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I wander alone...

my secretary buried in her schoolwork. I can sense her excitement to be going to France this summer as part of her education; merci Dieu that she is learning French cooking and not this Nouvelle Cuisine I've been hearing about.

Still, knowing this (even though I shall be "along for the ride" as she so colloquially puts it) is a strange feeling. No one will be there that I know. We shall not get to Versailles, in all likelihood; Axel, Louis my husband and Louis my son, and my dear Madame Royale are God only knows where. If we are extremely lucky, we shall see the Louvre again, but even that thought is bittersweet. The fact that the Tuileries as I knew it is gone "for good" may be all for the best. It was from there that my dear, wrong-headed, great-hearted Axel tried to save us, you know. Such a disaster, and yet... every thought of him, and my family, remains dear to me.

I miss them. Time hangs heavily...


In the course of human events, there are few things that would bring the dead back.

This morning, I found myself awake after a long dream of peace, beset by that old cantankerous strumpet, American politics. I came to with a dizzied brain, as though my body had been undergoing intense subterranean revolutions for some time. I come to you all from a much smaller, meaner past, when men were men and women weren't. The green and salad days of America are well and truly finished, and nothing I wrote seems to have taken any effect.

Change in Washington? We've been calling for that for as long as I can remember, which, excepting the years following my venture into Mexico, is nonetheless longer than most of the eels in the District can boast.

What I would like to know, to begin with, is what my fellow deceased make of it all.

And what the blazes is meant by "Watergate?"

Modern Marvels: Mad Electricity

Like many of my fellow undead  my typist has been increasingly distracted by her school work. Naturally, I have been encouraing all endevors however it has left me out of contact with the majority of all of you. I will be changing my contact information so that I may be more easily accessible. That being said...

I highly recommend this program. I'm very pleased with it's thorough report of my achievement and notes as opposed to my life. (Why is everyone so obessed with my personal life anyway?) Like many who have posted before me I find it so queer to hear my words in someone else's voice. But that is my only complaint...and they keep mispronouncing my first name but I won't mention this. *Aside to typist* Stick in one of those faces so people will know I'm making a joke. 


Excellent. *to the crowd* So, what new endovers have you been exploring since I last departed?
Caesar is bored, fellow dead. A game to pass the time? Livia, where are my dice? How about a competition?

I made my new icon with this website. Now, I want to see what you think you would look like as tiny computer portraits! Show me your results alongside images of yourself when alive, and we shall have a contest. There will be a point system that I make up as I go along and a reward which may be more or less hilarious depending on how much I drink.

My portraits...Collapse )


Just a short introduction...I'm Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, but nearly everyone refers to me as Betsy or Eliza. I'm probably best known for being married to this man and outliving him by 50 years.

What else is there to say...I like gardening, writing letters to my sisters, and defending my husband's honor because it always needs a great deal of defending.

Long time, no ... type.

Hello to whomever may be reading. It has been quite a long time since last posting, though I see I have not missed much. My typist has been going through a whirlwind of emotional ... what can only be described as things ... and I had been either dragged along with it or metaphorically shoved into storage for later use. It is rather undignified, but it seems things may be returning to normalcy, for which I am relieved. I enjoy getting more air, so to speak.

...I am, on the other hand, confused as to how someone may or may not have gotten a photograph of me as a baby. (I'll never confirm or deny.) There are these people on a web site called Flickr that insist on putting up all kinds of images, photographic and non. I recently also saw a copy of a vinyl record with Mr. Donald Kirkley's interview of me. Although I am no stranger to how records of any kind show up unexpectedly in the far future, I am a bit surprised that one made it. It seems very few institutions have copies of it, confined mainly to universities in the Northeast and West Coast. Strange that I'm found in California; I was never fond of that state.

I've also experienced this ... YouTube phenomenon. I witnessed a clip of an "indie" film based off my meeting with the actor Rudolph Valentino. How odd to hear my words uttered by an actor! They did, at least, use things from my writings rather than put words in my mouth, but me? In movies? I have an unsavory taste in my mouth at that thought.

A Brief Introduction

I believe it is customary to make an introductory post, and so I shall introduce myself accordingly.

Good evening, my name is Samuel Clemens Mark Twain Thomas Jefferson Snodgrass. I am something of a writer, and I enjoy conversing with a wide range of individuals, having had the good fortune to meet many remarkable people in my travels. If any of you have questions, I would be more than delighted to answer them.


(A new figure has appeared in the café: a small man in brown and green robes, drinking wine.)

I am Liutprand of Cremona, a priest of the Lombard race. In my time I was a chancellor, deacon, bishop of the holy church of Cremona, and thrice ambassador to the Greek emperor's court at Constantinople. You would not believe, O company, the injustices to which the lying, cowardly, effeminate Greeks subjected me and my party! O the tales I could tell you! O the misery I felt at the failure of my mission! And as long as anyone keeps reading my books, I will never, ever get over it.

Tell me about yourselves, my fellows so that I can talk more about myself and my most august emperor, Otto.

Parisian Memories

Greetings my fellow departed!

I trust we all thoroughly enjoyed the holiday season (due to the fact we're all still recuperating, if nothing else). And speaking of having a good time...

My typist is traveling to Paris soon to attend a reading of a play she has written (about me, actually, but that's neither here not there). I have given her my own recommendations but I was wondering what advice you would offer about enjoying The City of Light If You Don't Count Lyon.

I know many of you have lived in the capital like myself and/or had frequent business there. Beyond recommendations, what memories do you have of her? What stories can you tell?

Limiting myself to my artistic memories (because the political ones often involved boredom or death threats)(or both), I remember strolling from my apartment at 26 rue des Plants to brothels all-night establishments that provided both artistic models and private rooms, I remember the artists and parties of Montparnasse (and only wish I could remember more of them), I remember fielding death-threats for my close friend and patron Pierre at the chamber of deputies in '34 and being prefect-napped to Paris by the Prime Minister when it looked like I was going to single-handedly swing an election in my department...

My apologies. Politics really does creep into everything sooner or later, doesn't it?

Pimper N'est Pas Facile

The 5 Pimpingest Historical Figures.

I can understand Ramses beating out Napoleon, but Thomas Jefferson? Non, non, non... Clothing and certain gilded embellishments to one's interior designs are all well and good, but attitude must count for something. Jefferson would never pull the crown out of someone's hands and proclaim himself head pimp emperor, for starters. Not without first writing a seven-page dissertation on the historical and political imperatives morally justifying his actions. And by 'actions' I mean 'tea parties.'

(Actually, pimping never looked that difficult to me. I can remember lying in bed at night when hiding out in my favorite brothel in Paris and thinking that if they just rescheduled their business hours and perhaps gave the salon a more unique and cohesive environment instead of just making it a waiting room that looked liked it raided the Moulin Rouge's garage sale...

This is one of those times where I'm making people anxious, isn't it? Pardonnez-moi, it's just the natural administrator in me. ;-)