Lachryma Papaveris {Opium} | Oscar Drood's Journal [entries|friends|calendar]
Lachryma Papaveris {Opium} | Oscar Drood

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[profile] [Monday
December 31st, 2012 at 12:00am]
At night the sea lashes the rust red ramparts
And the shapes of hooded men who pass me
And the moan of the wind laughs and laughs and laughs
The strange luck that fate has cast me

Well, the cats on the rampart sing merrily
That he is what he is and what will be will be
Yeah, the cats on the rampart sing merrily
And I sit and I drink of my opium tea )
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[soundtrack | on the turning away] [Sunday
October 24th, 2010 at 1:13pm]


Bring your chains / Your lips of tragedy / And fall into my arms )
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[twenty-one] [Saturday
October 23rd, 2010 at 12:58pm]
Just your hot heart,
nothing more.

My Paradise, a field,
no nightingales,
no strings,
a river, discrete,
and a little fountain.

Without the spurs,
of the wind, in the branches,
without the star,
that wants to be leaf.

An enormous light
that will be
the glow
of the Other,
in a field of broken gazes.

A still calm
where our kisses,
sonorous circles
of echoes,
will open, far-off.

And your hot heart,
nothing more.


Wish, Frederico Garcia Lorca

It's a cane sort of day today, and that has nothing to do with the weather.

Delivered to Marijuana )
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[twenty] [Monday
October 11th, 2010 at 5:08pm]
I'm like some king in whose corrupted veins
Flows agèd blood; who rules a land of rains;
Who, young in years, is old in all distress;
Who flees good counsel to find weariness
Among his dogs and playthings, who is stirred
Neither by hunting-hound nor hunting-bird;
Whose weary face emotion moves no more
E'en when his people die before his door.
His favourite Jester's most fantastic wile
Upon that sick, cruel face can raise no smile;
The courtly dames, to whom all kings are good,
Can lighten this young skeleton's dull mood
No more with shameless toilets. In his gloom
Even his lilied bed becomes a tomb.
The sage who takes his gold essays in vain
To purge away the old corrupted strain,
His baths of blood, that in the days of old
The Romans used when their hot blood grew cold,
Will never warm this dead man's bloodless pains,
For green Lethean water fills his veins.


Spleen, Charles Baudelaire

The fall always brings the most interesting changes. It seems the world is slowly turning from green to red and soon to white, bare and skeletal. But I can feel in my old bones that this winter won't be as brutal as last winter. If nothing else, the ground is warm and there are more than enough pods to last through the dormant months. And family, interestingly enough, coming and going as the tides - washing some out to sea while bringing others to the shore. I feel less certain about my ability to make generalizations now than I have in the past, knowing as I do the great divide that spans between some, divides made greater by centuries-old regrets.

I forget where this is going... Nothing feels as vital in this moment as it did before. Gone to the ether. I feel a frost coming on and it doesn't cause a frantic, anxious anticipation as it has in years past - but rather a longing; wanting the cold to come to have a reason to seek out the warmth. Maybe time is just moving too slowly right now and I'm too old to cling to anticipation anymore...

Gifts: Madeline, Charlie, Sebastian & George )
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[nineteen] [Wednesday
October 6th, 2010 at 1:34pm]
If I never hear the sound of construction again, it will be too soon. We just have to keep reminding ourselves that in a week's time when this is all completed, we'll all be better off for it.

A whim, simply that, enticed me to buy the vacant shop next to my own and the apartment above it as well. So for three days now they've been knocking out walls upstairs and expanding - combining the four bedrooms in this and three in the other apartment to four singles, a double and a master bedroom and three bathrooms. It is a necessary expansion where the apartment is concerned; having three young men and a young lady who all have their own lives and need their own space as well as the family that keeps flitting in and out. But it is much more of an indulgence where the shop is concerned.

I've had them install doors between the smoke room behind the shop and the back of the shop next to mine and repairs are currently being done to what had been the kitchen of a little diner before the owners went out of business. I have a few contacts from San Francisco willing to relocate to run a little cafe and tea shop, with plenty of attention paid to the special clientèle who have come to frequent my own shop.

Which does remind me that I need to extend a hand to some of my favorite siblings for their blessings in this shared business venture.

Business has always served as a welcome distraction, hasn't it? And the sound of work being done, much as I hate it, does help to drown out some of the unwanted noise going around right now. In some regards I feel as though this could not come at a worse time, but at the same time I feel it is something of a blessed diversion.

Private to Belladonna, Cocaine, Mandrake and Shrooms; later opened to Henbane, Datura and Salvia )
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[eighteen] [Friday
October 1st, 2010 at 11:25pm]
Do they think that walls can hide you?
Even now I'm at your window
I am in the dark beside you
Buried sweetly in your yellow hair, Johanna…

And are you beautiful and pale,
With yellow hair, like her
I'd want you beautiful and pale,
The way I've dreamed you were, Johanna...

...

And though I'll think of you, I guess, until the day I die,
I think I miss you less and less as every day goes by, Johanna...


He digs his fingers into dirt and plants little pods for spring, humming softly to himself as he works, breaking into lines and verses here and there until he forgets there is anyone else in the basement with him and he sings. Then startled he jumps as he realizes he's not alone in the room or in knowledge of this particular piece.

He smiles, my heart swells. She smiles, it soars. And yet another smile, my heart is no longer my own.

And you'd be beautiful and pale,
And look too much like her.
If only angels could prevail,
We'd be the way we were, Johanna...
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[Monday
September 27th, 2010 at 2:37pm]
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[Thursday
September 16th, 2010 at 6:26pm]
Opium has been quiet lately - because the weather is getting colder and the days are getting shorter and he's spending more time with his flowers in the basement, making sure that the heat lamps and lights still work like they did last winter. But there is some part of his consciousness that is still rooted in Sebastian's brain and he feels the twinge. It feels like anxiety, at first - a feeling he wants to comfort and soothe away. But then it shifts and he feels something twist inside him, then twist a smile. It's enough that he emerges from the basement and slides his shoes back on, checking quickly for news. And news there is.

Smugly - as Opium never does anything without an air of smugness around him - he wraps and boxes a proper wedding gift finally. Though he's known since the day it happened, he has refrained from extending any proper gesture until they were ready to reveal it at-large. Opium may be a Drug, there a people who make think him a monster as well, but he is foremost always a gentleman.


Sent to Sebastian and George )
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[sixteen] [Tuesday
July 27th, 2010 at 9:09pm]
Interesting.

There can be nothing pleasing in the world without something infuriating to counteract it. And try as we might, ignoring those things which make our blood boil will not make those things disappear, only fester like an uncared-for wound. And while letting the infection breathe causes only pain at first, slowly, weeping, it will cleanse.

Or perhaps it won't. Perhaps the wound will never heal and the affected limb will have to merely be cut away. We never know until the flesh turns black.
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[Saturday
July 10th, 2010 at 11:53am]
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[fifteen] [Tuesday
July 6th, 2010 at 2:25am]
The God who took a little child
And set him in the midst,
And promised him His mercy mild,
As, by Thy Son, Thou didst:
Look down upon our children dear,
So gaunt, so cold, so spare,
And let their images appear
Where lords and gentry are!


The Hymn of the Wiltshire Laborers, Charles Dickens.

I'll be honest, perhaps there was a little bit of spite behind my latest actions. But I'm sure exactly none of us are shocked by that. And really, my true motivations were grounded - as always - in love for my family.

Private to Laudanum )
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[fourteen] [Friday
May 21st, 2010 at 10:45pm]
He'll return. They always do.
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[thirteen] [Thursday
May 13th, 2010 at 10:45pm]
[Private]

It's been a week. There's been no movement from him as far as I can tell. He laid low until the opium worked its way out of his system and now I have no chemical way to keep track of him. But I know that he hasn't been terribly close by. I have his scent now and I would know if he was lingering anywhere within my territory. There's always the idea that he's regrouping and planning, but it is at odds with the hope that he was smart enough to learn his lesson the first time and took the truth as I offered it to him.

Regardless of the cause for silence it is, as always, better to be safe than sorry in cases such as this.

At least the boy isn't restless. Allowing his friends to come here and see him was a risk on my part, but it is one that paid off, since he seems almost entirely content. He wants to go to Mass again. I am not secure enough in my belief that he isn't at risk of being snatched up to allow him to go out just yet.

But there are ways...

[Private to Drugs]

I have an offer for you. An opportunity like this doesn't often come along and it needs to be done quick.
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[twelve] [Saturday
May 8th, 2010 at 9:57pm]
At that very moment his reason departed.
A crape of mourning veiled the brilliance of that sun;
Complete chaos rolled in and filled that intellect,
A temple once alive, ordered and opulent,
Within whose walls so much pomp had glittered.
Silence and darkness took possession of it
Like a cellar to which the key is lost.


Charles Baudelaire, Punishment for Pride

[Drug Gods]

Do they always make the delightfully amusing mistake of trying to pick a fight with you in your own temple?
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[Friday
May 7th, 2010 at 6:34pm]
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[ophelia | two] [Friday
April 30th, 2010 at 6:24pm]
There are mushrooms growing in the basement.

Isn't it, I don't know, too hot or bright or dry or something down there for mushrooms to grow? And they're not even growing along the wall, but right in the middle of the room. Did he have an invasion of fairies or something!?

I don't know why, but I have the strangest feeling this has something to do with that boy that was over last night. Call it a woman's intuition. Poppy keeps odd bedfellows as it is and there was just something weird about that boy.

Okay, so. How do I get rid of mushrooms?
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[Friday
April 30th, 2010 at 1:53am]
Letter to Codeine )

Letter to Methadone )
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[ooc | drabbles] [Saturday
April 24th, 2010 at 8:27am]
I figured I'd jump on the drabble bandwagon and offer up my kidlets for requests.

Because really, when else would I get to use this icon?

Leave a pairing (your character + my character or any two of my characters) and a prompt. If you leave more than three I'll pick and choose which three I'll do, so if there's something you really want to see more than the others, make sure you say so.

Characters:

Saint Sebastian
Nihilism
Nergal
NPC: Devin
Indie
Emo
Twee
Coyote
Mac
Opium
NPCs: Ophelia, Henry and Montague Landless
Conspiracy Theories
Chernobog
Tattoos
CJ
Geek Subculture
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[eleven] [Friday
April 23rd, 2010 at 10:07pm]
Was this His coming! I had hoped to see
A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
Of some great God who in a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell on Danae:
Or a dread vision as when Semele
Sickening for love and unappeased desire
Prayed to see God's clear body, and the fire
Caught her white limbs and slew her utterly:
With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,
And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand
Before this supreme mystery of Love:
A kneeling girl with passionless pale face,
An angel with a lily in his hand,
And over both with outstretched wings the Dove.


Ave Maria Plena Gratia, Oscar Wilde

Oh how tiring these humans be.

Let us hope that giving his leash a little slack does not create an unattractive habit or a predicament we will have to cruelly rectify.
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[Sunday
April 4th, 2010 at 5:14pm]
[Private to Morphine]

He's mine.
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[Monday
March 29th, 2010 at 7:19pm]
[On Monday afternoon, anyone in New York City who has opium poppies in their possession will suddenly notice that they've changed from their normal orange-red to a bright red so vibrant it can only be described as absolute red. In the basement of The Nook, there's also a very curiously-shaped pattern of the same bright red poppies where there had been none before. The potency of all opiate products produced domestically - most concentrated in the city - is increased an almost unnoticeable amount - except to those using copious amounts of said products, who will notice the products are a bit more effective.]
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[henry | two] [Friday
March 26th, 2010 at 8:27am]
Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sunlight lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless-
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye-
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave:- from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:- from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.


The Valley of Unrest, Edgar Allen Poe

He's been restless lately, pacing the apartment from bedroom to window and back again, muttering to himself in some language he's never taught us (which is to say it is neither German nor French). He won't sleep, we don't see him eat but we know he is because the plates Ophelia leaves for him are always in the sink in the morning. He has moments when he seems to smile and he tries to be playful with us, but it isn't hard to tell that his heart isn't fully in it.

Monty and I are beginning to feel a bit neglected, to be perfectly honest. But it is not our place to be selfish. We just can't figure out what to do for him. He isn't sick, he isn't depressed, he just seems... anxious. We worry, that's all.
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[Sunday
March 7th, 2010 at 5:39am]
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[ten] [Wednesday
March 3rd, 2010 at 8:28pm]
Dear Heart, I think the young impassioned priest
When first he takes from out the hidden shrine
His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,
And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine,

Feels not such awful wonder as I felt
When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee,
And all night long before thy feet I knelt
Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.

Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me more,
Through all those summer days of joy and rain,
I had not now been sorrow's heritor,
Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.

Yet, though remorse, youth's white-faced seneschal,
Tread on my heels with all his retinue,
I am most glad I loved thee - think of all
The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!


Quia Multum Amavi, Oscar Wilde

Private to Morphine )
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[henry | one] [Thursday
February 4th, 2010 at 10:12pm]
I don't know if any of you know how hard it is to find someone in a city this big when all you have is a first name, a vague physical description and an age range, but it is not easy. It's downright impossible, even. The last one he had me hunting down had a full name, at least.

Sometimes I wonder where these strange requests come from and then I remember... this is Oscar. Stranger requests have been and will be made. But that doesn't make my job any easier.
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