Post by eliot finch on Feb 14, 2010 21:21:42 GMT -5
ELIOT HALL FINCH ;
HEY HEY! THE NAME IS UP ABOVE BUT EVERYONE CALLS ME FINCH, IF ANYTHING, WHICH IS PRETTY COOL, RIGHT? ANYWAY, I'M A MALE, BORN IN SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, UNITED STATES, AND AM TWENTY-TWO YEARS OLD. DAMN STRAIGHT! STILL YOUNG, BABY! JUST TO GET THE BASES COVERED, I AM A PAINTER AND AM ACTUALLY HETEROSEXUAL BUT I LOVE HAND-ROLLED CIGARETTES, AN EMPTY CANVAS, MY PERSONAL SPACE, THE CITY STREETS,AND WOMEN BUT I TOTALLY HATE THE WEALTHY, THE PRIVILEGED, THE EAGER, THE SAINTS, AND THE IGNORANT. I KNOW. I'M THE MOST INTERESTING PERSON ON THIS PLANET, YEAH? BUT YEAH IF YOU WANNA KNOW MORE YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO KEEP ON READING!
ATTRACTION'S SATISFACTION ;
[color=4c68b8][b]ELIOT FINCH[/b][/color] looks sort of like [b]HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN[/b] and goes onto aim by the name of [u]LUNE DE MIEL[/u] but to hit him up, just call [u]856-6589[/u]. FLUORESCENT ADOLESCENCE ;
PERSONAL STYLE:[/U][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/SIZE]
[/SIZE][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/BLOCKQUOTE]Eliot looks the part of starving artist. He has no regard for designer labels and often picks his clothes up at second-hand shops. The vast majority of his clothing is stained with paint and most of his pants (mostly faded blue jeans, because they are the most comfortable for him to work in) have the knees almost worn out. He prefers to wear collared shirts or polos, not for appearance purposes but because he finds the material is more comfortable than plain t-shirts, which often make him itch. It is plainly evident that he is certainly not very well off and that he doesn't care to pretend that he is.
PERSONALITY:[/U][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/SIZE]
[/SIZE][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/BLOCKQUOTE]Eliot is most often described as a self-important asshole. But the only people that care to describe him are the people he doesn't like. To those select people he can tolerate, he's really rather friendly and pleasant to be around. Unless he's trying to concentrate. Or if he's in a foul mood, which is most of the time. There's a reason he doesn't have many friends. He's also often described as being bitter, but really he's just realistic (in his opinion). He is passionate about his art and not much else. He doesn't put a lot of effort into social interaction, which tends to give him an air of indifference. He's not at all interested in impressing anyone. He's very selective about the people he engages in conversation and actively avoids those he deems 'privileged'. He's been dirt poor his entire life and feels like wealthy people whine too much.
He doesn't fear much except for losing his hands and thus not being able to paint. He doesn't have many strengths or weaknesses in the traditional sense. He's not particularly well-spoken, though he's surprisingly well-read given the circumstances under which he grew up. He can hold his own in an argument, as well. He doesn't give in to temptation often, though when he does he finds it hard to turn away from it. He's not particularly warm, but he's not completely closed off or introverted either. He's a bit of an enigma.
SIGHTING LIGHTENING ;
FAMILY:[/U][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/SIZE]
[/SIZE][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/BLOCKQUOTE]- He doesn't remember his mother. The only thing he knows about her is that she was fifteen when she had him and her hair was white as corn silk left to bleach in the sun.
- He never knew his father, never knew anything about his father.
- He was raised by his mother's mother, a brutish woman by the name of Shirley Ann McLean, until he was five years old. At that point, she got sick of him always having to touch things and kicked him out.
HISTORY:[/U][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/SIZE]
[/SIZE][/COLOR][/FONT][/BLOCKQUOTE][/BLOCKQUOTE]"I grew up in a house where I was wholly and completely unwanted. Shirley kicked me out when I was five years old, left me to fend for myself in the middle of November. I don't know how I survived that winter, though the rest of the bums in Seattle were kind enough and offered me the best shelter they could. They often fed me, too. I begged on street corners but people, especially wealthy people, very rarely gave me any money. They figured I was bait, put out by older bums because kids make more money. I wasn't bait, I was just a kid with nowhere else to go.
I changed my name when I was nine. Completely erased who I'd been. It took me that long to realize that I was never going to go home again, that I was really on my own. I became Eliot Hall Finch. A bum taught me how to read, Old Gus was his name. He taught me how to read using a book of T.S. Eliot poems. I adored the man, the writer, so I took his name for myself.
I started painting on the sides of buildings when I was twelve and never stopped. Though, I've taken to painting only canvases now.
I migrated south to California when I was sixteen, managed to sell a few paintings to the sun-soaked people there. They called my paintings 'neat'. I once told a woman that I was Michelangelo and she believed, she thought I was really fucking Michelangelo.
I came to Paris when I was twenty after saving up money from selling paintings. I don't live on the streets here. I make a good living painting the perfect."
PASSING CASTING ;
As Rembrandt most often was, he was completely oblivious to her presence - there was no stirring of energy as she came closer, nothing that might garner his attention. As far as he was concerned, she was merely a passer-by. Thus, he didn’t even glance up from his reading - in fact, he hardly stirred at all. She blended seamlessly into the backdrop - had he known that, soon, she would very much be a part of his barren landscape, he might have prepared himself better for what would come next. It was precisely as she reached up to free her gossamer locks from their knitted restraint that he glanced up - just in time to witness the spectacle of them cascading across her fine shoulders, gleaming ivory in the fluorescent light buzzing overhead.
His reaction was immediate - so abrupt that he had hardly any time to stop it. It was the same reaction as it most often was - his staggered breath hitched and smarted in his throat and he grimaced in protest, ducking his head rather quickly to hide his reaction. No longer was he seated casually at a table in a library; instead he was perched precariously on the edge of her bed, her palm spread open wide on his chest, her fingertips trailing angel-soft across the uncharted flesh pulled taut across his clavicle.
His heart stuttered weakly in its ribbed cage as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth but slammed back to life to hammer out a staccato beat when she spoke - ripping him savagely from his reverie, ushering him swiftly back to the present so that he could glance up at her as she spread her palm open wide on the tabletop.
The last thing he wanted to do was catch her eye for fear that he would find, not eyes like glaciers, but eyes the color of moss in the summer.
“Oh.” It was a single syllable that was born and promptly died on the lonely plains of his panic-thickened tongue. It was a breath that left him before he ever had a chance to keep it, like so many other things in his life. It was a sigh that came from somewhere between his ribs, born of serrated blade and many months of always wondering why. It was angst and agony and ecstasy, all the things he felt but refused to show.
It was an awkward, sheepish glance that he passed down at the book cracked open like a sacrifice before him. It was almost as if he was shocked to find it there, as if the unexpected, uninvited memory of her had compromised his capability of remembering such trivial things as books about battles fought so many years ago.
“Oh,” he said again, louder this time, with a conviction that sounded a bit more like surprise than anything else, “I…” And, much like he often did, he was stricken by a startled silence and, in a flourish of quickly-moving fingers and faintly-trembling hands, he slammed the book closed and pressed it across the table in a fit of haste.
“I don’t need it,” he managed around the well of emotion thickening in the slim, parched column of his throat. Under any other circumstances, he might have apologized for the inconvenience of his desperate need for escape in a book with a cover worn by thousands of fluttering fingertips, the page-edges feathered over time. But his father had taught him from a young age that apologies were merely a display of weakness - only the broken and despairing apologized without justified reasoning. It was not his fault that angst bred boldly in the hollow of his chest, it was no more his fault than it was hers (not Noeah, but that far-gone lover). There was nothing to apologize for - only that he had been stricken by a fit of angst at precisely the wrong time and that was merely coincidence.
Still, he refused to look at her, desperate to avoid the repercussions of doing so, desperate to avoid the steady flow of memories that had already overstayed their welcome. It was never meant to be so, of this he was all-too aware. But he caught a wavering breath between his teeth and savored it, wondering about when the opportunity to flee might present itself or if he should even wait for it at all.
His reaction was immediate - so abrupt that he had hardly any time to stop it. It was the same reaction as it most often was - his staggered breath hitched and smarted in his throat and he grimaced in protest, ducking his head rather quickly to hide his reaction. No longer was he seated casually at a table in a library; instead he was perched precariously on the edge of her bed, her palm spread open wide on his chest, her fingertips trailing angel-soft across the uncharted flesh pulled taut across his clavicle.
His heart stuttered weakly in its ribbed cage as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth but slammed back to life to hammer out a staccato beat when she spoke - ripping him savagely from his reverie, ushering him swiftly back to the present so that he could glance up at her as she spread her palm open wide on the tabletop.
The last thing he wanted to do was catch her eye for fear that he would find, not eyes like glaciers, but eyes the color of moss in the summer.
“Oh.” It was a single syllable that was born and promptly died on the lonely plains of his panic-thickened tongue. It was a breath that left him before he ever had a chance to keep it, like so many other things in his life. It was a sigh that came from somewhere between his ribs, born of serrated blade and many months of always wondering why. It was angst and agony and ecstasy, all the things he felt but refused to show.
It was an awkward, sheepish glance that he passed down at the book cracked open like a sacrifice before him. It was almost as if he was shocked to find it there, as if the unexpected, uninvited memory of her had compromised his capability of remembering such trivial things as books about battles fought so many years ago.
“Oh,” he said again, louder this time, with a conviction that sounded a bit more like surprise than anything else, “I…” And, much like he often did, he was stricken by a startled silence and, in a flourish of quickly-moving fingers and faintly-trembling hands, he slammed the book closed and pressed it across the table in a fit of haste.
“I don’t need it,” he managed around the well of emotion thickening in the slim, parched column of his throat. Under any other circumstances, he might have apologized for the inconvenience of his desperate need for escape in a book with a cover worn by thousands of fluttering fingertips, the page-edges feathered over time. But his father had taught him from a young age that apologies were merely a display of weakness - only the broken and despairing apologized without justified reasoning. It was not his fault that angst bred boldly in the hollow of his chest, it was no more his fault than it was hers (not Noeah, but that far-gone lover). There was nothing to apologize for - only that he had been stricken by a fit of angst at precisely the wrong time and that was merely coincidence.
Still, he refused to look at her, desperate to avoid the repercussions of doing so, desperate to avoid the steady flow of memories that had already overstayed their welcome. It was never meant to be so, of this he was all-too aware. But he caught a wavering breath between his teeth and savored it, wondering about when the opportunity to flee might present itself or if he should even wait for it at all.
DESTINATION RESERVATION ;
I, ANSEL, HEREBY HAVE READ THE PROBOARD AND FORUM RULES AND UNDERSTAND THEM TO THE FULLEST EXTENT AND PLAN TO FOLLOW THESE RULES FOR AS LONG AS I AM ON ON PROBOARDS/THIS FORUM. BY DISOBEYING THESE TERMS AND CONDITIONS, I AM SUBJECTED TO BEING BANNED AND UNDERSTAND/AGREE FULLY WITH THE CONSEQUENCES.[/SUB][/BLOCKQUOTE]