O _____ how reassuring is your presence, you who are like a brother to me! O _______ whose voice is a potent drug, promise me your love again! O ____ how I marvel at your scorn and contempt! O ______ ____ _____ may your dismay and discomfort ease, and may you be patient from the coming of summer!
O _____ I hope you are as happy as I am with that gathering which built itself around me at the banks of a pond floating in the middle of the sky, a gathering which touched and tasted and savored almost with abandon! Let us hope that the next one will be more perfect, and not so divided by little conflicts!
[written in Latin]
I suppose I should write about Darrius and his proposition. Do I feel kinship to the man? It is hard to say. He is built of taut ropes and tendons, all of them trembling for action. He has the great, endless hunger and drive that seems to be our trademark, yet his drive is all nerves and need, whereas mine is slow and steady. And as is too typical of what Americans call Type A personalities, he seems to thirst for added complications in his life.
And he is afraid. That much is clear. A man of such immeasurable arrogance being afraid of anything is enough to get my attention, but it also testifies to why I should avoid whatever web he has tangled himself in.
And why this interest in Lex? She’s charming in her way, and a sheer delight to observe in flagrante delicto, but I don’t see what the fuss is about. Thank God her naturally jealous and controlling character seems to be muted whenever she is around Darrius. If their two egos added together rather than subtracted whenever they were in each others’ presence, they would cause an earthquake. I will have to talk with her more and find out what she is about.
Still, the thought of dealing closely with both of them sounds like a recipe for headaches.
And yet, that club. That would be useful. It could be very useful, as well as a good deal of fun, if only I felt reasonably certain it would not simply become the Church of Darrius. We will speak to him again, and then see how it feels.
_____ abides, making no clear proclamations about the matter, but I can sense his irritation, as well as his curiosity. It is always intriguing when he and ____ both come to the fore and writhe against each other, with _______ looking on, murmuring promises.
With Lola, there is none of this agitation. Lola, Lola, Lola! Pure indolence smothered in ennui and wrapped in beautiful flesh, like a hollow bar of lead coated in gold. She is so deliciously useless, so committed to her own existence and nothing else that it makes me want to deliriously laugh and kiss her at the same time. What does Lola do other than look gorgeous, fuck, sleep, and complain about being bored? Her best quality is that she enjoys the sight of contentment in others. Oh, Lola, feed me fruit from your hand any day of the week. Come to my house and sleep the day away, and wake up wondering why there is not a chopped apple waiting for you!
Her worst quality, it should be said, is the same as with the Elise and Asuka pair: she is already far too jaded, or at least pretends to be. What can be done with girls like Elise and Lola? They are nice to have around, but they are like bodies who have sunk to the bed of a tar pit; there is no farther depth to which they could sink. All they can do is lie there and complain about the pit not being dark or deep enough.
Thank you, ____, that you have guided me such that there are horizons and vistas yet unspoiled!
But how could I forget Ms. Beckett? Now, that woman is exciting! I would pay money just to watch her go through her day undoing the plots of her rivals without ever losing her sense of humor. People are so serious. Not Ms. Beckett. I have never seen such a fox grin carved in such a nice package. Truth be told, she not terribly beautiful, but her confidence, her independence, and her absolute refusal to invest too much importance in either me or herself made me want to find the loose thread that unravels her entire outfit to see the pink body beneath.
Something tells me that if one caught her in a towel after a shower and ripped off her towel, she would leap away laughing, wrapped in a second, hidden towel. Wonderful.
And then there is Mr. Kaluhiwa. How pitiable. How contemptible. Yet with him there is travel room, there is progress to be made, unlike with Lola. Being in his presence stirs me to a sense of purpose. His self-deception goads me, his duplicity, his cognitive dissonance lights a tidy blue fire in my black heart.
Mr. Kaluhiwa, I know that guilt you feel. I know the frustration and the loathing. I was there, too, in Africa, my head full of diagrams, my hands full of clean water. I know the feeble, cloying twinge of satisfaction that comes from charity work, and how cosmically detestable it is for ones such as ourselves to stoop and pantomime this way.
Mr. Kaluhiwa, we have things to talk about, don’t we?