A Tarnished Halo
"For fools rush in where angels have fallen through the floorboards once already . . ."
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Prelude
Actors are creators. They make that which at first did not exist, and then only existed on paper, exist in the mind of everyone who is prepared to believe. Actors are also creations. Even when the "acting" involves little more than sweat and spit and seediness, actors become something new with every role they assume.
Pieter van Rhyn is such a creation, but not of Hollywood or the media. If we ignore the theistic ramifications, Pieter van Rhyn created himself.
Most people believe Pieter van Rhyn was born in South Africa in 1980 – his father's namesake. They believe he still has a mother and two brothers living back his homeland. They also believe he came to the United States in 2000, where he lived the 21st-century verson of a Bohemian life as an artist's model in Los Angeles.
Most people believe that after a few months of living the life of the lowly, Pieter began a rise towards being the "next big thing" in adult film. Well, as big as anyone with his set of chromosomes can get in The Biz. They believe he has blended acting as often as he feels like it, producing as often as he can stand it, and offering "creative consultation" as often as anyone dares to ask as a means of keeping himself clothed, housed, and fed.
Most people believe Pieter has brown hair and brown eyes, stands 2 meters tall, and weighs 108 kilograms. They believe a frame well-suited for his present job was forged by his old one – namely, labor done deep in the mines of his homeland. Some believe he moved to Las Vegas after tiring somewhat of life in Los Angeles, while others believe he made the move only after being roped into a so-called "marriage" by a conniving starlet.
Those people don't know the half of it. For one thing, Pieter van Rhyn's natural hair color is a sandy blond.
Pieter van Rhyn is a sham, and has been for over four hundred years. If you have the right credentials, he will answer to the name of Variel, a Celestial of the Choir of Powers. In Paradise, he was a soldier. On Earth, he is an agent.
How good is he?
Did we mention all of those people who believe in Pieter van Rhyn?
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28 May 2008
A Personal Reflection
You might think four centuries of existence would make certain moments in time less vivid.
You might think a long life – or for that matter several long lives – would cause the details of the some of those lives to become blurry with the passing of time.
You'd be wrong in both regards.
I have never thought of myself as much of a journal-writer. Presently, I probably give the appearance of one less than I have at any other point in time I've walked this planet.
For better or worse, we have never had to struggle to record our memories. Each one is burned into the consciousness just as surely as though the Giver Herself were using the whole of the Cosmos as the parchment in some giant scrapbook.
We watch, and work, and wait. Through it all, we remember . . . but who else can we tell?
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08 August 1988
South Africa – The Witwatersrand
It's not that I had forgotten what it was like to be eight years old. I just didn't ever expect to experience it again.
It goes without saying that the gate to the mine elevator should have been secured better. In retrospect, the commotion and the rough-housing could have waited until we were all back on firmer ground.
But with that said, the fact that this is happening at all is something that transcends bad luck. It would give my Siblings pause. Hell, it gives me pause. I was careless. Then I was rash. I was far too human.
I remember falling. It's fortunate no one saw me as I was falling. Aside from the momentary look of surprise, I wasn't wearing the terrified expression of someone hurtling to his death. I had to fight the natural urge to free my wings and soar the rest of the way up the mine shaft. How would that have looked?
I remember jarring to a stop. It's fortunate no one saw that either. I had to fight the urge to get up, dust myself off, and get on with the day. Of course, my bones and blood vessels weren't as ready, but that wasn't anything that a moment's worth of rest wouldn't have fixed.
It was the longest moment I'd experienced in some time, and it was filled with just one realization. "No one could have survived that fall, so how in the hell did you come away from it without a scratch?" That's what they'd think. I've been known for being "lucky" for generations, but no one is that lucky. The poking and prodding would come next, and that was attention I didn't need. It actually made the decision to "die" make sense.
I had been back at the house for an hour by the time they arrived to tell Willi . . . to tell Mum what had happened. Suffice it to say that the soul transmigrates faster than a ten-year old truck covers dusty roads. You could also say I had a head start.
"Mum" – now there's something else I'll have to get used to saying.
I stood there holding her hand while they told the story. I was proud of her, for she was stoic. You don't do that kind of work – or make a lifetime commitment to someone who does - without expecting that the worst can happen at any time. When you're the one left behind, the stoicism takes away some of the pain. But not all of it.
No doubt people will look back on this day as the one when Young Pieter became a man. Mum (it sounds so foreign) will likely tell me that she saw and felt something of Pa in me as we both stood there, first in listening to the report of Pieter van Rhyn's accidental death, and then in taking it in after the men who delivered the news had offered their condolences and left.
None of them know the half of it . . . .
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15 August 1703
Sint Eustatius – Anchored off Oranjestad
Having sex in the stateroom of a sailing ship doesn't rank among the best of ideas. My only excuse is that it hadn't been my idea. Actually, I've never been much for pillow talk either – especially when there aren't any pillows to be found.
"Your father is the Deputy Governor?" I was playing a hunch, as I thought I had seen her before in the Town Square in his company.
"He is." She started to effect a tone of self-importance, but that was hard to make convincing when your dress was in a heap fifteen feet away and you were sprawled in the nude atop navigation charts. "Do you know him?"
In fact, he owed me five hundred guilders. I didn't want her to get any one of a number of wrong ideas, so I kept it to myself. "I do business with him frequently."
"Ah. Business." The way she said it told me she likely knew things about her father's "business habits" that I didn't. My take on colonial government was that if there was any chance that you might one day become the Governor of some sunny isle, you had to spend the money and do the deals that were necessary to get into the manor house – because that was where the real money was.
Unless of course, you were willing to run the risk of taking it from the Spanish. I couldn't tell you with a straight face that one of the two choices was wiser, safer, or more ethical than the other.
"I thought it was bad luck to have a woman on a sailing vessel."
There was that self-importance again. It was as though she wanted to emphasize that she was of high birth while I couldn't even get piracy right. I stopped short of replying right then. I had a feeling that my business prospects on the island would have suffered greatly if I'd said something like "It's only bad luck when the woman finds herself down below in your current state of dress. You know, with a few dozen . . . sailors . . . who haven't seen a woman in four months."
Then true to form, I said it anyway.
It had much the expected effect. In fact, it went off better than I might have expected – on the balance of factors, that is. For one thing, her eyes opened wider than her mouth and her lungs had only half an hour ago. "Captain! I didn't . . . I hadn't . . . I didn't mean to . . . " If two people could ever be separated by a common language, it was happening now. Previously, her Dutch had possessed the character of someone trying to put on a coat of nobility, while mine generally involved someone making great pains to take one off. But such was her concern for – well, obviously it wasn't her maidenhood – that her wild speech patterns might well have placed her as the native of some legendary South Sea island.
"It's alright." I rested my hand on her belly, then continued: "Ship humor is rough, but so is the business. Let's go back to the bed." This seemed to put her at ease. Whether it was my reassurance, the feeling of skin-on-skin, or my implication that I would not be sharing her with my crew just yet, I couldn't say. I can say that I didn't really care too much.
I can also say with confidence that there is more than one way to get five hundred guilders of value out of someone.
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24 January 2015
Paradise, Nevada – The Panorama Towers
I estimate that somewhere around ten percent of the talent in adult film are Infernals. As you might expect, they rank among supernaturals (at least, the ones I know) as the single largest block of performers in the industry. (To be sure, there are far fewer Celestials, but if you'll forgive a small bit of pride, quantity and quality are not the same thing.)
While the number of Infernals who make their living as A-and-B-list woodsmen is not altogether insignificant, it probably wouldn't surprise you to learn that the vast majority of Infernals in the biz are succubi. This is the very thing that makes it difficult to accurately estimate the proportion of performers who owe some nominal (but generally disregarded) allegiance to the Adversary. (It's also the very thing that makes me more liked in that community-at-large than I am disliked, but let's take this one story at a time.)
Trying to count succubi in a sex trade is like trying to get a handle on exactly how bad America's illegal immigration "problem" is. I'm not judging illegal immigrants – but I will note that I'm in this country as legally as anyone who didn't do some serious digging could possibly tell. I'm simply observing that when a status relies on determining the behaviors and whereabouts of a class of people who are in turn relying upon their mobility as a means of supporting themselves and their families, estimates are bound to be off in one direction or the other. Especially if the people in question are as good at being mobile as some would have you believe.
What mobility is for so-called illegals, malleability is for succubi. When a human starlet wants to do something to extend her shelf life or relevance, it usually involves getting blonde hair and bigger tits. When a succubus wants to do the same thing, she changes everything. Everything. Really, there's no contest, considering that we're talking about a class of beings who a) aren't doing it for the money (even if they do enjoy spending it) and b) don't even need money to effect the kinds of changes that will prolong their "careers" indefinitely. Frankly, it's a wonder that the percentage I mentioned isn't higher. Who am I kidding? It could very well be.
Rikki came over after the Awards Ceremony, even though I had won Best Actor. This had all gotten its start years ago, when a small group of the Valley's bone-horniest and spade-tailiest devil chicks decided that AVN had committed highway robbery by not according Best Actor status to the one being in the Biz who probably deserved it above all others – a Celestial creature who was not only involved in the skin-flick trade, but who was really good at it.
​What?! You didn't think I was talking about the Oscars, did you? Fuck, no!
Anyway, I managed not to win the award most of the years I got a nom. (They didn't hold it against me when I'd win Best Male Performer or some such; if you have to ask what the difference is between the two, we probably shouldn't be talking about it.) Over time, "different" girls (even I'm not entirely certain) kept the tradition alive, but this year I had rudely thrown a wrench in the works by actually winning - playing a Porn Valley send-up of the Adversary, no less. Irony abounds. Anyway, most of the girls apparently decided to go and console other losers, but Rikki saw no reason to turn down a free meal, and I saw no reason to turn a guest away from my home.
We spent the first few hours trying to wear each other out. Perhaps this is a stupid thing to admit, but there's something a little liberating to knowing that your "plan" won't work, but at least knowing why it won't work.
(Developing.)