Saddy I came back to Tumblr to see you. I'm not doing great. Tell us a story?
Welcome back, my friend. I am always glad to see, you, all of you, for you are my cherished companions on this internet.
I am sorry you are not well, but if it brings you any comfort, you are not alone. I have found myself in something of a slump since leaving New Orleans in the wake of the election last year. I have been following Lestat around, doing not much at all but sticking to his side. You know how my moods get the better of me, though I am glad to say he has discovered the patience it takes to love me at my worst, and I cannot be more thankful. He truly is my light in this eternal night.
You want a story? Mon deiu...I am not as practiced as Lestat at summoning a thousand words on a whim, but allow me to try:
It was a warm Halloween night, I think in '93 or '94. It was only a few short years after Lestat had burned my house down and I wasn't feeling particularly charitable towards him at the time but I also was in no mood to deal with Armand, so I'd retired to New Orleans, and took up residence at the Hotel Monteleone on Rue Bourbon for a few months, just to clear my head of my beloved, but, in a word, challenging, Coven of the Articulate.
I set out at sunset to walk the French Quarter, as was my custom, donning one of my old eighteenth century style coats in a concession to the holiday. I have never been creative about Halloween, friends. I am ALWAYS a vampire. I was not yet as practiced in the little drink as I am today, so I was saving my hunting for down by the water, where any evidence of my drinking would look like a drunk who fell in the river and drowned, so I was not walking with much of a purpose, just enjoying the anonymity of a crowd, when out of the corner of my I spotted man with shoulder length blonde hair, in a blue and silver eighteenth century suit, his arms flailing about dramatically as he spoke, lace cuffs trailing. I nearly did a double take.
It was not Lestat. Just a man in a Halloween costume.
But a few blocks further, I jumped again, confronted with another similarly dressed man, this time with hair that was a little too ashen, but nicely curled. He had another man on his arm, with long brown hair, in a long green frock coat.
Now, remember, friends, this was the early 90s. The aids crisis was still very much alive and well, and it was not a common site to see two men, strolling down the well populated street, arm in arm with their heads together, clearly affectionate. I expect them to draw ire, but instead, people stopped them to take their picture, on those lovely little disposable cameras we used to carry. And a few blocks later, there was another pair. A blonde in blue with a brunette in green on his arm, walking down Rue Bourbon as blatant couples in the dark, receiving nothing but adoration from the Halloween revelers.
When we reached the site of my old house, I was in shock. There were some seven more of those like-attired couples gathered at my old address, all in obviously homosexual pairs, but that's not what drew my eye. My sight was fixated on the little girl sitting up on our front step.
She couldn't have been older than ten, and she was dressed in a beautiful little teal dress and a massive matching bonnet. In her hands she clutched a pink-clad porcelain doll and a plastic pumpkin, overflowing with candy that she was picking through with a child's intensity. And she had the most glorious mane of golden yellow curls, exploding out from beneath her bonnet. Now, my Claudia had never gotten to see ten, but had she, she'd have been the spitting image of this child.
I cannot tell you how long I stared at the little girl as she sat there, sorting candy into piles, occasionally feeding one piece to her doll or herself, but eventually, she looked up and saw me, standing across the street, and she smiled that open smile that only children can, and waved at me. I was entranced. Of course I came to her.
"Hello." She greeted me once I was close enough. "You did a really nice job on your hair."
I had no idea what she meant. But she continued to talk, not needing me to reply.
"I wanted my Papa to make me the blue dress from the end, but he said it was too hard. So I got this one. I like my hat, though! I'm Claudia!"
When she said that, my throat closed up and I froze, forgetting to conceal the preternatural stillness we are capable of. I didn't know what was going on, or where I was, I only knew I wanted to reach out and draw her to me like that could somehow bring my own little girl, who had sat on that very same step with a doll in her arms so many times, back to me.
Fortunately I was saved by the arrival of her parents, a pair of men in their mid thirties, one with shoulder length blond hair, and one in green with the most tragic long dark wig I had ever seen. The little girl lit up, and leapt up to throw herself into the arms of the man in the wig, crying out:
"Papa! Look! Another Louis!"
And that's when it dawned on me.
They were supposed to be us. That movie had come out the year previous, and all these people, these beautiful queer couples, this queer family, were gathered around my home, dressed as my family in the days when we were happy, and somehow, through the magic of that book, and Anne's enduring legacy, and now the miracle of moving pictures, my family was stalking Bourbon Street after dark once more.
theartofmadeline
romaincrisis
ellievsbear
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
blakekathryn
gamechangershow
andulkaphoto
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
