maskormenace | 006. ( video. )

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006. ( video. )

( Ah, it’s a heartwarming holiday scene, viewers. Sarissa, lounging on a couch, somehow inexplicably still with severe tank top tanlines despite a) it being winter and b) her wearing a tank top, which surely should theoretically make the tanlines less apparent. Not today, apparently. It reads “Sorry for the thing I said when I was hungry,” but perhaps “Sorry for what I’m about to say now I’m drunk” would be more fitting. She’s got a neon curly straw sticking out of a bottle of bourbon, and a cocktail umbrella tucked behind her ear, and appears to be wearing tropical board shorts. It’s just that kind of day. Or night. Whatever.

Sitting next to her is Pablo, who is wearing a striped cardigan, black shorts, and fiddling with his bangs and a straightening iron until he notices that Sarissa is recording. He frees his hair and sets the iron aside, picking up instead his own drink of choice (non-alcoholic; it's a capri-sun pouch) so he can more easily listen. )

Okay, but like. Okay, no, sorry, but if you think about any of the stuff that all of us across all our bloody worlds have gotta have in common, it’s art, yeah? Like— creativity. Art and poems and music, the expression of everything that makes us who we are given some kinda solid shape. Whether its colours or melodies or whatever form we gotta grab and twist about, it’s expressions of the world and how we understand it, right? It’s a way to know that we’re not going out of our bloody minds, because there’s thing element that we can understand and connect with, and it links us to other people. It’s why people got all fired up about the Spice Girls, a while back.

( That isn’t actually what happened, Sarissa, but sure. Go with that. ) And Pablo here, he’s an artist. Makes the world make sense with colours. Everything is colours and— and texture. It’s stories all layered up and up, kind of like people. We’re all hundreds of thousands of stories all layered together and then laid out.

What? Oh, uh...

( Pablo seems to not know what to say about that, given his silence, though if he feels put on the spot it doesn't show on his face. He starts to shake his head, but then instead opts to say: )

Right. Well you know, I don't know if it even has to exactly make sense, if like... we can still look at it and feel something, because either somehow we do understand it, on the level of like... uh... ( He gestures circularly over his head, glancing in Sarissa's direction for a moment but then upward. How to say it? ) You know, intuitively, even if we don't know why, or what anything really means. Or we don't understand but try to, or-- sometimes people don't want to. It all depends. But, uh-- yeah, it's still a little bit of everything and everyone we've ever known, too. Like stories.

( He stops talking and looks back over at Sarissa. )

Or a jigsaw puzzle. Or, uh— there’s this art, in Japan? Kint— ah, shit. Kintsuko...roi? It’s um, it’s like the to do with change and journeys and things gathering more meaning. I guess. I mean technically it’s about repairing broken stuff with gold lacquer, but it’s like an extra layer? Like a new addition to the story. Somethings not less perfect for being broken, and it doesn’t lose something. It gains it? I don’t know, make that a metaphor, if you wanna. People and art fit together. ( She grins, a bit ridiculously. ) And if they don’t, we can glue ‘em together with gold lacquer. It could get very Klimpt. Or Kahlo.

( Sarissa frowns, then, as she delicately sips her bourbon. ) Does anyone else do that? Like finding ways to express the way they understand things more tangibly? Like an enigma machine for your thoughts?

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( She slouches forward, chin propped on hand, and elbow propped on knee, and grins. )

Doc, did you get that from a bloody fortune cookie?

No. I have restrictive dietary requirements.

[A statement that only applies to meat.]

Mate.

( sounds like a parent interrogating you on whether you actually brushed your teeth, tbh )

I cannot consume anything remotely delightful anymore, unless you're counting all the alcohol.

[You shouldn't consume that much alcohol if you have only one kidney and 80% of your intestines left, but Chilton doesn't care for gastrointestinal logic.]

So I would fit in the artist category. A starving artist, in fact.

[He chuckled AT HIMSELF. At his own joke.]

You'd be an artist too, right? Independent thinker. Unorthodox.

( She snickers too, but she is also drunk and has an umbrella behind her ear, what does that say about you, Chilton. )

If that's the standard than a lot of people I'd say are art should be artists. And— I mean, we'd have to think about art. Like, there's so many schools of thought. Some people think art is too elite, yeah, like Warhol? Art should be accessible and everyone should be able to see it and appreciate it, not just rich dickheads. So like—

( HMM how to explain. ) Are we talking about art that's unique? People can make replicas or reprint it but it'll never be the same seeing a bleedin' magnet of Seurat's Circus Slideshow or only online - which is true of me, by the way, rural redneck peasantry that I am - but it's not the same thing. Whereas if you got Warhol, his whole schtick was about reproducing art, hence the Marilyns and the soup cans and that. So are people art only in the ways that they are unique and special? Or are they art in how other people can relate to them?

( A beat, and very belatedly: ) Does that mean I can't make you Greek food, sometime? 'Cause I was gonna see if you wanted to have dinner sometime when me and my sister move into a new place.

Hmm, plot twist: very few people are art. And those who think they are might more likely be audience members! [This is when he would turn and wink at Dorian, if that were possible in this moment.] The role of artist is more widespread, and far more volatile, and the fact that we are questioning this in this moment has already reframed the conversation -- and the parameters to the definition.

[Pretentious for pretension's sake.]

Which makes those who are art... Highly impressionable?

[Will Graham comes to mind. And he might have made that a snarky name-drop, had not Sarissa implicitly invited Chilton to A Thing.]

-- Oh, well. [Caught off-guard and folded into shades of sudden bashfulness.] How much are we talking? Lamb, I presume?

Lamb, usually. I can work with limitations.

( Sarissa frowns a little bit, as she thinks all that over. )

I dunno. I mean— Tigritsa, she's like... Braque, you know. She takes pieces of the world and science and tries to get people to see all of them at once. She ain't like Picasso, it doesn't fit right. I told her um, I told her that Braque's works are less sharp, yeah? Like you could just fall into them and it'd be... like being just accepted into them, like you belong there? That's how Cosima makes me feel. Like I belong, even when I'm— awful. Over and over again.

( Her expression becomes far more serious, for a moment. A horrified kind of self awareness, but it's no revelation, and maybe that's evident,too. Sarissa has known she's awful and struggled with it over and over and over. )

Art being someone whose impressionable... it makes them sound like they could be manipulated. Or like we could applauding people being used or hurt or manipulated. It's the darker side of it, right? But it's true. Light and dark all over. I don't think that's the right fit to it, either. It's all... people can be all three, maybe. Different parts of them at different times. My sisters are art, but I understand them with art because of the artist, as much as what they see, and how people respond to them. Or how... I respond to them. It all plays together, yeah?

You associate specific art with the people you care about.

[All talk of lamb was out the window; Chilton had a different species of meat to sink his teeth into.]

As an expression of value? You recognize art as a higher form, perhaps the pinnacle of what humanity has to offer. And so naturally, those who have made an impression upon you, they have parallels drawn.

[Tigritsa. Cosima.]

Ah.

[And Chilton, in a rare display of compassion (or perhaps fear of isolating Sarissa) makes private this conversation from hereon out.]

I meant no offense to those you love, Sarissa. I simply did not see the metaphor before now.

( Her expression isn't quite deer in headlights, but it's definitely reminiscent of that and of someone with their hand in a cookie jar, and whatever other worn out, run down phrase you can think of for surprise. Sarissa is a cliche; her expressions, all of her is predictable. She isn't surprised any more, that she gets worked out so easily. People seem to see through her faster than an open window. )

Not your fault. Whole point is that I make a mess of words, right? I talk and I talk and nothing I say makes a lot of sense.

( She's tired. Incredibly, gut wrenchingly tired. )

I've been told... it's too much. The stuff I say. Like the way I talk burns people, but I keep holding their hand over the flame. I'm a bloody— I'm a nuclear reactor with more and more safety measures being turned off. I was stable and now I'm just a danger zone that people trust to be safe, but that's been poisoning them because all the safety measures have been taken away and no one got told.

Perhaps you are willing to feel more than other people -- or people you will admit to it. A breed of courage, regardless.

[It is easy to wonder who has told Sarissa these things. Nuclear reactor. Burning people. The flame beneath a hand, poisoning. Chilton had his suspicions, of course.

Her name hid behind his teeth.]

Do you often feel as though your feelings for others aren't... Equally expressed?

( If he knew that this is just a variation on an old refrain that dated before this place and before Georgia, the nuances of this might twist and unravel differently. If she were not so tired she might better identity it. She is to focused inward and picks the question up, contemplating it as one might polished sea glass that demands being turned over and over in the hand. )

Courage and stupidity tend to go hand in hand.

And-- I don't know. I think sometimes I create a dynamic that doesn't actually exist in my head. And then I get... hurt when they don't live up to my delusion.

And despite remaining self aware of this, you commit them to a gilded standard? Again and again?

[He didn't allow any accusation to color his voice; his tone was only sympathetic, only cool and welcoming. A quiet pond with transparent depths.

An illusion all its own.]

Why do you need a dynamic you've created all your own? What do great expectations do for you, in the short run?

Because I still believe they're all the things I see in them. Even if they don't. And what someone is capable of is sometimes potential, you know? Energy stored up. Star has the potential to keep on burning for millions of years. Just how long and how bright depends on all sorts of things. And even without any of that, we keep on making wishes on 'em.

( She shrugs a little bit. )

Nothing. I just try to see the things that maybe they don't.

I see. [He drinks that in slowly, considering the implications. Some people were born to play the impetus, some had momentum in their veins; Sarissa was kinetic. Wild in thought and affection. It was a natural energy that people were simply drawn to, Chilton included, and if it did not find its necessary outlets, it would explode in a dazzle and fury.]

You're a magician archetype.

[He said it simply. It was a correction on his part -- Chilton had taken her to be an Orphan type hiding behind a Jester mask.]

Which suggests that others will, inevitably, misunderstand your intent. And they might begrudge you for that.

I don't know much about Jung.

( The way she scratches her jaw is a little sheepish, as if she should know. ) Freud and Jung I only ever really read about in how they were reflected in art and books and stuff. Not so much them for themselves.

( She sounds just slightly guilty. After a pause, ) Why's the magician hard to understand?

You know enough to peg the source material.

[It was a challenge, of sorts. Or perhaps validation offered, when she had not asked for it.]

I suppose the most dynamic associated with the magician archetype is transformation. You threaten the status quo, whether unconsciously or not. People won't always understand why.

I like thinking about stories. Archetypes are partly... they're good for figuring out how stories fit together. And people are tapestries, right? Lots of threads of stories. Or brushes of paint, if we wanna stick with that theme. We come into the world as a canvas and the frame and treatments we start out with and then the paints that we pick or that other people pick or whatever, they all contribute.

( Her mouth snags in something that doesn't quite make it into a smile. ) I got this power. I can see people's memories, show them mind. I think I could mess with them, if I had to. Try to uh, strip away bits and pieces or shape them into what I want, but I can't do that. Changing someone's stories would change who they are, and if... a person wants to change, they need to be able to do that themselves. With their memories and their control and shit, yeah? Hope to Christ believing in autonomy ain't that against the status quo.

( Although, she hold up a hand for a second, sips her bourbon, and considers. ) I mean, sure, I could be this magician thing, yeah? But I can't attribute all the shit in my life to being a magician, or excuse myself from shitty things I do because they fit in with that archetype. I could still change myself. I got the painting already laid down, but I can change the painting and produce more stories and make myself into something different, or... be the type of magician, at least, that I want to be, I think. Stories aren't the only thing, they're just a frame? But we need that frame.

( A slow exhale. ) If that even made any bloody sense with the back and forthing, I dunno.

Edited 2016-12-27 05:37 (UTC)

[He had to play it all back in his head again, to peruse over what she had spoken. But it did make sense, in her way -- he was learning Sarissa's nuances.]

A power soaked in responsibility. [That came almost as a whisper; memory powers were remarkable, and hers was no exception. Changing someone's story? Even the mere concept, juxtaposed with the possibility of this world, proved breathtaking.] At least you understand yourself in relation to that potential. Your ethical code.

[However ethics, unlike DNA, were not genetically coded. This could change, her perspective could evolve, her will to invoke... Chilton took a deep breath. Sarissa was a friend.

Not a patient. Not that kind of patient.]

I see your more optimistic point, how people could benefit from you. But given our memories, our stories -- our narrative, even, given their force upon our personalities. You are not wrong to consider the implications this deeply.

Touching people is risky, sometimes. There's been a few times when my memories have started bleeding into someone. Not like they think they're theirs, just that— they see them. Like kicking a bloated corpse. All those grubs and viscera, just— burst out. All the stuff that shouldn't get spread about. Making them see anything like that isn't right, not even by accident. And me lookin' in their heads? Rummaging through their secrets? That's not something I like either.

( She holds up a hand, and huffs out a laugh.)

My ethical code means I shouldn't touch people, probably. Not risk it. My care bear code is more cuddly and selfish, but.

But what if they consent? Your abilities could... Do wonders, really, sheer wonders. In certain psychiatric avenues. Granted, it would be a limited sort of treatment -- such formidable capability cannot ever be made generic.

[He pauses a beat, humming a breath.]

A kind of memory retrieval. A combat to repression. You could very well be the salvation for a few.

Edited 2016-12-31 02:54 (UTC)

Could dig up things they were happier without. Things that got buried for a reason.

( She's not arguing, exactly, more playing devil's advocate. Sort of, and drunkenly. )

It has been— even accidentally showing my sisters some of my memories has been... I mean, they haven't run screaming. Yet.

But you’re frightened that they might? Even when you know your bond with them is ironclad. [It is his own presumption overlaid with what she’s told him.] Your anxiety isn’t illogical. Abandonment, and fear thereof, is one of the most human responses we can conjure.

I thought my bond with Georgia was ironclad. ( She smiles very slightly, pulls the straw out of the bottle, and flicks it to the side, before tipping the bottle up and her head back and taking a long draw from it. ) There's no such thing. The tighter you hold onto people, the more likely they are to break away from your hold. Sand, fingers. ( A sigh, and it's just a resigned, tired thing, no matter how drunk she might be. When next she speaks, she sounds tired. )

Do you enjoy analysing people? Is it more fun than turning the glass inward? Because I think and I think and I think and I can never make sense either way. You say fear of abandonment is human, but— maybe human's should be able to have faith in the people they love. And maybe if they can't they're doomed.

[A long beat follows.] I do enjoy it, yes. [He admitted it. A rare veracity. The sort of confession that keeps his eyes lowered, off-camera.] Or perhaps we should not have faith in anyone -- save for ourselves. Perhaps that is an argument to be made.

[He did not keep his eyes averted.]

At least, that should be the nascent, initial step. Then we might project less, as a species. We might humor fewer illusions, and avoid disillusionment entirely.

What kind of world would that be?

( She lifts the bottle, but stops short of actually drinking again to keep talking. ) What kind of people would we be if we resigned ourselves to never having faith in another person? And, and– and if we think we ourselves are the only individual deserving of faith. We might avoid disillusionment, but think about everything else we're be avoiding. The— the bonds and the trust, the relationships we have with people, yeah? Rule out having faith in people and there's a steaming shitload of other stuff you rule out in the same bloody motion.

006. ( video. )

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permaprivate yisss

permaprivate!

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you know, I feel like "gross imagery" could warrant a warning but it's wordy and awkward

"warning: sarissa is too cool" there i solved it

GENIUS

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