tragic_mask | (no subject)

"It makes it very easy to wallow in things. If you haven't experienced them in a long time, if there's a chance you might not experience them again, you want to cling to them."

"You did strike me as the wallowing type," she says, amused. "I do understand what you mean, though."

She's silent, for a while, hesitating-- then she adds: "There are some memories I rehash over and over, not because they're pleasant to remember, but because they're the ones that stand out, for the raw feelings involved. You know. In contrast with other times, when I was happy. I remember those times as well, but they're tinted with a different sort of regret."

She's rambling and she knows it, trying to piece together what she's trying to say without actually giving examples.

"I do that as well, I think," he says quietly. "For me, it's part of my work--I have to be in the right frame of mind to achieve certain effects, and there are memories I can lose myself in."

A pause.

"And memories I burn through, for the work. The ones with the strongest resonance give the strongest effects. They don't seem to dull with age."

"I remember you telling me about the memories you take from waiting, and memories that don't really matter. But-- you can reuse the important ones, then, in your work?"

"I can," he says. "I can give them up altogether, or just parts of them, or I can use the echoes of them--like working by candlelight doesn't diminish the light of the candle, if that makes sense. It's a matter of choice, if I choose to give something up for a project. Sometimes I do."

"What makes you decide you want to give one up?" she asks, quietly. "Aside from the wasted moments of waiting for a train, I mean, which I can understand wanting to use up."

"If the project is important enough," he says, "or if there is no other way to create the desired effect. I don't do it often, but it does happen sometimes."

Melpomene thinks that it would have to be a pretty damn important project to give up some memories.

Out loud, she says nothing, only nods, and ruminates.

He takes another drag on his cigarette.

"The best work is a part of the artist, after all," he says eventually. "A part of ourselves is reflected in the work--a part of ourselves is contained in the work."

She nods. "That's true, of course. Though there's a layer between me and the work the way there isn't, for you-- that is, the author. That's why I try my hand at other things, like... needlepoint. It seems so satisfying to have created something with my own hands, however shoddy the product is."

"It only takes practice," he says. "The more you work at a particular kind of crafting, the better you'll be at it. Find one that you enjoy, and keep at it."

A small smile. "Sometimes it helps to have one very different from your usual work."

"So I understand," she says. "It's hard to find the balance, sometimes, between doing work because it's satisfying and doing other things because they're frivolous."

"I work at it, maintaining that balance," he says. "I tend to lose myself in my work if I don't try. I need things like this, to get away from it."

"Yes," she says, content.

He is content as well, to drive along in silence and enjoy his cigarette. He offers her one of her own.

She takes it, thanking him and taking a puff practically in the same breath.

She closes her eyes, leaning into the space between her seat and the window, ruminating. Despite her disastrous history with cars, she's enjoying the ride.

He's a good driver, at least, which makes the ride much more smooth.

That and the possibility that he has done something to the workings of the car, to improve it.

So there is smoking, and driving, and eventually a stolen granola bar from the backpack in the back seat.

... there's always that.

"We can stop for lunch, or dinner, or whatever," she says, looking sleepily up at him. "I'm sorry for being such a horrible world-host. I always forget about these things."

"It's fine," he says, giving her a brief pat on the shoulder. "We'll need to stop to refuel at some point, and can eat then, if you like. No need to stop before then, unless you want to."

"I'm good," she says. "You're an oddly smooth driver."

"It's easier, only having two dimensions to worry about," he says. "I'm a bit less smooth of a pilot, as one day I'm sure you'll experience."

"Think so?"

"That I'm less smooth of a pilot, or that one day you'll get a chance to find out for yourself?" he asks. "Yes, on both counts."

"I look forward to that, then."

"Mmmm."

He eats his granola bar in contented silence, before looking to her again. "Where would you want to fly? We could take my aircraft, or we could take a more conventional one..."