The following is a bit of alternative fiction based on certain characters from the Xenaverse. It is not meant to infringe on anyone else's rights.
You know, it is possible, if we were just talking face to face, that you would find all of this terribly boring. Wouldn't you? I mean, truthfully, in real time, I doubt you'd find my sex life all that interesting. Even if the gods were involved. And it's not something I really *talk* about. But that is the mystery of writing, being written about, these episodes of lust and tangled sheets unfurl themselves to you, and I can safely be nigh unto a nymphomaniac without sullying the appearance of my regularly dull and dreary life events to those who've never heard of me.
It's all part of the adventure. Sex and Glory.
I guess there is a part of me that feels self conscious about all of this. There is a part of me that thinks, well, there has to be more to this than just the sex. And there is, but I keep wanting to justify it.
But love and sex are their own justifications. Kind of like art.
I think that is why it is so hard to nail down. Just because one person don't think it's art, doesn't mean another person won't.
Weird that.
Truthfully, had I my druthers, I'd be painting right now.
In fact, I was going to chicken out and start writing about how I was putting the last dab of crimson on the canvas. And how I was standing back and taking a look at three figures making love. Then I was going to go on about painting as storytelling, then maybe drop into the hypnotist's chair and leave you in the mystery of what happens next. You see, I think you know as well as I do that I got a thorough sweaty pleasurable gutclenching mindblowing plowing by a very lusty Ares.
That is, after all, the next step in the storytelling process. That's how stories are made. First they did this, then they did that. Pretty much all there is to it. You throw in a couple of sense words and hooks, and you've got yourself a story for an audience.
...and a moral obligation to finish the thing with modicum of decorum.
But, storytelling can be so linear and that can be very dishonest sometimes, since life is *not* linear. We just act as if it is. I suppose that's why I've stepped out for a moment, since you and I both know that I kind of lost track in there. I was lost in all the lights and fuzzygood feelings. The Amazons lost more pottery to lightening bolts and other godly manifestations. Quite a few of them got taken over by the "Brigid," effect.
You know what that is don't you? It's that ...energy field...which souses the locals in Aphrodite's spell when certain deity types forget to put the damper on. It wasn't just me who was making grunting pleasure cries and surrendering to Bliss.
Plus, I had to find my courage again and my voice. It may be linear, but sometimes I get a little lost. This telling of the tale can be challenging sometimes. It makes you face things. Storytelling...painting...creating...anytime you do make "something," you face your..I wanna call it mortality, but it's more than that..and immortals face this dillemma too. Creation, in the true sense, has its imperfections.
You see, you become aware of your limitations, of the way time *frames* every moment you express or don't. You become aware of the weaknesses you have, the missed chances, the vunerabilities. You become aware of opportunities that you either have to jump for or let pass. And this happens all the time. Even when it's all a fiction where it supposedly doesn't matter. Or a dream where it gets all jumbled up and lost in the morning. Or a river of facts streamed together.
Maybe that's why, of all the Gods of her time, Gabrielle *kept* her human-ness. If she created, She couldn't escape it. The perfection comes in surrendering to things as they are. Imperfect.
In Xen, the practioners will, when creating their altars, deliberately set everything in it's "perfect," place. Then, they'll move something, so it's just a little off. Like a picture on the wall. They'll tilt that just smidgen as acknowledgement that perfection is contained in the imperfection. Gabrielle once told me that it wasn't the perfect brushstroke that created the masterpiece, but the imperfect ones that differentiated one artist from another.
I digress.
I suppose what this is all leading up to, is the fact that I'm about to switch voices on you. Up to this point, I have been giving my own account of things "as they happened." But after this point, I don't really *remember* how things happened..or at least how they began..and the truth is, that once I start talking in the third person, I'm probably going to hang with it for a bit, just to avoid the confusion of leaping from one way of story telling to another. Because I do remember *most* of it. Just not *all* of it.
So, here is where we'll pick up in the next bit: I'm out of it, my sweet spouses (2 of them, anyway) are feeling a bit buzzed, and Xena, who looks like a VERY peeved, but dressed, Callisto, shows up. Xena, of course, had no way of knowing what she'd just stepped into. Neither, fortunately, did the very scared and startled Jan and Mel.
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This page was last updated: March 25, 2003
ŠJanuary 1999
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