dear_mun | canon is slings & arrows

Perhaps this is it. The undiscovered country. Death, or purgatory, or something worse. Confined by an unworthy mind and bent into uncreative fucking servility. No, this is Hell, isn't it? I thought I was living it before, but this... This, really...

I mean look at it. Look at you. "Mundane". It says it all, doesn't it? As if mundanity is something to aspire to, although I suppose the intended implication is some unattainable quality in myself in contrast to your own dull failings. Don't feel bad, most people are idiots, you simply can't compete. So you grant in me a poetic superiority; something to be coveted, captured, enslaved. You are mundanity, and I am the "Muse", like Shakespeare's tenth muse, I suppose; his secret lover. [ Geoffrey tilts his hand first one way and then the other. ] But make of that what you will. You're certainly no bard.

Ah, you get that? You like it? Flatterer. Muse, yes. Inspiration, spirit--ah, spirit. We know all about those, don't we? And speaking of brandy... What? How can it be "too early"? It can be any time of day you wish, can't it, so why not thrust the sun of your limited imagination up past the yardarm and do us all a big favor? After all, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire? Yes, a drink. I'd like a damn drink. I think I've earned one. You should have one too, it might help with this-- [ More hand waving, his brows creased. ] --this...whatever this is. It's unbearable. You're making me ramble. I sound like a crazy person.

[ A pause, and he scratches at his ear, rubs his hand through his already bed-messed crazy-hair. ]

Okay, a crazier person. You're still doing it. Stop it right now.

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Yes, it's not as though you have a useful adviser who's experienced in all matters of Hell.

[Oh, look who's followed you into metafiction, Geoffery!]

It's not your first experience being one's Muse, isn't it? Mine, of course. Ellen's, if you want to include transferring your young love to the stage. Oh, and it worked, it worked marvelously.

[ Aside, to invisible mundane: and do you see how crazy this looks, Oliver? This is all your fault. ]

Oh, look. Oh well, this is marvelous. Now look what you've done. [ A big smile in Oliver's direction; closed mouth, crinkly at the edges of his looking-for-the-nearest-exit eyes. ] I was wondering when you'd show up.

Your Muse. Your Muse. Well yes, I guess that would explain everything, wouldn't it? Shakespeare was fucking his, after all; Ellen was fucking me; and you were just fucking me over. [ He's such delightful company. ]

Oh, for God's sake, Geoffrey. [He snaps off his answer with a quick roll of his eyes. Honestly, are they going to have this argument again? So soon after their tearful reconciliation? Welcome, thrice drown'd Oliver!]

Put it behind you, man. It's not as if its relevant here, anyway; we're out of New Burbage. Out of the stage, in all likelihood. Though we might see the others around. Shakespeare too, come to think of it.

[ He glowers fiercely for a few seconds longer, as though he's really considering taking it all back, and then his chin jerks up and he sits abruptly, arms folded across his chest. Subdued. Overthrown. ]

I don't have anything to say to him. Or you. We were done talking, if you recall. [ But he can be a terrible actor sometimes in real life, as though to contrast his talent on the stage, and this time it registers as his eyes catching against Oliver's briefly, before - just as quickly - he's looking away again, not even trying to return his gaze as he says: ] It's good to see you again. [ Oh look his hands are interesting; the tension in his shoulders gradually dissolving. ]

[Somehow Jeeves appears at his elbow, glass of brandy on a silver colored platter. Which he offers to the distraught man.]

Your drink, sir.

[ He takes it, gratefully, well used to being offered drinks by strangers, and lights up several shades at the man offering it. ]

Aren't you a picture? Barrie or Wodehouse?

[Jeeves is used to praise and is unruffled by it.]

If sir is referring to Mr. J. M. Barrie, the scottish author and Mr. P.G. Wodehouse author of....

[Jeeves trails off suddenly, looking puzzled at his own train of thought before conceeding with a begrudging sound through his nose.] The latter, sir.

[ Oh, that's good. Although he imagines it must be kind of disturbing for him too; really adds a whole other layer to the question of existence. If anything he sparkles a little more, putting the glass down beside him.

It's remarkable really. Being friendly with imaginary people comes easier to him than it does with the usual kind. ]

Geoffrey Tennant. Won't you sit down?

Jeeves, sir. [Jeeves inclines his head slightly in greeting. However, at the invitation to sit, he looks almost confused and uncomfortable.]

...very good, sir.

[And sits as if the chair might decide to give way on him at any moment.]

Jeeves.

[ He pulls out a drawer from the table and lifts out a yellowed skull, sets it on top next to the glass and takes something out from between the skull's closed jaws, offering it toward him. It's a paper packed after dinner mint. ]

After Eight?

[Oh, poor Yorik...reduced to a candy dispenser. He politely declines, lines of worry across his face.]

No, thank you, sir.

canon is slings & arrows

oops.

wow. i love you. best accident ever.

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