B Positive! (Coming To Terms with Un-Death)
Posted: 22 Jul 2012, 16:32
The following are entries from Lydia Seguine's LiveJournal, entitled "B Positive! (Coming To Terms with Un-Death)"
Date: 20 Jul 2012
Mood: blank
Music: Vampire – Antsy Pants
There is a shitload of mythology on vampires.
Mythology from Mesopotamia is swimming with them: Lamashtu, Lilitu, Gallu… etc. Things from the Kabbalah, Ancient Greece, India, Western and Eastern Europe, Africa, Asia—god, even the Aztecs have them: The Cihuatateo were spirits of women who died in childbirth and went around literally ******* their victims silly. These myths extensively and explicitly tell you how to identify these creatures, how to ward them away, and how to kill them. You would think that out of all this you would be able to find something about being one.
Suggested Titles and Taglines:
Vampirism for Dummies [Obligatory]
This Sucks: A How-To Guide for the New Vampire
Hearts at Stake (Just because you bite, doesn’t mean your love-life has to.)
Make It Count (Wise Investments for the Modern Vamp!)
B Positive! (Coming To Terms with Un-Death)
But then of course there is a whole slew of literature on vampires, from Polidori’s The Vampyre to penny dreadfuls, Carmilla, Dracula, The Vampire Chronicles, Anno Dracula… and who could forget the illustrious Twilight Saga—which in a weird, roundabout way became the catalyst of the events that led to my death (**** you, Meyer).
I don’t suppose you, my dear imaginary reader, will believe me when I say that I’m a vampire and I’m pulling a Lestat and chronicling my days—excuse me, nights—as one of the undead. Because I’m not! As far as you’re concerned I’m a bored, chubby teenager in the suburbs making these things up in her head because it entertains her. That’s right. You’re absolutely right. Let’s keep it like that, and never ever venture into the dark, demonic recesses of the world we occupy. (Quota of melodrama for the day: achieved!)
Here’s what happened, and it’s important that you read this:
liesin.docx
Did you read that? All of that? Promise? Good, because the following won’t make any sense if you didn’t:
The rules of good narration state that Liesin should have turned me into what I am now; all roads and trajectories pointed to that. Fortunately for me and unfortunately for you literature critics out there, that didn’t happen. What I can assure you happened next was that I refused to sacrifice on Liesin’s altar as he’d instructed, and, true to his word he killed one of my friends—my roommate, god rest his soul, who will be referred to as Giacomo.
You can probably still read a little of this story in X City’s newspapers, as it’s still quite fresh, but the gist is that I became a lead suspect in his death because of my interest in the occult. Funnily enough, as in a self-fulfilling prophecy, I did end up killing somebody: He was the detective investigating the case, and he was, like many of us are, in the wrong place at the wrong time. I still have the gun—which a friend, wherever he is now (let’s call him Noah) gave to me—and for two days I became a fugitive.
During the two or so weeks of the investigation of the death of Giacomo, I stayed with and under the protection of a man we will call Chuck. Chuck, you have to understand, was then—and still is—a new vampire, and I’ll admit that I had my suspicions, but then I was unwilling to admit to the fact of vampires, so I thought I was out of my ******* mind until Chuck admitted to me that yes, he is a vampire, and how it was probable that my friend Noah is also a vampire, and Liesin. Let’s never forget Liesin.
Now I understand how difficult it must have been for Chuck to resist the impetus of his desires: To drain me dry… which happened anyway but not until later—not until I deserved it. Not until I was shot in the head and put in a very lethal coma. That was when Chuck—my hero, my Deus Ex Machina, my savior—who doesn’t even like me that much, or at all—whisked me away from the hospital and turned me into what I am now:
A bored, chubby, teenager in the suburbs.
I’m all muddled and everything is coming up ****, not to mention that I’m still running from the long Sarah Jessica Parker face of the law (see, that’s a celebrity and a Mounty joke all in one). There’s something very surreal about all of this, as you can imagine, but I can’t even begin to describe it. How the hell do you describe a painting to a blind man, or singing to a deaf mute? I don’t know. I guess it’s like waking up with a very bad hangover and five days later it’s still there. Things are much brighter, you feel things more—there is more, much more, just more, as a fellow fanged fiend we shall call Piper, told me.
I vacillate between pure and utter terror and panic—which is, surprisingly, a very quiet thing—and awe, wonderment, even ecstasy in my new indestructability and veritable divinity (I understand you now, Liesin, you shitfaced, demented ****!). Bite the mushroom, eat the biscuit—DRINK ME. I’m a criminal, a murderer, a demon. I drink blood, I take lives; I think I may have killed two people this week. If it was your father, your mother, your brother, your lover, I’m sorry. I am no more culpable than you are when you eat a burger. (Meat is Murder, Morrissey.) I think. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. Dear John, What is applicable? What nightmares of morality await, and how the **** do I hide these fangs? They're irritating.
"I was a newborn vampire weeping at the beauty of the night" ... and teething.
Dear Reader, I'll write more later; I'm getting restless. I have to wash my cape and bathe in the blood of a virgin or something.
Yours truly,
Ingrid Pitt.
Date: 20 Jul 2012
Mood: blank
Music: Vampire – Antsy Pants
There is a shitload of mythology on vampires.
Mythology from Mesopotamia is swimming with them: Lamashtu, Lilitu, Gallu… etc. Things from the Kabbalah, Ancient Greece, India, Western and Eastern Europe, Africa, Asia—god, even the Aztecs have them: The Cihuatateo were spirits of women who died in childbirth and went around literally ******* their victims silly. These myths extensively and explicitly tell you how to identify these creatures, how to ward them away, and how to kill them. You would think that out of all this you would be able to find something about being one.
Suggested Titles and Taglines:
Vampirism for Dummies [Obligatory]
This Sucks: A How-To Guide for the New Vampire
Hearts at Stake (Just because you bite, doesn’t mean your love-life has to.)
Make It Count (Wise Investments for the Modern Vamp!)
B Positive! (Coming To Terms with Un-Death)
But then of course there is a whole slew of literature on vampires, from Polidori’s The Vampyre to penny dreadfuls, Carmilla, Dracula, The Vampire Chronicles, Anno Dracula… and who could forget the illustrious Twilight Saga—which in a weird, roundabout way became the catalyst of the events that led to my death (**** you, Meyer).
I don’t suppose you, my dear imaginary reader, will believe me when I say that I’m a vampire and I’m pulling a Lestat and chronicling my days—excuse me, nights—as one of the undead. Because I’m not! As far as you’re concerned I’m a bored, chubby teenager in the suburbs making these things up in her head because it entertains her. That’s right. You’re absolutely right. Let’s keep it like that, and never ever venture into the dark, demonic recesses of the world we occupy. (Quota of melodrama for the day: achieved!)
Here’s what happened, and it’s important that you read this:
liesin.docx
Did you read that? All of that? Promise? Good, because the following won’t make any sense if you didn’t:
The rules of good narration state that Liesin should have turned me into what I am now; all roads and trajectories pointed to that. Fortunately for me and unfortunately for you literature critics out there, that didn’t happen. What I can assure you happened next was that I refused to sacrifice on Liesin’s altar as he’d instructed, and, true to his word he killed one of my friends—my roommate, god rest his soul, who will be referred to as Giacomo.
You can probably still read a little of this story in X City’s newspapers, as it’s still quite fresh, but the gist is that I became a lead suspect in his death because of my interest in the occult. Funnily enough, as in a self-fulfilling prophecy, I did end up killing somebody: He was the detective investigating the case, and he was, like many of us are, in the wrong place at the wrong time. I still have the gun—which a friend, wherever he is now (let’s call him Noah) gave to me—and for two days I became a fugitive.
During the two or so weeks of the investigation of the death of Giacomo, I stayed with and under the protection of a man we will call Chuck. Chuck, you have to understand, was then—and still is—a new vampire, and I’ll admit that I had my suspicions, but then I was unwilling to admit to the fact of vampires, so I thought I was out of my ******* mind until Chuck admitted to me that yes, he is a vampire, and how it was probable that my friend Noah is also a vampire, and Liesin. Let’s never forget Liesin.
Now I understand how difficult it must have been for Chuck to resist the impetus of his desires: To drain me dry… which happened anyway but not until later—not until I deserved it. Not until I was shot in the head and put in a very lethal coma. That was when Chuck—my hero, my Deus Ex Machina, my savior—who doesn’t even like me that much, or at all—whisked me away from the hospital and turned me into what I am now:
A bored, chubby, teenager in the suburbs.
I’m all muddled and everything is coming up ****, not to mention that I’m still running from the long Sarah Jessica Parker face of the law (see, that’s a celebrity and a Mounty joke all in one). There’s something very surreal about all of this, as you can imagine, but I can’t even begin to describe it. How the hell do you describe a painting to a blind man, or singing to a deaf mute? I don’t know. I guess it’s like waking up with a very bad hangover and five days later it’s still there. Things are much brighter, you feel things more—there is more, much more, just more, as a fellow fanged fiend we shall call Piper, told me.
I vacillate between pure and utter terror and panic—which is, surprisingly, a very quiet thing—and awe, wonderment, even ecstasy in my new indestructability and veritable divinity (I understand you now, Liesin, you shitfaced, demented ****!). Bite the mushroom, eat the biscuit—DRINK ME. I’m a criminal, a murderer, a demon. I drink blood, I take lives; I think I may have killed two people this week. If it was your father, your mother, your brother, your lover, I’m sorry. I am no more culpable than you are when you eat a burger. (Meat is Murder, Morrissey.) I think. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. Dear John, What is applicable? What nightmares of morality await, and how the **** do I hide these fangs? They're irritating.
"I was a newborn vampire weeping at the beauty of the night" ... and teething.
Dear Reader, I'll write more later; I'm getting restless. I have to wash my cape and bathe in the blood of a virgin or something.
Yours truly,
Ingrid Pitt.
