Wasted
Wasted
Summary: Timon and Greje get wasted; discuss life, the universe, and everything; cuddle.
Date: 112 ACH
Related Logs: None
Players:
Greje..Timon..

Greje is looking a little haggard, as have many of the people here on the Carina nowadays. She'd been here very often up until a couple weeks ago, when she was taken with an illness, presmuably the one going around here. But she's back, now, looking a little more frail than usual, but as if survival is within reach. She sits perched on one of the larger rocks, legs folded and a book open on her lap. Not just any book, of course, but her own copy of the Litany of Monsters and Lambs. For the moment she's flipping through it more to see her own marginalia than to re-read the text, remembering the emotion behind each set of exclamation points scrawled next to the text, each fervently underlined passage. Seeing little notes of sudden inspiration which would later develop into whole papers. It's like re-living her first few years in U Caprica's Pre-Sem program. And she's wearing her UC hoodie, even.

Timon is wandering about the gardens, which isn't unusual for him. It's unclear exactly when he spots Greje but he doesn't approach her right away. He does keep his wandering to her general vicinity, eyeing her. When he's close enough to see in detail what she's reading, he chuckles. "Many a college student has wasted their time in this manner. Never thought I'd see the sight again." It makes him smile all the same, light as he tries to be.

Greje looks up from her perusal, brightening distinctly as she sees who it is. "To waste time makes refined the time we have left," she puns sort of giddily on the old Scriptural dialect's verb for 'to waste,' which also means 'to refine (by cutting away the rough parts),' and therefore 'to refine' as in 'to make civilized.' "I actually brought this to see if I could get you to sign it for me," she admits with a blush, "I know it seems dumb, considering the situation, but… I can't help hoping that one day my childrens' childrens' children will be excited to have a copy signed by the author. In any case, if they're not, I will be."

"And when wasted we are as refined and pure as mortals be - reeling and ridiculous and sublime," Timon quotes. Himself. He goes to sit down near Greje, on the ground, cross-legged. "You flatter me more than I deserve, my dear. I'd be glad to, though I fear I haven't a pen." He laughs. "I came on this damned cruise to work on my memoirs, you know. Haven't touched so much as a pencil since the universe went to hades."

"… and sublime," Greje manages to get in the last two words in time with him, once her brain places the quotation, then just grinning, looking fairly ridiculous, herself, "I might have brought along a little something to help with that, too," she admits, taking out a small baggie from one of her sweatshirt pockets with two nicely hand-rolled cigs in it. From the other sweatshirt pocket she draws one of those stubby little pencils with no eraser. "I thought I might have to bribe you," she admits, "But, then, on the other hand, who in their right mind would pass up a chance to get thick with Timon Amichai?" She lowers her head a little, actually giggling, "I'm sorry, I must be coming off like some terribly raving fangirl. Please don't issue a restraining order. I'm really not a stalker."

Timon's eyes light up when he sees the baggie. Like a kid at a solstice feast. Except with drugs. "I'll forgive any stalker that comes bearing gifts like that, my dear Sister," he says, grinning an impish grin. He takes the pencil, and the book if she allows, and signs it with a flourish. The signature is mostly illegible, but the 'T' and 'A' are at least prominent. "Do you have any children?" A random question. "You mentioned passing it down to them. Mine were never terribly interested, but perhaps yours have better taste."

Greje has a bit of solstice in her own eyes as she hands over the book and pencil, taking the moment of having her lap free to shift forward and pull a lighter from her back pocket, but watching him sign almost giddily, then taking it back, "-Ah!!" she half-chokes at the question, grinning sort of awkwardly, "no… these are purely hypothetical descendents, at this point, with purely speculative good taste."

Timon makes an "Ah" sound. "Speculative progeny. The best kind. They never turn ungrateful, they get all your best features, and they don't repeat your mistakes." The giddiness makes him smile, though it's a rather sad smile. Which means it's time to smoke. "Light me up, Sister. Sobriety is just as dull as I remember."

Greje closes the book almost reverently on her lap and then opens up the baggie quite readily, "Alright, now, I hope you like this, it's my own blend, I… have my own little garden over on Genesis. It's only got a very little bit of chamalla in it," she tells almost hesitantly, knowing how much he's known to enjoy that particular herb, "For the rest, Aphrodite's Girdle, Holly Barley and just a little bit of Daphnis Minor," she gives her recipe as she hands one of the rollies over to him, then holds up her lighter to light him once he's set.

(Aphrodite's Girdle is an aphrodisiac, of course, as well as a general relaxant. Holly Barley has some properties of LSD and Daphnis Minor is a mild hallucinogenic.)

Timon grins. "Your own blend? Madam Karthasi, I am impressed. I tried growing a garden of herbs once. Never had the patience for it. I let the weeds take over, and over-watered the things to boot." He holds the cig up for a light, then puts it to his lips. Smoking deeply. He even blows smoke rings. He's a pro at smoking.

Greje lights up the Poet (with a capital P)'s rollie before leaning back and slouching a little to light her own. For her part she tends to take short, shallow breaths of the stuff and hold it for a while before exhaling slowly through her nose. "You get to know these herbs pretty intimately when you work with them so often. I didn't know how well I was going to be able to get them through military channels when I shipped out, so I just brought some potted seedlings with me, nobody really asked me what they were," she chuckles, visibly relaxing even after the fist puff. "I'm glad we're getting this new garden up and running. I'll be able to take cuttings from my garden and grow some more over here. I really don't know what would happen to some of our most important cults if we didn't have these herbs on hand. Aphrodite's rites wouldn't be able to be properly performed… The Pythian oracle could no longer speak… Demeter's mysteries and Dionysus' would be locked away forever."

Timon blows another smoke ring into the air, watching it drift off and disperse. "At least someone is keeping our traditions alive. Perhaps that's something." He takes another drag before saying anything more. "My father had a garden like that. Not that he partook from it much. Zeus isn't nearly as fun a diety to serve as some in the pantheon. Mostly he grew them for use in the communal temple. I remember sitting in that back garden as a boy…not smoking, of course. Didn't partake in the herbs properly until I was out of my father's house. But I remember the peace of it…the wild tranquility amidst the care and order…I always wished I could manager a proper garden…"

Greje stares at the smoke ring, watching it dissipate as if endeavoring to figure out at which point the ring stops being a ring… if it ever really does. Will there always be that crinkle in the air where smoke pushed against smoke until the breadth between the million smoke walls was infinitessimally small? She's distracted from her idle musing, which, sadly, isn't -that- far outside of her normal range of thought bubble strangeness, by the comment about Zeus' service. "Oh, I don't know," she smiles. "I served at one of Zeus' Sanctuaries for almost six months. It was a great place to live. It's like… With Dionysus, you're always living on the edge…. with Apollo, you're always living at the center. With Zeus, you're neither the center, nor the edge, but the whole… the center defined by the edge and the edge made real by the center. Real life exists between those two coordinates, and -man-, do Priests of Zeus know how to -live.- Just… just -live.- Not to mention -drink,-" she adds with a grin. "Might not smoke up too often, but -man,- I don't think anyone else knew there was a vinyard on that property that we tended. Because I don't think any of that wine ever made it out of the precinct," she laughs.

Timon gets a laugh out of that as well, smiling as he smokes. He relaxes, the lines on his face smoothing out, eyes growing thoughtful. But there's not sadness to it now. He's in the Happy Past. "Father did have a fine wine cellar. Good booze was one of the few pleasure he knew how to enjoy. At least when I knew him." He chuckles. "I ruined him, I think. Or my mother did. She was an actress in a Tauron theater troupe. Mostly nonsense with obscure plays and improvisation. Got Father's sermons in one ear and her monologues in the other. I suppose I can blame that as much as anything."

"It's hard not to enjoy good booze," Greje smiles, "Apollo's liminal shade looks to that," she giggles happily at her own drug-induced epithet for Dionysus. She's perfectly happy, too, as can be told by the fact that she's taken to referring to these priests in the present tense, as if they're still back there as soon as she gets home from her tour of duty. "How do you mean, memphthasthai?" she asks, slipping into the ancient dialect as she grabs the word for 'to blame,' which also carries an almost legal accusatory sense. To accuse in court, which, as the Scriptures dictate, it's an act of hubris to perform against your mother or father. Thus, the concern on the priest's part.

"They are certainly memphtasthai for my general nature," Timon says. "For which I both curse and thank them. They were good people, though, at their cores. I don't think they were particularly good for each other. My father insisted on marrying my mother when she told him she was pregnant. And then, when it became abundantly clear they made each other miserable, he refused to divorce her. Priestly propriety. No aspersions intended. So they just went on with their separate lives, still legally man and wife. Father never did really love anyone else, I don't think. Perhaps that's why he did it. Mother loved several but none for any great length of time."

Greje waves a hand in a sort of 's'okay, go on' gesture at his comment against assumption of aspersions. "Hm," she acknowledges the facts with another short draw of smoke. "In some Zeus cults divorce is a profanation of the pristly annointing," she points out, "Which isn't something to take lightly, after all," she speaks with a voice unable to hide a burden weighing it down on this point. "That said…" she takes a deep, smokeless breath, "That sucks."

"It rather sucked for him, I think, yes," Timon says. "He was a stern man, my father. Brilliant in his own way, though. And when he spoke in the temples…he brought comfort to people. Belief. Put them in touch with parts of themselves they'd forgotten about." He smirks. "I used to want to be a priest." He smokes. "I think I would've made far more a mess of that than I did as a gardener."

"You know, you -could- still be a priest, if you wanted to be," Greje points out, taking another brief intoxicating breath, "I know Brother Karan might disagree with me, but I think you already interpret the voice of Apollo better than most of Apollo's Annointed I knew back in the day. You're obviously comfortable with the chamalla. You've got a -brilliant- theological mind… a brilliant mind all in all, really, which I think any of Apollo's priests needs to have. And, to put it bluntly," she sniggers despite herself, "No pun intended," she asides, "We're severely lacking in number these days. I've been considering the prospect of re-establishing the Amphyctionic Council… ever since that meeting here… but as it stands there are only two Annointed of Apollo in the entire fleet. We would need at least three to be able to have any kind of decision-making ability."

Timon chuckles at the prospect of really becoming a priest, some wistfulness in the sound. "That, I fear, was a dream I let die a much-deserved death around sophomore year. It came directly between teacher and doctor. I think I majored in every college Troy University had to offer, and none of them stuck." He sighs. "Be a politician. Be a priest. Good many ideas to toy with these days. Good many things needed." He does some more smoking. "I think I like this blend…"

Greje giggles. This blend does that, it makes her giggly. "Being a priest never stopped anyone from being a politician. Especially not Apollo's Annointed," she snickers. Yes, some of them have had less than sterling reputations. Not for doing anything particularly sketchy, just… being an insider gang with a lot of built-in contacts that help them snag rather important public posts from time to time… after which there just 'happened' to be allotted to certain people right of first consultation with the oracle… yeah. With the insider politics of the old Amphyctionic Council whirling around in her head, Greje can't help but laugh at how silly it all looks, now, from this perspective. Of course, she's not saying anything outloud, just laughing like a maniac.

Timon starts laughing as well. Probably not at anything remotely close to what Greje is laughing at. But things seem funny just now. "Oh gods! The council. They've got a new council set up here, you know. Civilians trying to govern ourselves or some such nonsense. Gods, I hate politicians. My first wife was a politician. I think that explains my aversion."

Greje finishes off her rollie, smoking it down to the point of nearly burning her fingers, and even then trying to get a last puff from it. Waste not, lest ye… not be wasted, yes? She continues laughing through the process, the laugher interrupted by several short and decidedly unladilike snorts. "People always said if we could just… HA! If we could just have a clean slate we could wipe all the corruption from the system," she grins. "But the system, it," she moves her hands as if she were seeing what she were trying to say in blocks in front of her and she were trying to move things into an order in which Timon would be able to make sense from them, "It builds on itself until what was system before looks like corruption from outside. But in a population this small… is there anyone outside? There's no air outside. It's just us, on these ships."

Timon has changed position as he finishes smoking, and is now laying on his back, staring up at the sky. Or ceiling of the ship, as the case may be "I miss clouds…" he says. Apropos of nothing. "No clouds…no air…just ships…drifting…off…into…oblivious…" He drawls it out with a heavy sigh.

Greje pivots around on top of the rock, leaving book and lighter up on top of the seat as she herself lets herself free-fall back onto her back to land by him, legs still trailing up onto the rock as she lands with a laugh. She's not actually flying as much as she feels like she's flying, sadly, or that would have been a much more graceful maneuver. "It's really… all the same cycles, though. Clouds are seas… seas rarified, excelsior… manic with heat," she smiles, turning to her side to sling an arm over him, the Aphrodite's Girdle making her all cuddle-inclined. "And then, tainted with lethargy, they tumble, exerting all their energy in the fall. The stars… are like the same, they explode, and send out exstaseis of themselves to be clouds in much more rare skies than ours… and then, touched by lethargy, they become… us, we are the star's ecstasy chilled, tumbling back toward wherever it was we came from, screaming as we go." Yyyeah, that's good stuff she's growing.

Timon puts an arm around Greje, idly nodding his head as he follows all that. As if finding a rhythm in it. He approves. "My dear, you could have been a poet. Either that, or my third wife was right, and composing great literature was just a matter of smoking enough hallucinogens."

Greje holds herself a little tighter to her travelling companion as she feels the falling through space a little more keenly than her recently-ill stomach would like, the sensation causing a fluttering in her stomach that makes her laugh and weep together in a short burst. "It's raining," she remarks in surprise, either referencing her own tears or their headlong careening toward fate. "It's—" she blinks a few times, mind panting to overcome some new epiphany, and then she just laughs, "I tried poetry, a few times. I was never as good as you were."

Timon snorts a laugh at that. "I was never as good as I wanted to be. No one is. When I was younger, I just wrote. Didn't give a damn if anyone wanted to read it or not, or even if I had something worthwhile to say. It was like a compulsion, especially after the war…There's a peace in it. Getting purely inside your head, grabbing ideas and trying to form them into something coherent, like clay…never was as good as Kataris, though…"

"Will you write again, now?" Greje asks. "Write what this is? I don't even know. I feel it raining, but I don't know. The poem knows more than the poet ever will, I suppose," she sighs quietly, resting her head near his neck. "Aeides?" she asks him, slipping back into the archaic dialect. Will you sing? she asks him, the verb indicating much more than to sing a song. Rather, to speak sacred words, locking truth, otherwise unknowable, into rhythic codes— to recite a poem.

"I don't know if I've the strength to write about the world we're faced with now," Timon says gravely. Though he's removed enough now, too wrapped up in the haze of Greje's blend, to be too depressed. Though it does make him more somber. He does sing softly, under his breath, a simple ditty that's barely more than a children's song, "…are gods from now and then to strike the ceiling…life will still go on…when everything is wrong…when life is gone most ever healing…"

Greje quiets down, now, listening to the singing with a contented smile as her head swims among the drugs, her head slowly nodding, vaguely with the time of the tune, the priestling nuzzling affectionately along the poet's throat, feeling the vibrations of his vocal chords on her nose and lips, senses of hearing and touch blending together into something fascinating to explore.

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