Post by jazz on Sept 26, 2006 4:34:14 GMT 1
I didn’t know what I was doing. Why was I here on a plane alone, why did I run away, off on some insane, what was this? A mission maybe. I am impulsive, and it will be the death of me, maybe. But what is life if you don’t act, if you don’t give in and do something. Action, that’s what I always wanted, to be doing, actually doing, and now I am, and I’m terrified. Or that could just be the fact that I’m on a landing airplane, each bump of turn causing me to grip the arm of my seat tighter.
I looked out the small round widow, wet with ice crystals that had formed when we were higher and now melted in the descent. Pressing my face to the glass with cupped hands, I looked out, down on the lights of the city below. The lights shown in clusters, neighborhoods, then there was the huge cluster, the city itself, and in between the lights there were dark patches like dark pools of water, islands of water in a sea of lights. So that was New Orleans.
Wow, I’d read about the place, always wanted to go, and now here I am. I’m out living, making my dreams a reality. Hopefully this didn’t turn into a nightmare.
A sudden lurch in the plane brought me out of my thoughts. I looked around the darkened plane, dark except for the dim lights and an illuminated few reading lights that let p a few seats. Two kids a few rows up on the opposite side of the aisle were coloring and talking, a man in a suit a few rows ahead of them had a brief case open and a pen in his hand. I guess I’m the only one nervous about the bumpiness; each jolt caused me to a sharp intake of breath on my part. The guy next to me, a fat man in the tan shorts and faded green cotton tee shirt, who had introduced himself as Rob and had been asleep most of the flight, slept on despite the rough landing.
The change in altitude makes me dizzy, I hated it, and the p ad down like waves of air, making my ears pop and my stomach do flip flops. And my head is already pretty messed p with all my thoughts, none of which make much since. The reason I came here makes the least since of all. I am insane, I am delusional, I need professional help, the thoughts that have been running through my mind eve since I first conceived of that most impossible thought of all. That I could be, oh maybe I just have a complex. I can’t except that I’m a nobody, an orphan girl with no family, and who is not anyone important, no I have to fabricate this grand delusion.
I touched the rosary I had in my pocket; my hand almost continually went to it. To touch it, hold it, loosely of tightly, always fiddling with it. Almost compulsively really, great I’m compulsive and delusional. No not delusional, I’m rational, and this, this rosary I’m feeling between my fingers is real, tangible. And I’m just here to heck, if this all has been crazy then, well this all has been crazy, I’ll go home, or back to where I live. A group home isn't home, it isn’t permanent, but I am, I can always depend on me, and even if, and the if is likely, I know this, even if this is all crazy, and I’m not anything special, well I’m still me. Jasmine, and I am great, I have a destiny.
And possibly, I am daughter of a vampire, which is impossible and insane, and I just have to know. I reached under my seat and took out my pink Paris Hello Kitty Journal that I had been given for Christmas last year out of my backpack, and after much rummaging found my pen and wrote.
I am the mortal Jasmine, and I have a story to tell. I am going to keep up with this, chronicle it. This makes me laugh, echoing his words. Lestat, one of my all time favorite singers, book characters, and heroes. Its funny, I can be shy sometimes, and unconfident as anything, doubtful, and always since I read the books at age twelve, try to imitate Lestat. What would Lestat do, whenever I needed confidence? And how, how ironic, when I have found out, or possible have, that Lestat could be my father. Yes I know I sound insane.
But I have read the chronicles, and reread them in fact, and that’s why I suspect this. Now please, I am not insane, God then why do I keep trying to convince myself, or whoever may ever read this. But hey if this was a fan girl’s fantasy, I wouldn’t be Lestat’s daughter, I’d be his love interest, or Daniel Molloy’s that’s my teenage fantasy, and if this were some Mary Sue fantasy, I’m have bigger boobs. And if Lestat is my father it is kind of creepy messed up, Freudian complex that I, well read the books watched the Interview movie, looked at fan art, and totally found Lestat hotter than life. And if he’s my father, then my God, this goes into so many levels of wrong.
But, none the less, he may be, very likely is, my father.
Tale of the Body Thief, read, know it, loved it because it had Louis and Lestat together at least in some parts, and Mojo, you can’t go wrong with dogs right? I love dogs, anyway. Dear God, how to say this. Dear Dairy I am on a plane landing in New Orleans because a rosary I recently inherited from my birthmother is identical to the one Lestat gave the woman he raped in ToTBT, the picture I have of my birthmother looks enough like the woman described in the book (yeah I know the description was pretty general, but the rosary is certainly not something seen everyday right), and then there is what happened when I had it appraise. OK this is the clincher; this is when we press the button that magically turns on the twilight zone theme. I went to have it appraised and for one its real, antique and forth over a hundred thousand dollars expect for the clasp which had to be replaced recently, and had a cereal number on it.
Now get ready for this, the buyer of this has the address 1127 rue Royal, (can you just imagine the twilight zone music now), what are the odds. So that’s where I’m headed.
I could be his daughter, if Lestat exists I will find him, and then I don’t know what. But I have to find out if this is true. I have to know who I am, who my father is, and if I am really his, Lestat’s, its impossible, unbelievable. Yet all this has happened. If I find him I’ll show him the rosary, the picture of my mother, and me, I look like a tiny version of her. (I mean tiny, I am like 100 pounds, very light built, I would look like a kid if it wasn’t for how tall I am.) Anyway, I look like my mom, except for my skin and eyes, those do look Indian, (like Bollywood Indian not Pocahontas), my sin is golden brown my eyes are smoke grey, I look like other girls I know are Indian or mixed, I look like I could biologically be the daughter of well I guess that body currently belongs to David Talbot, so Lestat is my father my deed not blood, but still. I have to find him, have to find something.
I slid my journal under into my back pack. “We are beginning final descent, return your seats and tray tables to the full upright and locked position” I wait for the plain to land, losing my eyes, and praying silently (yeah I don’t like flying). The plane lands smoothly but loudly. Then I wait as everyone rushes to get off, push and shove, and wait, and people reaching for there things stored in the overhead bends, while others who already have their things try to push back. I sit and wait, closing my eyes, and unhooking my seat belt. I wait until the mod of people exiting has passed then scoot over seats and head for the exit.
After hurrying up the tunnel thing that lead to the gate, and I dashed for the nearest restrooms. I think the most annoying things in the world are automatic flush toilettes. I’m sitting there, very relieved to finally be able to go, because I don’t like airplane bathrooms, or standing up in a moving airplane, then I go to wipe and it flushes and my hand gets wet. Gross, then of course the automatic sinks only give you five seconds of water, hello, everyone knows you have to wash your hands at least twenty seconds. So I futilely try to get my hands clean, frustrated and scrubbing, and looking like Lady Macbeth with the hand scrubbing, and wishing that whoever the idiot was that invented automatic sinks and toilettes burn in hell. Because they are pointless and annoying.
Once I feel clean I take the time to glance in the mirror, I look good enough, no e looks that good after flying I try to make my wavy hair look alright. I look k, really, I’m not dressed ha nice, short sleeved black blouse over worn blue jeans, but that doesn’t matter.
I head out of the bathroom, and look for the way out. Airports, so large, like malls but with bigger windows. Yet still with shops and Starbucks, and beautifully let advertisements for things to see along walls. Airports are so bright, the floors are shiny, the lights florescent and they are always full of people. I look at the crowd that I am wandering among, airport people, their energy always rushing worried, somewhere to get to. Feeling overwhelmed by the crowd for a moment, but its ok, I like crowds really.
I like people watching, but no time now, girl on a mission. Consulting the ever helpful, yet still confusing, you are here directories, and several hallways, security check point’s escalator rides later, I find myself stepping out into the night air in the front of the airport. I didn’t have to bother with baggage claim, the tiger print backpack I had slung over one shoulder was all I had, well that and the rosary in my pocket, and my hand in my pocket over the rosary.
I immediately notice the air here, hot, and heavy. Immediately I feel wet and sticky, and it gives me a head ache. Great, I rub my temples; welcome to the south and land of humidity, no wonder my hair looked so out of control when I looked earlier. Ok, time to get out of the airport, I go to the curd, the entrance is teaming with people, there are taxi’s waiting by the curb or circling like sharks, waiting for people who needed rides. I needed a ride, so I haled one, “1127 Rue Royale” I said, the cab driven said something I couldn’t really understand. I just hoped he spoke English well enough to get me where I was going.
I looked out the small round widow, wet with ice crystals that had formed when we were higher and now melted in the descent. Pressing my face to the glass with cupped hands, I looked out, down on the lights of the city below. The lights shown in clusters, neighborhoods, then there was the huge cluster, the city itself, and in between the lights there were dark patches like dark pools of water, islands of water in a sea of lights. So that was New Orleans.
Wow, I’d read about the place, always wanted to go, and now here I am. I’m out living, making my dreams a reality. Hopefully this didn’t turn into a nightmare.
A sudden lurch in the plane brought me out of my thoughts. I looked around the darkened plane, dark except for the dim lights and an illuminated few reading lights that let p a few seats. Two kids a few rows up on the opposite side of the aisle were coloring and talking, a man in a suit a few rows ahead of them had a brief case open and a pen in his hand. I guess I’m the only one nervous about the bumpiness; each jolt caused me to a sharp intake of breath on my part. The guy next to me, a fat man in the tan shorts and faded green cotton tee shirt, who had introduced himself as Rob and had been asleep most of the flight, slept on despite the rough landing.
The change in altitude makes me dizzy, I hated it, and the p ad down like waves of air, making my ears pop and my stomach do flip flops. And my head is already pretty messed p with all my thoughts, none of which make much since. The reason I came here makes the least since of all. I am insane, I am delusional, I need professional help, the thoughts that have been running through my mind eve since I first conceived of that most impossible thought of all. That I could be, oh maybe I just have a complex. I can’t except that I’m a nobody, an orphan girl with no family, and who is not anyone important, no I have to fabricate this grand delusion.
I touched the rosary I had in my pocket; my hand almost continually went to it. To touch it, hold it, loosely of tightly, always fiddling with it. Almost compulsively really, great I’m compulsive and delusional. No not delusional, I’m rational, and this, this rosary I’m feeling between my fingers is real, tangible. And I’m just here to heck, if this all has been crazy then, well this all has been crazy, I’ll go home, or back to where I live. A group home isn't home, it isn’t permanent, but I am, I can always depend on me, and even if, and the if is likely, I know this, even if this is all crazy, and I’m not anything special, well I’m still me. Jasmine, and I am great, I have a destiny.
And possibly, I am daughter of a vampire, which is impossible and insane, and I just have to know. I reached under my seat and took out my pink Paris Hello Kitty Journal that I had been given for Christmas last year out of my backpack, and after much rummaging found my pen and wrote.
I am the mortal Jasmine, and I have a story to tell. I am going to keep up with this, chronicle it. This makes me laugh, echoing his words. Lestat, one of my all time favorite singers, book characters, and heroes. Its funny, I can be shy sometimes, and unconfident as anything, doubtful, and always since I read the books at age twelve, try to imitate Lestat. What would Lestat do, whenever I needed confidence? And how, how ironic, when I have found out, or possible have, that Lestat could be my father. Yes I know I sound insane.
But I have read the chronicles, and reread them in fact, and that’s why I suspect this. Now please, I am not insane, God then why do I keep trying to convince myself, or whoever may ever read this. But hey if this was a fan girl’s fantasy, I wouldn’t be Lestat’s daughter, I’d be his love interest, or Daniel Molloy’s that’s my teenage fantasy, and if this were some Mary Sue fantasy, I’m have bigger boobs. And if Lestat is my father it is kind of creepy messed up, Freudian complex that I, well read the books watched the Interview movie, looked at fan art, and totally found Lestat hotter than life. And if he’s my father, then my God, this goes into so many levels of wrong.
But, none the less, he may be, very likely is, my father.
Tale of the Body Thief, read, know it, loved it because it had Louis and Lestat together at least in some parts, and Mojo, you can’t go wrong with dogs right? I love dogs, anyway. Dear God, how to say this. Dear Dairy I am on a plane landing in New Orleans because a rosary I recently inherited from my birthmother is identical to the one Lestat gave the woman he raped in ToTBT, the picture I have of my birthmother looks enough like the woman described in the book (yeah I know the description was pretty general, but the rosary is certainly not something seen everyday right), and then there is what happened when I had it appraise. OK this is the clincher; this is when we press the button that magically turns on the twilight zone theme. I went to have it appraised and for one its real, antique and forth over a hundred thousand dollars expect for the clasp which had to be replaced recently, and had a cereal number on it.
Now get ready for this, the buyer of this has the address 1127 rue Royal, (can you just imagine the twilight zone music now), what are the odds. So that’s where I’m headed.
I could be his daughter, if Lestat exists I will find him, and then I don’t know what. But I have to find out if this is true. I have to know who I am, who my father is, and if I am really his, Lestat’s, its impossible, unbelievable. Yet all this has happened. If I find him I’ll show him the rosary, the picture of my mother, and me, I look like a tiny version of her. (I mean tiny, I am like 100 pounds, very light built, I would look like a kid if it wasn’t for how tall I am.) Anyway, I look like my mom, except for my skin and eyes, those do look Indian, (like Bollywood Indian not Pocahontas), my sin is golden brown my eyes are smoke grey, I look like other girls I know are Indian or mixed, I look like I could biologically be the daughter of well I guess that body currently belongs to David Talbot, so Lestat is my father my deed not blood, but still. I have to find him, have to find something.
I slid my journal under into my back pack. “We are beginning final descent, return your seats and tray tables to the full upright and locked position” I wait for the plain to land, losing my eyes, and praying silently (yeah I don’t like flying). The plane lands smoothly but loudly. Then I wait as everyone rushes to get off, push and shove, and wait, and people reaching for there things stored in the overhead bends, while others who already have their things try to push back. I sit and wait, closing my eyes, and unhooking my seat belt. I wait until the mod of people exiting has passed then scoot over seats and head for the exit.
After hurrying up the tunnel thing that lead to the gate, and I dashed for the nearest restrooms. I think the most annoying things in the world are automatic flush toilettes. I’m sitting there, very relieved to finally be able to go, because I don’t like airplane bathrooms, or standing up in a moving airplane, then I go to wipe and it flushes and my hand gets wet. Gross, then of course the automatic sinks only give you five seconds of water, hello, everyone knows you have to wash your hands at least twenty seconds. So I futilely try to get my hands clean, frustrated and scrubbing, and looking like Lady Macbeth with the hand scrubbing, and wishing that whoever the idiot was that invented automatic sinks and toilettes burn in hell. Because they are pointless and annoying.
Once I feel clean I take the time to glance in the mirror, I look good enough, no e looks that good after flying I try to make my wavy hair look alright. I look k, really, I’m not dressed ha nice, short sleeved black blouse over worn blue jeans, but that doesn’t matter.
I head out of the bathroom, and look for the way out. Airports, so large, like malls but with bigger windows. Yet still with shops and Starbucks, and beautifully let advertisements for things to see along walls. Airports are so bright, the floors are shiny, the lights florescent and they are always full of people. I look at the crowd that I am wandering among, airport people, their energy always rushing worried, somewhere to get to. Feeling overwhelmed by the crowd for a moment, but its ok, I like crowds really.
I like people watching, but no time now, girl on a mission. Consulting the ever helpful, yet still confusing, you are here directories, and several hallways, security check point’s escalator rides later, I find myself stepping out into the night air in the front of the airport. I didn’t have to bother with baggage claim, the tiger print backpack I had slung over one shoulder was all I had, well that and the rosary in my pocket, and my hand in my pocket over the rosary.
I immediately notice the air here, hot, and heavy. Immediately I feel wet and sticky, and it gives me a head ache. Great, I rub my temples; welcome to the south and land of humidity, no wonder my hair looked so out of control when I looked earlier. Ok, time to get out of the airport, I go to the curd, the entrance is teaming with people, there are taxi’s waiting by the curb or circling like sharks, waiting for people who needed rides. I needed a ride, so I haled one, “1127 Rue Royale” I said, the cab driven said something I couldn’t really understand. I just hoped he spoke English well enough to get me where I was going.