Originally posted on LiveJournal
Intensity, intensity, intensity.
My curse, my albatross, my most remarkable quality.
I simply don't believe in allowing the volume to fade.
Something you may not know about me; I write haikus and give them to strangers that I see on public transit. I assemble elaborate treasure hunts and leave treasure maps for people I find beautiful and intriguing. I'll come to your house and cook a five course dinner on a whim. My most powerful memories are of mad, extravagant hellrides beneath harvest moons, skin-of-my teeth adventures I've hurled myself into with a reckless disregard for propriety; Spontaneous trips that involve travelling hundreds of miles to meet with angels and nomads I had met just the night before.
Monterey.
Denver.
Houston.
New Orleans.
I've met some of my best friends that way, and my most powerful loves; I've had the best sex, and made the most charming enemies.
I live for the intensity of the moment; the fire of the dramatic, the shining pearl of the grand fucking gesture given to a beautiful stranger are what keep me alive.
It's just the logical extension of the Southern rites I was raised with; the rituals of men opening the door for women. The giving of hothouse flowers as gifts.
I learned my lessons both from the Antebellum South and from Greek mythology; unfortunately (or not) I've instinctively (and intentionally) ignored both cultures' acceptance of the inevitable tragedy involved in romantic gestures
As far as I'm concerned, it's not about winning or losing, and it's not about getting into anyone's pants. It's simply based on the principle of 'do or die'.
I have been Icarus.
I have been Orpheus.
And more than either of those two bit players, I have been Odyseuss; I am eternally lured by the song of the siren. I refuse to dull my senses, so that even as I'm pulled towards the rocks, I can hear the mermaids singing, each to each.
...I do not think they will sing to me.
Eliot knew.
This is Belladonna, the lady of the rocks, the lady of situations...
Eliot knew this as well.
Eliot understood that the world we live in has no space for grand gestures. Motives are questioned when the motive is obvious; sanity is questioned when it is insane to live without intensity.
In short, I seem to have a problem, or else I'm simply an anachronism. I'm an almost scary judge of character in certain cases; I notice personality traits of a certain flavor of person far faster than a person should be able to. You can disagree, or you can see it as yet another example of my particular and peculiar madness, but that doesn't really matter. I have preternaturally developed instincts in regards to people. Years of paranoia and living with a violent psychotic have some bennies, I suppose.
But the point is, when it comes to approaching strangers, I simply skip the foreplay. I expect people to trust themselves enough that a stranger isn't perceived as a threat. I expect someone who walks like a badass to see intensity as interesting, not dangerous.
This all comes about because at the moment, I have the best idea for a first date ever. It involves travel, airplanes, new environments, familiar streets, 72-hour binges, fog-shrouded rivers, great music, cemetaries, and more goth points than you can count.
All I need is a badass girl who thinks I'm cute, who isn't a sissy.
But all my previous experiences indicate that there's no one I could invite.
I have people in mind, of course, but yet again this week I feel like Goldilocks...
"This one's too cautious. This one's too cautious. And this one is WAY too cautious."
(And that's not even mentioning the married ones.)
The last thing I want to have to do when inviting someone along on a grand, ridiculous adventure the likes of which few people are ever offered, is have to explain to them that I don't care if we date, or make out, or have teh sexins.
There are no motives. I just want a partner in crime.
(Although making out would be a nice addition to it all. I mean, the whole point is romancing a stranger, and letting a brief moment in time unfold like a black rose.)
So would someone explain why incredible is too much?
In my life, I've woken up with attractive someones in decadent hotel rooms my fair share of times; I'm sure you have, as well. So you know; sometimes it's fun, sometimes it's been fabulous, only rarely is it something to regret. Life is an adventure, and we all start off as strangers. Is it really better to start with the volume low, and see how high it can go? Or is it better to risk <i>everything</i> to see what happens if you ignore propriety, and ignore caution, and just let the chips fall where they may?
I should never be met over coffee, or drinks in a club. Chit-chat reduces me to a shadow. Safety and caution impale me on a pin.
and how should I begin?
The most ironically amusing part of this is, it's like a Golden Ticket. I may very well have you in mind.
Intensity, intensity, intensity.
My curse, my albatross, my most remarkable quality.
I simply don't believe in allowing the volume to fade.
Something you may not know about me; I write haikus and give them to strangers that I see on public transit. I assemble elaborate treasure hunts and leave treasure maps for people I find beautiful and intriguing. I'll come to your house and cook a five course dinner on a whim. My most powerful memories are of mad, extravagant hellrides beneath harvest moons, skin-of-my teeth adventures I've hurled myself into with a reckless disregard for propriety; Spontaneous trips that involve travelling hundreds of miles to meet with angels and nomads I had met just the night before.
Monterey.
Denver.
Houston.
New Orleans.
I've met some of my best friends that way, and my most powerful loves; I've had the best sex, and made the most charming enemies.
I live for the intensity of the moment; the fire of the dramatic, the shining pearl of the grand fucking gesture given to a beautiful stranger are what keep me alive.
It's just the logical extension of the Southern rites I was raised with; the rituals of men opening the door for women. The giving of hothouse flowers as gifts.
I learned my lessons both from the Antebellum South and from Greek mythology; unfortunately (or not) I've instinctively (and intentionally) ignored both cultures' acceptance of the inevitable tragedy involved in romantic gestures
As far as I'm concerned, it's not about winning or losing, and it's not about getting into anyone's pants. It's simply based on the principle of 'do or die'.
I have been Icarus.
I have been Orpheus.
And more than either of those two bit players, I have been Odyseuss; I am eternally lured by the song of the siren. I refuse to dull my senses, so that even as I'm pulled towards the rocks, I can hear the mermaids singing, each to each.
...I do not think they will sing to me.
Eliot knew.
This is Belladonna, the lady of the rocks, the lady of situations...
Eliot knew this as well.
Eliot understood that the world we live in has no space for grand gestures. Motives are questioned when the motive is obvious; sanity is questioned when it is insane to live without intensity.
In short, I seem to have a problem, or else I'm simply an anachronism. I'm an almost scary judge of character in certain cases; I notice personality traits of a certain flavor of person far faster than a person should be able to. You can disagree, or you can see it as yet another example of my particular and peculiar madness, but that doesn't really matter. I have preternaturally developed instincts in regards to people. Years of paranoia and living with a violent psychotic have some bennies, I suppose.
But the point is, when it comes to approaching strangers, I simply skip the foreplay. I expect people to trust themselves enough that a stranger isn't perceived as a threat. I expect someone who walks like a badass to see intensity as interesting, not dangerous.
This all comes about because at the moment, I have the best idea for a first date ever. It involves travel, airplanes, new environments, familiar streets, 72-hour binges, fog-shrouded rivers, great music, cemetaries, and more goth points than you can count.
All I need is a badass girl who thinks I'm cute, who isn't a sissy.
But all my previous experiences indicate that there's no one I could invite.
I have people in mind, of course, but yet again this week I feel like Goldilocks...
"This one's too cautious. This one's too cautious. And this one is WAY too cautious."
(And that's not even mentioning the married ones.)
The last thing I want to have to do when inviting someone along on a grand, ridiculous adventure the likes of which few people are ever offered, is have to explain to them that I don't care if we date, or make out, or have teh sexins.
There are no motives. I just want a partner in crime.
(Although making out would be a nice addition to it all. I mean, the whole point is romancing a stranger, and letting a brief moment in time unfold like a black rose.)
So would someone explain why incredible is too much?
In my life, I've woken up with attractive someones in decadent hotel rooms my fair share of times; I'm sure you have, as well. So you know; sometimes it's fun, sometimes it's been fabulous, only rarely is it something to regret. Life is an adventure, and we all start off as strangers. Is it really better to start with the volume low, and see how high it can go? Or is it better to risk <i>everything</i> to see what happens if you ignore propriety, and ignore caution, and just let the chips fall where they may?
I should never be met over coffee, or drinks in a club. Chit-chat reduces me to a shadow. Safety and caution impale me on a pin.
and how should I begin?
The most ironically amusing part of this is, it's like a Golden Ticket. I may very well have you in mind.