Erisacles

Does anyone else here...

2005-03-13T07:29:27Z

Does anyone else here have a crush on any of the Socratics? I'm talking about the folks who show up in the dialogues of Plato, like Phaedrus, Critias, Charmides, and the rest. Reading the dialogues, I can imagine this huge soap opera going on behind the scenes - I mean, what did these folks do when they weren't discussing the nature of Justice? I can only imagine. ;-)

I've got a huge crush on both Critias and Alcibiades. If any of you have seen statues of these two, you'll know why. They definitely belonged to the League of Extraordinarily Pretty Greek Boys.

And, their lives were so fascinating! I know, I know, Critias was a tyrant who overthrew the Athenian democracy and pretty much ruined everyone's day, but I still can't help myself. Sometimes I just fall for the bad seeds. And, I honestly can't blame Alcibiades for all the (for lack of a better term) *stuff* he did. Sad, isn't it? Well, at least it distracts me from Wilde.

Incidently, anyone else here have a thing for Harmodius and Aristogen, as it were? They were sort of the balm for me after the last election, because I had a vaguely slashified crush on Kerry and Edwards and... yeah long story nevermind.

Would anyone be interested in this?

2004-10-11T04:02:44Z

I thought I would ask around and see if anyone was receptive to this idea and would want to be involved. I've been thinking about starting an RPG based around American politics, because I so dearly love the system (sarcasm? maybe.)

In case you aren't familiar with RPGs (role-playing games) in their Livejournal incarnation, they aren't like offline RPGs at all. The closest thing to them would be a live-action RPG like Vampire: The Masquerade. Livejournal RPGs are based around an lj community. Each person portreys one or more characters, and interacts with other characters either through commenting or through AIM. It really depends on how the players decide to set up the game. There are many ways it can be done. The important thing is that it is plot-based and there are no points/scoring or anything like that. It's all about the narrative.

I was thinking perhaps I could start an RPG based around political figures, in which the participants could portrey anyone from Michael Moore to John McCain (who goes both ways in D.C.) It could either be silly or serious, depending on the consensus of the participants. We could have secret dealings, affairs, etc. One of the reasons I'm asking here is because slash would be a wonderful addition to such an RPG. (Assuming said slash does not involve Michael Moore.)

Some of the ideas I've had for characters include John Kerry and John Edwards, of course, Howard Dean, George Bush and Dick Cheny, Bill Clinton, Hillary, Tony Blair, and whoever else wanders in. I think this could be a lot of fun. Anyone interested?

FIC: Lethe (Dorian Gray)

2004-08-15T09:45:21Z

Title: Lethe
Author: erisacles
Fandom: The Picture of Dorian Gray
Pairing(s): Dorian Gray/Lord Henry Wotton
Warnings: None
Summary: He was like a young god, eager to cleanse himself in the river Lethe where memory met it's solvent.
Disclaimer: These fine chaps belong to my main man Oscar Wilde. I don't think he'll mind, really.
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Lethe

It was a delight that would've seemed painted across Lord Henry Wotton's face, had his lovely friend thought to look upon it. Such a glance was rare. More often, Dorian would appear late at night, his golden hair bright against the drab streets, never to consider a lingering look upon his companion's face. Tonight, he clutched an oily black umbrella that differed only slightly from the color of the coal-soaked sky. The brooding algor of the streets left his cheeks scarlet and his lips pursed. No rain clung to his aurous locks, safe beneath the umbrella's bat-like wing. When his friend greeted him, he hid behind it, smiling, before allowing the valet to take it from him.

Henry, too, smiled, at his coy young protagonist, though Dorian barely noticed. He strolled, as he often did, into his friend's library, where he took his usual place by the fire on a weathered velvet footstool. His undisturbed features lent an ornamental flair to his posture, as if, rather than a guest, he were a statue in Renaissance marble. He possessed the same stillness and soft, archaic smile. The valet came to tend the fire, his eyes playing over the young man furtively, and with a look of intense curiousity. Henry dismissed him from the room with a single weary gesture. He folded his hands over one another as he crossed the room to sink tensely into a leather chair near Dorian Gray, his eyes raking over the man's visage as if seeking some yet undetected clue.

Dorian's radiant gaze was clearly oriented inward, his eyes resting on his knees serenely. His manner of perching upon the velvet gave him to appearance of an exquisite gargoyle, capped with gold. No sign of travesty displayed itself on his face, though he could scarcely believe his own heart still beat, given what it bore witness to. His hands trembled when he thought of it. He felt as though his soul were rushing into his body like cool, thick stream, as though it had been elsewhere, an observer to horrors he could admit no part in.

"Dorian, my dear?"

He noticed a smudge of soot, or perhaps earth, or perhaps dried blood, beneath a fingernail on his left hand. The spot was small, and dark, against his lily-white flesh. A golden ring set with amethyst clung just above, it, too, a bit tarnished. The ring would need cleaned, Dorian thought quietly. It was, he recognized with a somber sense of pride, the only residue of the day's activities. Gingerly, Dorian Gray cleaned beneath his nails with a pocketknife, the firelight shivering upon it's icy blade.

"Love, why don't you..."

He folded the knife onto itself, hiding the blade beneath the soft mahogany hilt. Dorian turned to face the fireplace, but the voice of his dearest friend still crept into his ears. Lord Henry's voice had a lovely, musical quality to it. It sounded, he fancied, much like a lyre, and the words seemed irrelevent to the sound. When Dorian moved, he was like a young god, eager to cleanse himself in the river Lethe where memory met it's solvent. He led himself into Lord Henry's arms, his sinuous arms ensnaring the aristocrat's neck. Dorian's small form seemed to cleave to his friend's, and his heartbeat seemed to slow as his gilded head tumbled onto Henry's shoulder.

How nice, Dorian thought, feeling his own trepidation dissolve. How pleasant to have a friend, whose touch one could crave, who could affect one so. Such strange passion could submerge so many other ill feelings, if Dorian allowed it to. Henry's arms slipped about Dorian, pulling him nearer and playing upon his hair with an air of innocent enjoyment. Dorian wondered if he would ever overcome this joy at being held. Suddenly, a chill crept over Dorian's spine, and he shuddered involuntarily in his dearest friend's arms.

"What troubles you?" Henry asked, whispering into the crisp darkness. "You mustn't be so despondent. It hardly suits you."

"It isn't anything, Henry," he replied. "It isn't anything at all. Though..." His voice whittled away, and he felt Henry's hand holding his wrist encouragingly, his withered fingers stroking the tremulous blue veins beneath thin pale skin.

"My dear Dorian," he replied with a small chuckle. "It can hardly be nothing that has you in such a state. But tell me, now, what ill wind shakes you?" The gentleman smiled at his own fragile phasing.

Dorian blinked, and felt compelled to answer, "It really is nothing, Henry. Only...some times I think, I scare myself, especially when we are together." He gazed past his friend gravely, his wide, glowing eyes examining the hand that twined about Lord Henry Wotton's neck. The digits like growing vines in the inconstant light. He expected leaves to cling to his fingertips.

Lord Henry Wotton laughed dryly. "Are you certain it isn't me that frightens you, pet? I can hardly deign to believe one so lovely as you could ever seem direful." His hand abandoned the delicate wrist to search in his coat pocket, feeling for something. In a moment, he held a small gold watch, suspended on a short chain.

Dorian could hear it clicking mindlessly within it's precious shell, like a magnificant and overwrought scarab beetle. With a graceful flick of his wrinkled wrist, Lord Henry cracked open the busy device. Inside, Dorian saw the clock face of silver, onto which swirling arabesque patterns were inscribed. There were no numerals, save a solemn-looking XII tucked at the edge. The spinning hands were black and done up in swirling baroque. There movements were driven discreetly by the soft ticking within. Dorian traced the smooth edge of the device with his index finger until it met the coarse knob by which one wound the clock.

"No, not there," Henry said tersely, directing his friend's attention to the inside of pocket watch's hinged door. It was fitted with a plate of copper, or possibly bronze, and had been polished to a high luster. Dorian saw the recesses of the room reflected in it. Another flick of Henry's wrist and Dorian saw his own blue eyes glittering in the depths of the metal.

Dorian watched the crimson smile on his lips fade into a more pensive hue. He touched his cheek, gently, watching the colorless flesh yield softly to pressure. He studied his own clear eyes, their startling azure hue not detracting from their glass-like quality. Lord Henry pushed his head aside. In the darkness behind his own face, he could see the aristocrat's thin lips meeting his neck. A heartbeat later, Dorian felt the moist touch worshipping his neck. The warmth spread across his collarbone into his chest. He nearly sighted his own aurulent eyelids falling before his vision yielded to darkness dark.

Fic: Lethe (Dorian Gray, PG)

2004-08-15T09:41:18Z

Title: Lethe
Author: exampleusernameErisacles</lj>
Fandom: The Picture of Dorian Gray
Pairing(s): Dorian Gray/Lord Henry Wotton
Warnings: None
Summary: He was like a young god, eager to cleanse himself in the river Lethe where memory met it's solvent.
Disclaimer: These fine chaps belong to my main man Oscar Wilde. I don't think he'll mind, really.
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Lethe