Work Text:
She writes bad poetry.
That's the plain truth of it.
Oh, she'd like to be one
of those people who can
go on song without missing
a beat, but she's really more
like the mis-heard version
of that Stevie Nicks tune,
y'know, the one winged dove?
A one winged dove.
How sad.
She feels all romantical, as
if little wing-ed hearts are
fluttering around her head, as
if Disney bluebirds are
serenading her gaily from trees
as she walks by.
A pretty straight-forward kind
of gal, she's never before had
so much difficulty telling the
skinny.
And yet, she's unsure of her
position. A long term acquaintance,
albeit one broken by time, it
had never occurred to her that
she might have the opportunity
to do more than gaze from afar.
He is, however, obsessed, and
not with her.
Wherein lies her dilemma.
She's not sure if she should just
go for it, make the moves, do
the do, or step back, relax,
and see what happens. After
all, there's a big difference
between having to go to the
mountain and having the mountain
come to you. Like any rational
person, she would prefer
the latter, free will and all
that. Some would argue that
rationality is not her strong
point, and when it matters she's
inclined to disagree even more
than usual.
And there is his perfectly
healthy, perfectly normal
'knight in shining armor'
thing to deal with, too.
She finds that aspect of his
character rather sweet. If
not necessarily that he does
it to the object of his obsession.
Which is unfair to said object,
who is in the midst of her own grief
and desperate search. Yet, to be
kind, Dana is not unaware of John's
regard, and certainly has not
encouraged his endeavors.
It's a waiting game, a crap shoot,
a half-dozen of any other common
sayings.
So in the meantime, while she thumbs
her twiddles and lashes her bats,
she'll write bad poetry.
~*~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~*~
Lyrics courtesy of Rose Campion:
A Stranger Here Myself
Kurt Weill/Ogden Nash
Tell me, is love still a popular suggestion
or merely an obsolete art?
Forgive me for asking this simple question,
I'm unfamiliar with this part.
I am a stranger here myself.
Why is it wrong, to murmur I adore you?
When it's shamefully obvious I do.
Does love embarass him?
Or does it bore him?
I'm only waiting for my cue.
I am a stranger here myself.
I dream of a day, of a gay warm day,
with my face between his hands.
Have I missed the path?
Have I gone astray?
I ask and no one understands.
Love me or leave me,
that seems to be the question.
I don't know the tactics to use.
But if you should offer a personal suggestion,
how could I possibly refuse,
when I'm a stranger here myself?
Please tell me, tell a stranger,
by curiousity goaded,
is there really any danger,
that love is now outmoded?
I'm interested especially
in knowing why you waste it.
True romance is so precious.
with what have you replaced it?
What is your latest foilble?
Is skiing more enjoyable?
For heavens' sake what is it?
I can't believe that
love has lost its glamour.
That passion is really passe.
If gender is just a term in grammar,
how will I ever find my way
since I'm a stranger here myself?
How can he ignore my available condition?
Why these Victorian views?
You see here before you,
a woman with a mission.
I must discover the key to his ignition.
And then if he should make a diplomatic proposition,
how could I possibly refuse,
how could I possibly refuse,
when I'm a stranger here myself?