have a sharp-tongued Angel of Mercy drop in and apply first aid to the physical wounds, and a good lancing to the ego before it tried to fester. Add in a more gentle touch later that night, and a weekend to recover, and I do believe the limp and the shiner will be gone in time for Homecoming. Underlying causes? We'll address after we find out if I'm surviving Saturday.

Speaking of Homecoming: yours truly is dateless. C'est la vie! Thankfully, my fingers will be occupied with other pursuits -- at least, hopefully, this will be my debut as the trumpet section for Smutty Moll. Though still, given the way things are looking, I may be the only guy going stag. I was..let us say, pre-empted?...in my first choice by Mr. Fly-By-Night, and the second option...well. Apparently, even the budding possibility of Autumn romance is more whirlwind up here than even I'm used to. I can't be upset, though. Not in the face of budding adorableness to this degree. They may actually need to issue a license; I'm not certain this kind of cute isn't lethal in uncontrolled doses.

As I look back over my previous paragraph, a clarification: I don't mean to say that second and any other options unasked (one was suggested to me, but I think I'm staying further away from the knives than that, at least for that night) would have been consolation dates compared to who I had been considering at first. I'm not that cutthroat and mercenary a bastard. There is a damn reason I'm going stag rather than working my way down the list into the truly desperate for a date, just like there's a reason I'm not even asking the possible third. She, and everyone else? Deserves better than that.

Anyway. Enough self-reflection. I'll just end by noting that, despite not having really talked about it? There is some serious strangeness afoot in this town. I think I've shaken the majority of the cloud that'd been over my head since Halloween. At least, I'd like to hope I have. But that leaves questions. Consider this a note to self: Talk to D and E when you get a chance. Better informed than blindsided again, after all.

Dear Knee,

Let's start at the beginning: Yes, I know you hate it when I call you by that ridiculous nickname, and it's so demeaning to be shouted after like you were a loose body part. To which I give you the standard reply: I'm your big brother, so cope. At least I'm not rubbing mud in your hair and pulling your pigtails. You should be grateful.

I made it up to Massachusetts without any major tragedy, at least. It was a long train trip, but I think you would have liked it. Plenty of time for people-watching, certainly, and the chance to stretch your legs the whole time. A bit bumpier than a plane, and obviously longer, but the trade-offs were nice. Now if only it didn't cost so much compared to a flight, it might be an attractive alternative. As it is, at least when you're going so long-distance that it's more expensive than the regular commuter routes, it's more of a luxury that I would have expected. And Amtrak is nothing like the Orient Express.

It's been a little over a week, though, and I think I've settled into school here. First, the whole 'boarding school' thing is very strange. Maybe this is prep for dorm life, but I don't think so. It might be the age of the buildings, that lingering smell of decades baked into every brick and board, but it just feels archaic and strange in some way. Not that the students would help matters there. From what I can tell, we've an unhealthy mix of the overly-intellectual, the decidedly eccentric, and the rich elite. Really, all that you would expect from reading a nineteeth century boarding school drama. I'm just waiting for the headmaster to be a harsh disciplinarian, or a quiet bastion of compassionate understanding, and we'd be all set.

I wonder if they're offering Defense Against the Dark Arts next semester.

I've met some friends, too. At least, I like to delude myself into thinking they may become friends. There's Tanne, who I think you'd like. Anyone who turns their angsty rebellion against their rich and important family into actual social commentary that's worth making, and not just getting coked up and blowing money by the boatload in some dance club earns points. Of course, I don't know what I can say about her taste in men, given she's married one of the previously mentioned 'rich elite' -- rich elitist jock, even, just to compound the issue. And yes, I said married -- it's a long story. They always are, you know: controlling family, arranged marriages, and the like. It's just missing a fairy godmother and a prince charming.

There's also Dot. I know you'd like her -- she can't stand me, and doesn't see any reason to hold back from cutting me down to size any chance she gets. Clearly, I can never have the two of you meet, or you'd just give her more ammo with a gleeful little smile. That's all right; if I have anything to say about it, she's going to end up Homecoming Queen. As I do believe the young people are saying these days, "Payback is a bitch." Not that there's anything I really need to pay her back for, but I believe in preemptive strikes.

I know I joked about it being strange here, but Halloween was...there was a dance, but something happened. I'm still not certain what. I'm sorry to be so cryptic, but I'm trying to figure it out. And in the meantime, I had one new friend disappear after it, and another get hurt pretty badly. Everyone is avoiding the topic, at least with me, so it's that much harder to process. I know, I'm not being much better, I just wanted you to know that...if I was coming off a little stilted, you can probably blame it on that. I...

I miss you. And I'm worried. I'll try to explain when I can, but I don't know when that will be. I know, before you can even say it: I'll take care of myself, I promise. Things are just harder than I thought they would be here, for reasons I never expected. Maybe I'm not cut out for any pond but the familiar one, down in Miami. Wouldn't that be a depressing thought.

Anyway, I need to get back to work. I've got homework to take care of before the fundraising dinner tomorrow night (yes, I'm fundraising for a homecoming queen. Maybe it's a long way for a joke, but I'm enjoying the journey). I promise I'll come up as soon as I can to visit, as long as the doctors say it's all right. Don't let that Mary Lapinski push you around, you hear me?

Loves and noogies,
Bill

So, I had a date last night, and rather happily, it went better than expected. Which is saying something, when I honestly expected it to go pretty well. Next time, definitely cooking myself, even if we have to go to her place. Hopefully her husband won't mind. (Husband -- that's a whole other ball of interesting wax, but as its her story to tell, I'm not spilling any beans here.)

For all you gossipmongers: move along! I don't kiss and tell, however much I do or do not kiss. I'll just say that it was an absolutely lovely evening, and I hope I see it's like frequently. And that, as they say, is that.

No, the rest of this is about my trip to Boston. Birthplace of the revolution's biggest cup of tea, beloved of the Irish Mob, so full of higher education it's like a pint of cheap beer you poured too fast. We may not have as much history as they do in Europe (it's more a thin veneer, compared to it being much like a line great Peter O'Toole once said: "Knee deep in seminal fluid." Evocative, isn't it?), but there's a whole hell of a lot of it up here. You could argue there should be more down where I'm from, but let's be honest: the swamps and the hurricanes are too quick about eating away at all that Spanish Conquistador crap as quickly as it can manage. Up here, you've got to build to survive the winters, and that means sturdy and strong.

Plus, if I'm right about the ages of some of the people sharing the bus with me, some of those Daughters of the Revolution are literally their daughters. Vampires always were paticularly attached to the trappings of home.

I wonder sometimes if it's growing pains. You'd think this country would be past them, as we ramble our way toward the two and a half century mark, but I don't think so. Or maybe it's a midlife crisis. Even here, where you can't spit without hitting a historical landmark, no one seems to give a damn that our precious republic is going down the fucking toilet. You'd think we'd retroactively installed lead pipes for our water supply, passed out the pewter cups, and were just waiting for our lovely Hun neighbors to come around for a Saturday afternoon barbeque. You can't tell me that it's not just a matter of time before Survivor starts taking its name seriously, and the people voted off the island get thrown to the sharks. Bread and circuses, ladies and gentlemen, and we're just getting shorted on bread because that would be a 'handout for those no-good welfare junkies.'

I don't know if I have any hope for a change in power to fix things, either, but I suppose we'll find out in a few weeks after the midterms. It's pretty damn fascinating just how much the party in power is self-destructing, though. If we manage to dig up enough independents and Democrats with balls, get them all into the House, and then -- just maybe -- start talking about impeachment hearings? I promise that I'm gonna break out the rainbow wig and the John 3:16 sign and go hang out in the congressional galleries. At the very least, I'll rent a pickup so I can host a few tailgate parties.

I will give Boston this: I like the subway. Of course, you've got to have something like that in a climate like this. I've heard that Toronto has whole malls underground, so you don't have to go out into the weather in winter. Frankly? I'd be scared to death to visit a place like that. What, do you freeze to death if your coat isn't properly closed and you have to run aboveground between tunnels for thirty seconds? Brrr. Gimme white sands and bikinis as far as the eye can see anyday.

In final good news, I was able to find just what I needed for my costume. Let's hope I can get into it properly come Tuesday, but for now I think I'm as ready as I can be. Whatever happens, this is looking to be one heck of a dance.

After two and a half days of busting my hump, I emerge from the Mines of Moria...otherwise known as the grindstone of back homework...triumphant, and I didn't even have to sacrifice Gandalf to the Balrog to do it. I consider two evenings and most of a morning a small price to pay for academic peace of mind. At least from this point forward, I'll be muddling along with the rest of you at proper pace. In those circumstances, I can procrastinate with the best!

However, I've not just been an academic dynamo. No, ladies and gentlemen, I've actually finished cleaning in here too. Not that I have much to clean, but I desperately needed to get stuff put away. I suppose I could have kept fooling myself; there's something comfortingly transitory about living out of a suitcase, at times. But it's a bit depressing to never be at home, either. Weighing the options, it turns out that puncturing the bubble of my self-delusion won the coin toss. Who would have thought.

But this meant that it was time to return cleaning supplies. I started with a quick stop at Emi's room, which lead to my introduction to 'Fingers'. Because every pirate ship needs a monkey. I think it's in the part of the code that isn't so much suggestion as 'absolute', but I couldn't be certain. However, he was full of excellent advice before I braved my true destination, the dark pit of despair for many a man...

Delaney.

I know, I know, half of you are laughing at me for being a melodramatic coward. And yet the other half are nodding their heads knowingly. It's hard approaching a sacred bastion of the fairer gender alone. What if it turns into a bacchanal suddenly, in the most classic sense, and they tear you limb from limb? I mean, there are ways to go and there are ways to go, and that one sort of misses the point of the better options.

But I was brave. I took a deep breath, and with Lysol and Oxy-Clean in hand, I braved the upper floors of that dangerous place and sought the inner sanctum of my quarry -- Dot. You can torture it out of me, but I won't reveal what I found when admitted inside to return her supplies. Name, rank, and serial...okay, I can't keep it up. She's a girl, it's her room, I'm still not telling but it was hardly as if I crawled through Shelob's Lair.

However, I did come out of it with something unexpected. Namely, a date for the Halloween dance. (And I'll reiterate here: No, Dot. Emi did not put me up to asking you.) Strangers have to stick together; it's that, or plot each other's demise. We may get to that too, but for now I think we'll be too distracted by our costuming plans. I will say nothing, in case prying eyes are reading, but only note that I'm going to have to make a trip down to Boston tomorrow to shop. Insert your standard mad cackle here.

Boston comes tomorrow, however. For now, I'm back in my room and pacing. Tanne's on her way over for dinner, and I'm noticing just how pathetically slim my hosting abilities are in this room. I'm going to have to do something about that, and soon, but there's just not been enough time.

Sometimes, I wonder where this host 'twitch' came from. It's not as if either of my parents were very big on parties or the like, so I don't see how it can be learned behavior. Maybe I just read the right (or the wrong, depending on how you look at it) things during my formatives years. That, or as I'm sure a certain someone will intimate, it's simply a manifestation of my swishy side. As if it's my fault that girls appreciate someone who actually remembers to shower more than once a week?

Speaking of girls, time to order dinner so it gets here in time. Note to self: find a kitchen I can use sooner than later, and start ordering the proper spices. Second note to self: Knock off a fellow student so I have enough room to put all this stuff. Preferably in the room next to mine so I can take out the wall. Third note: Not Emi.

So today was my first proper day of class at beautiful, historic Eupheme. Really, high school is the same anywhere you go. You can argue all you want for the differences between various types, public and private and religious and what have you, but in the end it all boils down to a simple equation: Bored Students + Disheartened Teachers x Supremely Rare Exceptions to the Standard Methodology = The Happiest Years of Your Life. Obviously, it's a generalized rule that doesn't apply in all situations equally, but the whole world is full of tiny exceptions. It gets tiring to have to declare that sort of thing each and every time.

I did what any self-respecting student does in a new school: I smiled politely for the teacher in each class, and otherwise kept my head down. If I'm going to make waves, the last thing I need to do is start them in class. I can rock the boat with the best of them, but despite my mathematical theories I actually at least try to respect the educational process. Teachers may be disheartened, but most of them do seem to actually want to make a difference. Or at least they did at one time or another; they had to have some idealism somewhere, to get into the profession in the first place. Now, psycho disciplinarians looking to impose their mold on everyone, looking to break any student that tries to step out of line? Sign me up to cut them down to size. But the rest I try to look out for.

The classes seem fairly standard, for the most part. Though I've sat through an hour of CALM and I'm still not sure what the hell it's about. Maybe it'll come clear after another week, or maybe it's just one of those required courses that no one can ever really explain what's it's for, but you still have to take it anyway because it's been on the books so long no one questions it.

I'm not sure what to think about the student population, either. There's certainly a plethora of folks who stand above the usual crowd of sheep, but it's a very...strange sort of upper crust. I don't know how to put my finger on explaining it, exactly, but given the stories I've already heard I suppose I shouldn't be entirely surprised. I think they all just bear watching. Which is in itself odd, that so many in one place are worth that.

I'll have to mull on it some more, clearly.

However, my day was not limited to academic concerns. It was actually bookended quite nicely by meeting two lovely examples of my new peers. The day started and ended at the Round Table, which was as easy to find in this one-horse-town as my breakfast companion said it would be. That would be Tanne, to be specific, who was quite happy to share coffee and biscotti. Charming, elegant, and she keeps up in conversation: I'd say those were all votes for the positive, in my book. We're even sharing a few classes, so I'll have someone's notes to copy off of when I'm otherwise engaged. The silly girl then agreed to come over for curry Saturday night. Clearly, she has no idea what she's getting into.

The afternoon, on the other hand, was meeting the lovely Lucy, of earlier Sam and Emi fame it turned out. She was working at the counter, and I was in desperately need of vast quantities of caffeine and sugar to get me through the pile of homework that I get to catch up on -- lucky me! Ah well. She was kind enough to take some time away from the counter to chat and keep a poor new boy distracted from his homework. Another intelligent conversationalist, and she even put up with my rambling on love and the afterlife. I can see why everyone wants her. I, however, was kind enough to let her get back to work, and then buried myself in my own work for the rest of the evening.

Not perhaps the best end to a day, but between those two bookends I was buoyed through until bedtime. Which in fact is now.