burns_so_brightly | Second Stanza: [ACTION/WRITTEN/VOICE]

[Sitting in the tea shop, Julian Bell is looking restless, his tea untouched and growing cold. He chews the end of his pen as his journal lies open on the table before him. All at once, he starts writing furiously.]

Expose the world, anatomize,
Strip clothes from skin, strip skin, then flesh, from bone.
Himself no surgeon, true, can sterilize,
But yet the self-infection can be shown.
Corrode and doubt; anesthetize the heart;
Morphia or curiosity drown the reviving smart.

Clear as white water in the stream we see
Shadowed the species of eternity;
The working process, self a working part:
For not one necessary fiction's grace
Can quite make mask th' observer's outward face,
Or thought one extra atom's movement start.

The moving pointer tells, and having told
Not the immediacy of hot and cold,
Nor yet the pale abstraction of a mind
(For algebra and instruments record
No immanent emergence of the Word.)
Tells solid, painful foothold all we find.

Why turn, why seek, why question for an end?
Why hope? Time flows: shows useless to defend
A cosy corner in the rising flood.
The tide is coming in: the dykes are down:
War, Terror, Poverty, swing through the town,
And the cold wind claims to be understood.

[It feels like it's been too long since he wrote. He's trying to get the juices going again, but this lazy, mind-numbing monotony of Luceti life is making it hard, so he started with something he's already written. Heck, maybe someone will give him feedback and he can better it. Some ten or fifteen minutes later, he picks up the journal and speaks.]

I think we should have a philosophy club here, or some such thing. Nothing exclusive, just a few inquisitive minds wanting intellectual stimulation. Mondays at eight in the tea shop. Any biters?

[OOC: Feel free to run into him around town as well as at the tea shop. He'll be getting groceries and checking out the library, and tonight, he'll be at Cloud Nine.

Also: the above poem was written by the actual Julian Bell and not me. No profit made from it.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Guy skids on with the scarf whipping around in his face, which causes him to make a Great Lot of Noise, and for his path to wind considerably.]

[A sharp laugh.] Guy, watch out for yourself, now!

[All in good fun, but Julian realizes he's skaing after Guy now, not to race him, but to try to untangle the damned scarf from around his face before he hurts himself.]

[It seems that Guy is destined to win his races all the same way:

Flopped in a snow heap, fallen off the rink entirely. At least he's laughing! His hat has also come off.]

[Julian is laughing, too. He unsteadily tries bending down to help Guy up.]

[Guy reaches for his hand, then his laughing stops.

There are bruises on Julian's neck. Bruises. He lies there, with his hand in the poet's and studies them.]

Julian... what happened?

What?

[Oh. His scarf...OH. Julian's hand reaches to gingerly cover the bruises.]

Nothing.

[Not that a ring of bruises around someone's neck is ever anything.]

[Guy takes a deep breath through his nostrils, the cold stinging in his throat. He can understand why Julian wouldn't want to tell him. Despite secrets being kept in order not to upset Guy, he still knows they exist, that certain things are done to keep him more well-balanced.

He still wants to know. His face remains calm.]

I just want to know what happened, and that you're all right.

[Trying to make light of it.]

If I wasn't all right, I wouldn't be here. Now get up before you freeze your arse off.

Of course, of course. [He takes Julian's hand and finally stands. Still, cooly, he asks:]

How did it happen?

[Julian shakes his head lightly, at a loss for words, rubbing the bruises.]

Some...scantily-clad lunatic didn't want to let me pass without a kiss. I dunno who he was.

[Guy doesn't want to make matters worse, yet still he physically reaches out for Julian by way of a simple comforting hand on his arm, just above the elbow.

It is his turn to make light of this, though he wants to know who this lunatic was.]

Charming our wing-wearers already, Julian?

[He looks out toward the rink. His eyes are too descriptive, burning with a bit of jealousy.]

I never realised we had mad men outside of myself.

[An ironic laugh.]

Dunno if he was mad or possessed. But...I'm not hurt. A sore throat doesn't count.

[Guy strokes that arm a few times before letting his hand drop. If Julian is all right...]

Tea. At lunch. With honey.

[Another chuckle. But when Guy gets fussy, there's only so much one can do besides agree, whether or not one actually intends to follow through.]

If you say so.

I insist!

[He says so in a way that is almost sing-songy. He steps back onto the ice, Julian's scarf draped in his arms for putting back around that neck of his.]

So what do madmen who insist on kisses and chokings look like?

[Anything for information.]

[There's a shift in expression, and he looks suspicious.] Why? So you can stay clear of him, or so you can go looking for him?

[He answers honestly--]

Because Luceti won't stand for it. People should be warned so it doesn't happen again.

[--but the truth is carefully put.]

It's unacceptable.

Of course it's unacceptable, Guy. I just...don't think everyone needs to know about it.

Their knowing hardly requires details about yourself, or even what transpired. Vague detail can inspire prudence, or at the least wariness.

[What can he say? He knows how to feed people with just enough that they'll do what he wants them to do. Not that this is a case of that, but the spy does know what he's doing.

He also wants to know who this madman is.]

[There's still a little hesitation.]

He's a ginger. Very thin, pretty young. At first I thought he might be a woman, but he very revealingly proved he had no mammaries. And when I say he's a ginger, it's an understatement.

[That gets an look just for the sheer imagery Guy is trying to conjure.]

Extraordinarily interesting. You should see the colour of some other persons about. Blue as the sky, green as the United Irishmen, bright as some of the maquillage ladies favour.

[At least now he has a description. He'll ask Anthony about it later.

Tenderly, he skates toward Julian and drapes the scarf over his neck to hang down over his shoulders. He'll let the poet wrap it himself.]

[Julian wraps the scarf around his neck.] I've seen. Couple of giant turtles here walking around on their hind legs, in fact. I don't think anything'll surprise me after that.

Oh, the turtles! [Guy visibly is relaxing, going back to his carefree attitude. Now that he's filed away what he needs to, there is no cause to let it ruin his date with Julian.

Even if it isn't an actual date to his dear.]

I met one of them before I burned an entire section of the library! Perhaps not an entire section. Some thirty books, I believe.

[It wasn't a good day, but he's beginning to feel like he can tell Julian so much now.]

You burned library books?

Second Stanza: [ACTION/WRITTEN/VOICE]

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