asklerouxerik

[asklerouxerik]

\(>_<)/ Hey there. I'm not sure if the person who runs this blog accesses it anymore, but I just wanted to say I always admired the amount of effort and detail you put into the drawings and his responses. Just thought I'd say that as this is one of the first Phantom blogs I followed when I started tumblr.

((This means so much to me.  I'm so sorry this blog has been so inactive.  I lost my drive a while back but I hope to start it up again soon.  Life events have conspired to make this past year one of the worst years of my life so I haven't really had time.  I'll be keeping the blog up and hopefully answering asks as soon as I can, but it might not be for a while yet.  Thank you all so much for enjoying this blog, and thank you for this message, Anon, it means a lot.))

[asklerouxerik]

Musing...

Composing another new piece led me to a dilemma.

You see, the piece would be completed perfectly by a choir of pre-pubescent boys.

But how on Earth does one kidnap enough?

I jest, of course.  My kidnapping desires only extend as far as nubile, young, blonde sopranos with the initials C.D.

I have very specific tastes.

[asklerouxerik]

...you play the banjo?

I do, indeed.  I learned it as a young man traveling about Europe.  I met a group of traveling minstrels who taught me the instrument.  They didn't balk at my mask, being entertainers...

I use it mostly for classical and folk compositions, but I could play bluegrass if I was so inclined, I suppose.

[asklerouxerik]

If you've had to relocate several times, does that mean you no longer reside under the opera?

Yes, it does, in fact.  I've purchased many flats with my considerable income from the Opera House and have moved between them in order to escape the attention of certain parties who shall be called simply daroga.

Have no fear, Erik shall return to his house beneath the opera before he succumbs to love and dies.  After all, she would expect Erik to be there.  That is where she will come to bury Erik.

Erik will not disappoint her.

[asklerouxerik]

Erik plays many instruments.  Erik has much free time and has taken to learning any available instrument so as to fill Erik’s life with music!

Aside from organs, pianos, harpsichords, and similar instruments, I also play the violin and her melodic cousins: viola, cello, bass, etc.  I am fairly proficient in wind instruments though not as strong with those one must blow through.  These and brass do not come easily to me and I have a feeling it has something to do with lacking a nose.

I also play guitar, banjo, harp, bass drum, timpani, accordion, lute, zither, and the triangle.

In fact, I’m sure I could go on.

Obviously, I don’t have all of these stashed away at the opera.  It would be monstrously difficult to live in a house with that many instruments, as much as I would like to.  Besides, the slight dampness is rather bad for many of them.  I often fear for my violin.

The second question I find to be more difficult to answer.  The organ is my first love, but the violin is so beautiful and, in its favor, portable.

Also, Christine was ever so fond of the sounds I could produce with it…

[asklerouxerik]

Where are you Monsieur?! We haven't heard from you in months!

Erik has had to relocate.

Several times.

Thanks to a certain Persian idiot.

To be sure, I will answer more of your questions very soon.

[asklerouxerik]

This is one of the most difficult questions you can ask someone at all involved in music, I have found.

If by song you mean a composition containing lyrics, that narrows it down a bit.  Opera is a genre containing many of my favorites, such as the works of Mozart, Gounod, Beethoven, Rossini, and Verdi, to name a small few.

Absolutely anything produced by the silken throat of Christine Daae!  Currently, I have been struck by the beauty of her particular rendition of "Oui, c'est toi que j'aime". If you wanted something more fitting to this... era... I enjoy Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Anything with lyrics from this age is invariably grating on my ears.

Show me some modern Opera worth its salt and I will show you a pleased Ghost!

[asklerouxerik]

Would you like to know what I really think?  I find normalcy is underrated.  What is so shameful, I wonder, about being normal?  This tedious generation so adores its unique quirks, but if I were to show my face to you, you would shudder and shun me as any other.

Do you have any idea, I wonder, what I would give to be normal?  I would trade away any talent I possess, my music, my voice, for a man's face and the love of a living woman.

I do not understand what answer you expected of me.

[asklerouxerik]

Forgive me,

It appears I've been lax in updating this "blog".  The reasons behind that are many and varied, but chief among them is the fact that I started a new composition.  I had thought that after I had finished my Don Juan, nothing more would come to me, but it appears I was mistaken.

I tend to lose myself when composing and have not slept for longer than an hour in the time I've been away.  I have eaten little to nothing as well!

But I am pleased with the composition.  It is entitled Christine.  I believe it is the least I could do for her, even if she never hears it played.

In any case, now that that little diversion is complete, I will be returning to answering your questions!

Your obedient friend and servant,

O.G.

[asklerouxerik]

There are, in fact, fish in the lake under the Opera House.  These fish are not exactly the type of fish you want to consume.  The water down here is, shall we say, contaminated.  I have, on occasion, found it necessary to fish out of the lake.  The fellow you see above my mantle is a rather large trout I found years ago.  I discovered that a crew member had begun attempting to farm trout in my lake.  That... would not do.

He is fortunate I only kept a trophy of his trout.

In any case, the Siren actually subsists on the fish in the lake.  After all, one cannot wait around for unfortunate Comtes to wander in.  One would die of starvation.

[asklerouxerik]

Do I have an odd genetic mutation?  Oh, I don't know, dear anonymous, what do you think?!

If I'm completely honest, I've never made it a point to discover why I am what I am, therefore I wouldn't know the particulars behind certain aspects of my deformity.  My eyes glow because they glow, though I suppose tapetum lucidum would account for it.  As the above picture illustrates (rather theatrically, I admit) you cannot, in fact, see my eyes in direct light.  They tend to look more like holes in a death's head than anything living.  Rather, they are brightest in the dark.

Those of you who are curious may be interested to know that my irises are, in fact, yellow, so describing my eye color as yellow would not be incorrect.  True, they reflect light back similar to a cat's and so are yellow, but the actual pigmentation is also yellow.

[asklerouxerik]

My first ask, and an anonymous one at that, yet it is polite, well-mannered, and asks an intelligent question!  Perhaps there is hope for the human race yet.

As to the question, I have a variety of masks, more even than shown here, all composed of differing materials.  If I must answer more directly, my favored black mask is made of thin leather, crafted so as to fit my face comfortably and without suffocation of what skin is there.  I wear this mask most often, as it causes the least discomfort and is the lightest.  As an added advantage, it allows me to blend in with the shadows.

My Red Death mask, though, is a large thing crafted primarily of heavy, uncomfortable ceramic and hard leather.  The separating jaw is a cumbersome creation using metal.  I abhor wearing it, but it creates the perfect theatrical effect.

Then, of course, there is the mask I crafted in order to look just like everyone else.  It's not perfect, but the thin rubber it's crafted from allows it to move with my facial expressions (what little I can make) and affords a less eery, immobile look to my face.  I'm modifying it as time goes on, attempting to make it more lifelike than it currently is.  I'm also changing the design according to what is in vogue to avoid attracting attention if I ever do wear it.

If I don't wear one of my masks, though, I can use one of my false noses to look like a hideous approximation of a man, but those are terribly uncomfortable and draw far too much attention.

[asklerouxerik]

The daroga suggested that the reason behind my decided lack of asks was the fact that I had yet to "post a picture".  I'm sure this will motivate you to ask me inane questions.  Also, sarcasm does not project well over the written word, I've found.

[asklerouxerik]

I loved a woman once.

I could write this memoir as lyrically as anything you’ve ever read.  That isn’t ego, it is simply fact.  Of course, with my abhorrent handwriting, it would be entirely illegible to even the most dedicated of cryptographers.  Since I am typing this “post”—as this generation so gleefully calls it—and not writing it, though, it should be legible if you have the reading skills of an eight year old.  And if you do not have the reading skills of an eight year old, then what in God’s name are you still doing here?  But I digress.  I could write this lyrically, filled with purple prose of innumerable proportions, describing the circumstances of my miserable existence with excruciating detail.  Instead, I will write simply this:

I loved a woman and she did not love me back.

There is far more to my story than that, but that is the heart of it.  The lengths I went to in hopes of securing her love were misguided and hideous and looking back I realize that… to some extent.  But the crux of the matter is that I loved her.  In fact, if I am completely honest with myself and the readers of this horrid little “blog”, I love her still.  I will never stop loving her.  I think, even after I have drawn my last, despairing breath on this miserable plane, I will love her still.

But she has another and he loves her and is good and kind to her and takes her out on Sundays…

I could, of course, take the easy way out and blame my face.  That is what I like to do.  After all, it has caused me oh so many problems.  But here… here it was not the only factor.  Oh no, if I said that, it would show that I had learned nothing from my experiences, and that would just be sad.  After all, I can say nothing if I cannot say I learned my lesson.  What have I gained but that?

No, it was my obsession, my darkness, my rage… these things… these things were my downfall and the catalyst to her hate.  My face, of course, was the first thing—or maybe it was the small matter of the kidnapping in the middle of the night.  But in any case, my face scared her.  I wish to God it had not.  I wish to God I had been born with a man’s face so that I may have loved her as a man would love a woman.  Instead, I worship her from the darkness and she smiles and laughs in the sun.

But my rage… I killed and I threatened.  These things are so simple and easy for me.  Power can be gained if one can push the right buttons.  She did not understand.  She was so naïve and young and I was so old and evil.  I am so old and evil still.  I tried to stop.  I promised the Daroga I would not kill and I kept the promise but for… one or two small things… one would not consider a trap already laid that killed a man to be murder, would one?  And then there is the Siren, and I cannot control the Siren.

Once again, I digress.

Forgive me.  I am old and a solitary being, so that when I am given leave to talk, I tend to talk quite a bit.

But if I am honest, I tire of speaking of myself.  I do not like myself—indeed I hate myself with an intense passion—and do not find joy in talking about my many and varied misfortunes.  Instead, I should like, if you will permit me, to talk on my favorite subject.

Christine.

Perhaps you have never heard of Christine Daae.  She had some little fame in her time at the Opera Garnier, but her short career never afforded any world-wide acclaim.

Christine Daae came originally from Sweden.  You could see her Nordic background in her pale skin, sea-blue eyes and golden hair.  She remains the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.  She was a sweet, innocent girl of but twenty, but her heart was as pure as that of a fifteen year old.  What I love best, though, is not her looks or her naiveté.  Not even her personality, though my readers might think me shallow or coarse to claim such.

It is her voice.

Even after all this time, the memory of that silken throat through which the most angelic, pure and lovely notes were formed causes me to weep.  That I had a hand in creating that voice, in molding it to its current perfection is far too much for my heart to bear.  I’m sure that you have never heard her sing.  Imagine an opera singer, a soubrette, to be exact, though I do believe with more training and time she could develop into a lyric soprano and fill the house with her powerful voice… I digress again.  Imagine a soubrette with the absolute clearest, most crystal like voice.  She can reach high notes without strain and low notes without damage.  This imaginary being’s voice can come nowhere near the sublime instrument of Christine.  Christine was a soubrette and yet her coloratura was not lacking in the least.  As previously stated, I think she was too young in that first to take on the more developed roles, but there has never been a better Marguerite to grace the Paris stage.

She was so lovely…

I speak of her in the past tense, which is foolish, for she is alive!  She is so very alive, and that fact fills me with the most joy I have ever felt.  After all, she has seen my face and lived.  She is the first woman to have done so.  There is some small amount of men who have lived, but she, she is alive and not dead.  Erik did not cause her to die!  She saw Erik’s face and did not die.

I sometimes think that it is such a pity that she will not return and see Erik until after he is dead.  I am a solitary being, as I have said, but her company is the only company I ever wished for.  If she could only speak to me for a few minutes or even let me look upon her once more… but that is foolish.  She is with her boy and she has promised to come back to Erik and bury him.  That is the most I could ask of her.  She did not have to do that, but she promised and so she will come back, one last time.

This is my story.  I loved a woman and she did not love me back.  She let me kiss her forehead, though, and kissed mine.  The greatest affection I could ever ask and I am dying.

Did I leave that out?  Forgive me.  As I may have mentioned before, I rather hate myself and do not enjoy speaking of my misery.  But I am dying.

Do not pity me.  Do not think me poor or unhappy.  I am dying of love and that is the best gift I have ever received.