#its like if you met hades and he had a thick southern us accent

[katabasiss]

D I V I N E    D U S T

@endymions title exchange for @acheloides

There was dust on her hand, etching it’s way between the crevices: coating her nails. Gold for the sunflowers she adored, gold for her hair in soft light, gold for tint of her cheeks. She rubbed the dust within her palm absentmindedly. Her hands were dry. There wasn’t much to do about that she decided - she had much to do, too much to do. There were preparations to be made, people to talk to - mothers to comfort.

An empty bed to lay beside.

No. This was her job. She could fix this, make it better - rid her dry, dry hands of this putrid dust.

She recalled the moment it happened. The slow decline of the flower her lover had held. Her sharp features, softer as they collapsed under a wave of gold. A hand reaching for her, eyes desperate, mouth -

No. There was too much to do. She couldn’t. She didn’t have time to think; to cry, to mourn, to plead.

She rubbed at her palm again and looked up in contemplation. She had a plan - a solid plan, she thought. It would fix this. All of this. It had to. As she scraped her thumb against her palm for the third time, she stood up and began to jog along the barren corridors. There would be no more ‘dust’. Everything would go back to normal.

Her heels bellowed along the marble that adorned floor, a chill residing from them that coated her bones. As her destination rose in her peripheral vision, feet rouge from the force exerted, she curled up her hair - the black locks tightly forming a braided crown. Yes, she thought, this would do nicely. Her hands flung up but this time to meet the harsh jutting rocks she was quickly approaching. They scraped harshly against the sides, rocks digging their way into her palm. Her dust coated hands now torn at the edges. She lifted a hand up –

-and began to climb. Continued to climb, even as her thighs burned, even as sweat dripped down her eyes, even as the skin on her feet cracked: until she could see the top. Until jagged stone turned to long forgotten fields of cracked wheat, until the blackened landscape turned a dirty blue mulled with dull greys.

When her now bloodied hands felt that dry crackle of yellowed grass oppose to jagged rock, she cried a breath, arms straining under the weight of pulling herself up, collapsing underneath her and she slowly found the energy to turn when a voice above made itself known.

“Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my blasted field?”

She looked up and noted a man drawn with wrinkles around each corner with hair as grey as the clouds gathering above. Still laying on the ground – rubbing her palm absentmindedly with her ring finger, she looked up and met the man’s gaze -

“They call me Hades. I’ve come to save my wife”

The old man, who later introduced himself half reluctantly as Henry, somehow affectionately short for Harold he grumbled - had clearly taken pity on her, Hades thought as they slowly trekked through acres of dry dust. Her foot shuffled and kicked up dust - she watched as it halfheartedly flew away with child-like effort as the faint breeze grasped desperately for it like a mother and an escaping toddler. Why? Hades pondered - perhaps it was because of the state of her hair? the rips in her dress? Maybe the sheer lack of shoes took him by surprise?

“Where are you taking me?” Hades inquired, curiosity crawling out of her tightly locked lips.

“Home. To my wife.”

“Why? Why with me?”

“Why?”, Henry scoffed, “Because I just met a batshit crazy lady out in my bleeding field claiming to be the God of death and dressed to the bloody nines as my late grandma would’ve – bless her soul. If my wife would’ve find out an’ I didn’t help yah? I’d be in the doghouse.”

Hades paused for half a step and frowned. She wasn’t particularly dressed any differently than how she did last time she was on this plane – she had kept up with the height of fashion then. A blue ankle-length dress, tightly upkept hair: nothing excessive. But then, Hades supposed - rubbing her palm, mortals do have an exceptionally short life-time; more often than not fleeting and unused. She would know best after all. She remembered the stacks of death records piled up, the ink still present and smudged on the edge of her hand even now.

She tilted her head in inclination of a nod but then noted the emphasis Henry had put on the word ‘God’.

“Why does everyone assume I am a male?” She asked, a hint of bitterness poisoning her words and relying her thoughts on the, if she did say so, rather sexist presumption.

“You mean why does everyone assume the Greek god of death in mythology is a guy?”

“That’s exactly what I said” Hades puzzled. She drew in half a breath and reluctantly with a wince and her hand half held out in a reassuring position questioned, “Do you perhaps need hearing aids? Forgive me for asking of course”.

“Jesus fucking Christ”

“I…think you’d find that to be rather impossible considering Jesus and Christ are in fact, the same person”

Henry sighed. “Look kid, you really wanna know? It’s just how it is, I don’t know why okay?”

Hades grumbled, “that doesn’t seem very fair”

“Yeah life isn’t kid.” She supposed that was fair. Life was cruel in a way no one would ever claim had they not seen the serenity of death. Life was awfully lonely, Hades thought. “What you doing here anyway?”

“I told you. I’m here to save my wife.”

“Yeah? Course you are. Bet she’s Persephone too eh?” Hades frowned, mortals often didn’t know them – perhaps this man was a deity in disguise? a demi-god perhaps? The days the Hellenic ruled were long gone. Her brothers and sisters left to merely grasp on the edges of their domains, to cry only a whisper of power.

She began to study the man more in-depth - a microscopic focus. His veins red apparent with blood, different from the ichor gold within her own. He was aged and whilst kind-looking, not in an overly graceful manor thanks to the perpetual frown painted on the corner of his lips. No. This man was no God, no higher power.

“How did you know?” She quizzed.

“Don’t take a genius does it?”

How awfully vague.

“Look up ahead kid. That’s my house.”

In line with where Henry pointed and buried beneath rows of corn, with a half-caved roof was indeed, a quaint little house. A cottage really, if Hades was to be pedantic. It had faint walls, stripped and deprived of any colour thanks to the iron regime of the molten heat and a little weather vane stationary and much too heavy for what little breeze there was outside.

Once inside, Hades found the outside had little reflection on the interior – the walls painted in a multitude of colours ranging from green and blue to yellow; the carpets thick and full, and the atmosphere warm but in a kindly way that was barren and devoid in the heat outside.

“Henry?” the voice was squeaked and nasally in that way only a  southern American accent could achieve. When the voice emerged it came from a woman – small and hunched with tightly permed dark locks and dressed in bright pink loose garments.

“We’ve got a guest. Said she’s called Hades – three guesses as to what her wife’s called?”

“Henry!” the woman reprimanded as she walked closer. She held out a hand, “You can call me Lisa dear. What can we do for?”

“I – I came to – to err” Hades coughed, the shock and novelty wearing off of the petite woman’s hand outstretched before her nose, “I came to find a way to help my wife”

“What’s wrong with her dear?”

She wasn’t sure what to say. The dealings of the God’s were not the concern of mortals. But, Hades thought, there was no one else. What good were the dealings of the God’s staying separate from those of mortals when there were a lack of God’s to have said dealings?

“I don’t know” she whispered rubbing her palm, “she turned to dust”.

“Dust?” Henry cut in, “How can a –“ he sighed between words, “- a god, of all things, turn to dust?”

She hesitantly sat down on the loved blue sofa, opposite from where Henry and Lisa sat – slouched and leaned forward respectively.

“There are…not many things that can fell one of our calibre.  Many have tried, and all have failed – from Kronus, to Death, to even one another. But one thing that we are all mortal to: is belief.”

“Belief?”

“It is the one thing that holds us together – it was belief that created us, and belief that shall end us. It is the rising waves, the oppressive heat, the dawn of a new day and the dusk of another. It will outlive us all – including immortals.”

“So belief? That’s what’s wrong with your wife – err Persephone?”

“The days of the Hellenic are long gone” Hades shrugged, “too few know and invoke her name. She has been…replaced by others.”

“Yeah – there’s a reason it’s mythology” Henry scoffed. Lisa swatted her hand at his chest and glared.

“Fine. If you’re really Hades then lass, then how – how are you not, what was it? Dust?”

“Whilst we are all privy to the ebb and flow of belief, there are – things that cannot die. Time, death, war – all are forever. We are the past, present and we will be the future. There is something – wrong, with this world. Mortals have begun to play our role, to play God. They control weather – springtime is no longer present; crops fail to harvest; the stars lack their shine and bright glow. Love is seen as a burden; this world is built on the ideals of success being the only thing worthwhile. When I talk about belief, on one hand, I do indeed mean, the worship invoked in our names – the candles lit for our sakes. But, a name forgotten is quickly traded for another. Our domains? What we control? That is where the belief needs to be centred. If there is no belief in love – where does that go? Love must disappear.”

Silence knelt its presence in their conversation, all that could be heard was the slow battering of dust against the panels of the house.

“So, let me get this straight dear,” Lisa began, her eyes darting slighting towards her husband but a smile in the direction of Hades, “It’s not the belief in – in your wife, Persephone that is – that presumably killed her is it? It’s the belief in – what is she the Goddess of again dear?”

“err springtime?” Henry questioned in response.

“Yes. It’s that the belief in springtime is gone?”

“In a way” Hades sighed, “It’s – springtime is deemed a fact of this world. It cannot be believed in or against, it just is. It’s that springtime has seized to exist in a way,” she rubbed her palm, “Humans, they – I don’t, don’t know the term for it – global warming I think?  They have done something, none the less, and – springtime, autumn – fall whatever you call it, it is no more.”

“Global warming – killed a Goddess?” Henry stated incredulously.

“Global warming, killed springtime and with it – “ Hades retorted, “my wife. Yes.”

Silence had now begun to stand, looming over the group and pulling itself up by grasping on their tongues. Lisa coughed, quickly biting the hand that restricted her and forcing the silence to retreat.

“Would you – would anyone like any tea?”.

Hades smiled up at her and nodded, “Please”

“Right we go then dear, I’ll be right back” She said, smiling back with cracked lips tinted a pale crimson.

“So what was your grand plan then lass?” Henry questioned, “You said you’d come to save your wife. How you gonna do that? Fight fist the God of Global warming?”

“There is no God of Global warming”

“No –“ Henry said in an odd voice that Hades couldn’t discern, “Just one of Death”

Hades frowned, not in response to his statement but rather to his question. ”I don’t know in all honesty. I – I thought maybe I’d go around, try to reinforce belief, rally whatever of us there are left together for one cause.”

“So you’re becoming an environmental activist?” Henry drawled.

“What’s this?” Lisa cut in, precariously balancing a tray of overflowing mugs – milky tea tracing the sides as she shuffled slowly forward. Hades stood up to help but was quickly shot down with mutterings of “No no no dear – you just stay there.”

“Hades here wants to become an environmental activist”

“That’s not what I said” Hades frowned, “I want to rally the troops so to speak, inspire belief- see who’s left. Thought I’d take a car and drive, it can’t be that difficult can it?”

“What rallying the troops?”

“No. Driving”

“Your whole plan resides on you driving around and you don’t even know how?” Henry questioned incredulously

“Well then, isn’t it lucky you do dear” Lisa stated, with a pointed smile towards Henry. They participated in a staring match for what seemed like hours, neither folding nor laying their cards down on the rickety table in front.

“Guess it’s a good thing you got a taxi driver then kid,” Henry drawled bitterly, running a thumb around the rim of his mug, “where’s the first stop?”

Hades brought her own cracked mug to her honey-stained lips and took a sip, tasting the bitter tea swirling with thick milk. She didn’t know who was alive, still around even. But she was death, riches, the underworld - if she was still around, what were the chances he would be? They had to go to the most vile, black-hearted place around; if he was to be anywhere – if he was even alive, it would be there.

“Vinton, Iowa”

//

The first thought Hades had when she saw Henry stutter the mangled car from the worn garage was, “this is how an immortal dies”. It was a pale blue, perhaps once a rich cobalt now whitened with sun damage and scabbed at every nook and cranny. It groaned a pitiful noise when Henry drifted towards Hades – or at least attempted to. The car seemed to miss its mark by about 5 meters, leaving Hades to half jog towards the passenger door.

“I think this is older then I am” she said, ducking her head hesitantly in the car to sit down.

Henry snorted, “Bessie’s perfectly well and fit, don’t be a wimp lass”. Hades turned to him, looking sceptical.

“She looks like she’d fall apart going below the speed limit”

Henry glared at her in response and was quick to remind her just who it was who was driving her “ass around”. Naturally with that reminder, she shut up and instead turned to the battered radio player and began fiddling with its knobs. Henry slapped her hand away.

“If you gonna be annoying, you can get out right now”

“So you want to sit in silence with nothing but my company for hours?”

Henry seemed to think better on this and whilst still glaring at her lifted his own hand to the radio, turning to the first station that didn’t bellow out an ear-splitting crackle.

As they drove through the fields of wheat and grass, Hades mind was stuck on Persephone. She knew she was doing the right thing but in all honesty, she had no idea if it would work or not. She – she just didn’t know. What if she failed? What if –

Her thoughts were disturbed by Henry turning down the radio to a silent whisper and asking, “So why Iowa of all places?”

“If I truly want to rally the troops so to speak, I need a leader. I’m all well and good but – I’m not exactly known for my social skills, so to speak that is”

“Can’t see why” Henry cut in, his tone sarcastic and as dry as the river of heat embracing the car. Hades glared at him, she may not have much interaction with mortals – that was more Thanatos’ realm, but she occasionally still knew sarcasm when it hit her.

“Yes well, the fact stands, I’m not the best person for this job.”

“So who is?”

“Who better to lead troops then the God of war. I want Ares.”

“Ares. You think you’re gonna find Ares, the God of war of all things, in an unremarkable little town in Iowa”

“It is more often than not, the unremarkable that is the remarkable. You just have to remember to look. You can find the most brutal anger in the plainest of people, the most embracing love in the ordinary. The extraordinary are only that because that is all they have. The ordinary? The unremarkable as you say? In my experience, they have always been the jack of all trades, skilled in a multitude of ways that extraordinary simply cannot comprehend.”

“Some would say the Gods, if they were real that is, were extraordinary. How you feel about that?”

“Immortals are not without their flaws” Hades scoffed, “my brother Zeus is cruel. Does horrible things to those around him; Poseidon with a temper that can fell cities to their knees – myself even, an apathy at times that scares even my wife. No one is exempt – even the Gods.”

Silence once again made itself know – how kind of their old friend Hades thought. Henry coughed, apparently unsure of what to say.

“Neat”.

Hades snorted, an ugly coughing escaped Henry is response.

“Is that what your laugh sounds like?”

Her eyes widened, and her hand shot up towards her mouth as her cheeks blushed a deep crimson.

“Shut up”

Henry laughed, his own laugh a loud, racketing bellow that came deep from within.

“No no no, I didn’t mean it like that lass. It’s perfectly fine. It’s just you don’t tend to think of the so-called deity of death laughing”

“I mean technically, Thanatos is the God of death – I’m just – I just have the underworld.” Hades stuttered out “Oh and – and money”

Henry’s laugh continued as the landscape blurred past them – yellow turning green with pine, the road now a grey tarmac rather than dusty paths.

When they finally reached Iowa, they were greeted by a titled sign and clear skies – silence befell them.

“What are you doing?” Hades asked as Henry indicated to turn into a half-empty car park lined with blocked, grey scale buildings.

“You can’t go out or around like that lass”

“Like what?”

“Like you been holed up all your life in a tower with your grandmother as your only company” Henry scoffed.

“I like these clothes” Hades said, running her hand down the bottom of her dress, feeling the scruff of the blue linen on her hand.

“And you’ll find more clothes you like”

“You don’t have to do this” she said as he chugged the car to a stop after taking what she could only assume was five hours to park.

“Oh I’m not doing this for you lass,” Henry laughed before putting on a mimicry of a higher pitched voice, “I refuse to be seen in public with you looking like that”                     

“I don’t – I don’t understand”

He sighed getting out of the car, “Doesn’t matter anyway lass. Come on – any thoughts on what you’d like?”

“Clothes” she dragged out, still largely unsure as to what exactly was happening.

“Oh fucking hell – no shit sherlock” Henry replied, more to himself then to her.

“Who is sherlock? Do we need him? Can he help?”

As they walked into the store, limonium flooring slapped underneath her heels and reflected the clinical bright lights.

“Go nuts kid, I’ll out here if you wanna show off your outfits”

“What do I pick?”

“Whatever you think is neat”

Naturally, this was a horrible idea. The first look Hades picked was an attack of colour – a pastel ankle length skirt paired with a purple flower blouse and black Velcro trainers. She thought it looked great; the first out of Henry’s mouth however was a harsh, “No”.

The next outfit was potentially a bit blander, she thought. A blue strappy shirt with flared trousers and a dull green cloak. One again however, she was rejected with a quick “no” and an incredulous “How did you even find that?!”.

Finally, disheartened and frustrated with the constant rejections, she decided to simply copy what she did last time she was on this plane and mimick others. The girl to her left was wearing an oversized beige jacket, a jumper and what appeared to be rolled up trousers accompanied with boots. That would do nicely, Hades thought.

As she slowly drew back the changing room curtain once again, she carefully watched Henry’s features and was relieved to be met with an, admittedly, disinterested thumbs up.

Once they left it was back on the road to Vinton, Iowa. Well no, first they stopped at the drive through starbucks but then – it was back on the road to Vinton, Iowa.

As Henry parked the car in a barren car park, Hades watched the town – the people who turned their heads towards the car and greeted them with stares cased in fire and masked with southern hospitality.

“Quaint” Henry mummered under his breath, “So where exactly do we find the God of war?”

Hades frowned, sniffing the air as they stepped out of the car before pointing due east. “That way”.

“You sure?”

She glared back at Henry who like a solider on a battlefield, held up his hands in surrender. As they walked towards their destination, Hades found herself remiss in the fact there was no dirt to kick up. The tarmac coated in a thin layer of dirty water instead and she found herself in response watching the puddles cling to Henry’s shoe like a dribble of spit as he walked in front of her.

“Turn left” Hades said to Henry who was a few steps ahead of her and they soon found themselves face to face with a suburban estate, doors and walls the same colour – the same lawn repeated again and again.

“The God of war is in a suburban estate?” Henry dragged out.

“They have a lot of pent of anger” Hades responded. As they walked to a nondescript doorstep, Hades peaked inside the window and noted how the regimented white yellowed into sepia tones – giving way to the apparent secrets hidden behind a pure facade. She slowly pressed a hand towards the door and with a creek it opened, revealing blood stained wall paper pealing at the edges and an isolated sofa chair with its back to the door illuminated by only a faint glow of the tv screen in front.

“Ares” Hades began

“Been awhile” the figure replied, smoke misting from the corners of his lips and drenching the room in thick tobacco.

Hades hummed in response, it had been a while she supposed but in regards to the life span of an immortal? “Only a century or so” she mollified, her tone gentle yet hesitant in nature. In the dim light, she could see Ares draw in another breath of smoke and exhale slowly – his brown hair, once the rival of Adonis now drooping and low, cut into his cheekbones as he did so.

“I remember,” he responded scornfully, “in any place there is enough war, there is death walking alongside him”

Henry, who had been silent until now chose this moment to speak up – “I thought you were saying you two were friendly?”

Hades opened her mouth to respond but Ares quickly beat her to the punch, “War and death are always friendly –“ he tilted his head as if in contemplation before quickly huffing out a laugh, “as are riches and war. Always have been. Always will be.”

Hades took a step forward, her boot crunching over the rotted floorboards below. “We need your help” she sighed, cutting straight to the point.

“Help?” Ares huffed, “the fuck you want me for?”

“Look at the place Ares”, she snorted, making a move to turn on the light and in doing so, allowing it to become apparent to the trio just how desolate the place was. As she slowly ran her fingers over the coarse fabric of his chair she whispered, “What is war without love? What’s the point?”, until she was squatting, face to face against Ares. “We can help you. We can bring her back.”

“Yeah? Why should I believe you? After last time and what happened?” he huffed before continuing, “I never got that weapon back”

“Because Persephone is gone”. It was the first time she’d ever said it aloud. Aloud and with clarity. Amidst the fire and smoke wrapping itself around her throat, a deep chill made itself known in her bones, tracing the insides of skin and curling along her veins.

“Really gone huh?”

Hades nodded, rubbing her palms on her knees and revelling in the sweat that dampened them. She had never sweat before, and she thought absentmindedly ‘what did that mean for her?’

“You got a plan?”

She smirked, meeting his gunpowder dark eyes, “Don’t I always?”

#gonna be honest i wrote this on like the first day in a rush and then promptly forgot about it hsakhfkls #so like it's kinda shit and badly written but i hope you like it! #plus ngl half the reason i didn't develop the writing further is because it sparked my wip djkdjdk so i should really be saying thanks #endystitleexchange #title exchange

[imwithmars]

Flaunt Magazine 2004 interview

David Fincher – “It goes kind of like, ‘How   can you tell when Jared is lying? His lips are moving.’”

Rock & Roles –

Flaunt Magazine, by Shari Roman

December 2004

“This is fantastic,” murmurs Jared Leto as the relentless Moroccan   sun sears destiny into his bronzed, bare skin. He is sweating under his tight  armor. His dark horse, Mateo, quivers beneath him and paws the ground nervously. A signal is given.

Leto howls a great animalistic yowl straight from his belly to the ears of   the gods. There is another howl, then another. Thousands of voices fuse into   one animal cry. A legion of alpha males surges forward to meet the enemy, Leto,   blond hair hair streaming past his shoulders, muscular thighs gripped bareback   on his galloping horse, rides hard into the thick of a bloody combat. His sword   cuts through all who oppose him.

This is the filming of Oliver Stone’s Alexander and the legendary battle of   Gaugamela, Alexander’s greatest victory over the Persians - a turning point   in his conquest of the known world. Stone’s sweeping historical saga charts   the life and the legend of one of the greatest figures in world history. The   story is an epic that is a daring and ambitious as its subject, a relentless   conqueror who, by the age of 32, had amassed the greatest empire the world hade   ever seen.

Through the clouds of dust, Leto can see Colin Farrell as Alexander the Great,   his massive blade slicing into flesh and sinew. There is the director, Oliver   Stone, shouting, moving rapidly behind the camera line. There are hordes of   men bellowing, bleeding, bodies everywhere. On the fringes lurks famed military   trainer and Stone cohort, Captain Dale Dye. Today, the Captain isn’t wearing   his favorite T-shirt emblazoned with the motto: “Pain is weakness leaving   the body,” but Leto needs no reminders.

Leto has always propelled himself into physical extremes to live inside a character.   As the champion runner Steve Prefontaine, he bled his feet to the bone. In the   drug-fueled Requiem For A Dream, he reportedly swore off sex (with then girlfriend,   Cameron Diaz) and lost 28 pounds to play a junky. Then there was Fight Club   (he’d been recommended for the part his friend, fellow pretty boy, Brad Pitt.),   in which he begged to have his angelic face beaten to a pulp by a jealous Ed   Norton to prove his fealty. Suffering, pain, causality, creation through transformation.   Leto has pledged himself above and beyond to those epithets years ago.

“Killing people face to face for a living, that was their job,” explains   a laidback Leto a few months later from a low-key restaurant in Southern California.   It’s early afternoon. His clothing is relaxed and he looks pleasantly tired.

“It’s not jet lag. I’m over that. I just couldn’t sleep.” It’s not   due to time spent with his (purported) new, luscious It-girl Scarlett Johansson.   He’s been concentrating on working on some new songs for his band, 30 Seconds   To Mars, taking meetings between rehearsals before he heads off to New York   and South Africa for three months to play another aggressor of sorts - an arms   dealer - in the film Lord of War, with Nicolas Cage and director Andrew Niccol   (Gattaca).

He is still pretty tan, making those pioneering blue eyes even more startling.   His long, blonde warrior-god locks are gone now, dyed and clipped into a light   brown Erik Estrada-style shag for the new movie. But there is still a trace   of the Irish lilt he took on for Alexander. (Aside from gearing it toward Farrell’s   natural tones, Stone’s rationale for the accent was that historically, the Macedonians   were to the Greeks what the Irish have been to the English.) Most of the 15   pounds of muscle weight that he strapped on for the six-month shoot has slipped   from his slim frame. Even so, the intensity of that experience is still on his   mind and in his body.

“The film has plenty of f***ing and fighting and killing and death and   blood. My job was to murder people and stand by Alexander.” who, according   to history, was his best friend since childhood, and his lover.

“Hephaestion, the character I play, and [Alexander] have a really special   connection. It’s a strong, strong relationship. I don’t think there is a term   we have today to define their relationship,” he says, deliberately muddling   around the oft-asked erotic question.

Farrell says, “There was no term for 'bisexuality’. It was just the way   society was. People made love to men and women. It was only later on you had   to pick one side of the fence.”

“But I promise you, in the film,” Leto teases, despite the magnetic   charms of Farrell, and costars Rosario Dawson and Angelina Jolie, who play Alexander’s   wife and mother, “the only kiss I gave out was to my horse. My one true   love.”

He takes the tape recorder and places it gently against his chest, which holds   within it the soul of a man who many have tried to reveal before. “I always   tell the truth. What else do you want to know? What do people really want to   know? What is the truth?” His face is a pure cheeky choir boy dare. “When   have I ever not told you the truth? How can you tell that I’m lying?”

I remind him that the last time we met, he told me he owned three Uzis, that   the first girl he kissed was a 47-year-old tranny named Jorge, that he was 19,   raised by circus performers, and that he studied art at the American University   of Paris for a semester, but was booted out when he wouldn’t give in to the   attentions of the headmaster. And he wouldn’t back down to any of those “facts”.

He laughs. “Really? As Ronald Regan used to say, 'I have no memory of   saying such things.’ ”

Says producer/director David Fincher, who worked with Leto on both Fight Club  and Panic Room, “When it comes to his acting, he is beyond method. He gets  into this whole image of his character. It is interesting how that kind of pain and sacrifice can translate. I mean, look at Requiem. I wish I had 100 Jareds   working for me. He was amazing.

"Jared definitely strives not to be a victim of his genetics. On the films   we did together, he was the guy who is constantly curious, the one you couldn’t bottle up. The one who wouldn’t hit his mark. He was like, 'Hey, I’m living it! Over here!’ But he does like to tell stories. It goes kind of like, 'How can you tell when Jared is lying? His lips are moving.’ ”

Leto, who prefers to see his playful fibbing as a way to keep his private life   private, was born the day after Christmas, 33 years ago, in Bossier City, Louisiana. His mother was an artistic soul, and with his father out of the picture, he and his brother, Shannon (who is also in 30 Seconds To Mars), traveled a great deal while they were growing up. After a stint at New York’s School of Visual Arts, he says, he came to Los Angeles around 12 years ago with a couple hundred bucks in his pocket, no friends, and nowhere to stay. For awhile, he slept on Venice Beach. Then kaboom! a role on television’s My So-Called Life (opposite Claire Daines) and for the next few years, he reigned as a teen pinup - a tag   and a look he has been successfully living down ever since.

According to Leto, “Luck is the residue of destiny.” It’s a phrase   he’s heard which he likes very much. He feels it means that we can get caught up in so many things, but the world has what it has for us. That, in our natural state, everything is the way it’s supposed to be - free and joyous - and that our own insecurities get in the way of all that. It’s an idea which could be   applied to his early life.

“When I was young, all that traveling was exciting,” says Leto. “You   do develop an ability to read people more quickly. You have to learn to adapt to whatever comes along, to survive. Maybe the way I grew up is why I’m drawn to acting, to different characters. From film to film, I’m constantly finding myself, reaching different places outside and inside myself. I want to change, to morph into something else.” To be able to do that for Oliver Stone is a gift, says Leto. “He is one of my f***ing heroes. He is a great man. Present, connected, very physical. I find his way very endearing.”

To work with Stone, he traveled to Morocco, where the oncoming sunset had turned the world orange, into the color of dark rust. But the sky was growing dark, the golden scorpions were scuttling under the rocks, another sandstorm was moving toward the camp, fast.

Within moments, Leto, wearing his usual training gear - a T-shirt, tight shorts,   boots covering his calves - couldn’t see two feet ahead of him. The sand whipped raw against his skin as he made for his tent. Inside, he tightened the flap and listened to the wind howl. He had switched off his cell phone, his e-mail. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in the U.S. for months. Apocalyptic fantasies crowded his brain. Many in the cast had already been horribly sick. There was a virus in the dust. His tent was next door to the latrine and he could hear cast and crew heave by the dozens.

One night, Leto got so sick, he thought he was going to toss a spleen.“I lay in bed for a couple of hours staring at the stars, just breathing really   slow, willing it away. I fell asleep dreaming strange, surreal dreams. When   I woke up, it was gone. That’s the desert.”

Says Dawson, “It was beyond primal, all those men bonding - horse training,   fighting, all buffed up wearing nearly nothing. And as soon as a woman came   on set, the energy was so damn erotic.

"One time Jared came to visit the hotel [where women stayed]. He was so   happy to be there. He got to take a shower, have some proper food.So he’s talking, sitting there, and just sort of adjusting the package, not sexually, but in   this slow, languorous way, like there was no one else around.It was all suited   to his character, but I was like, 'Hey dude…’

"And he was like, 'I’m sorry! We’re out there in our underwear and boots   all the time… maybe it’s got us a little too relaxed.’ Maybe. But it was all   good.” She bats her eyes.“It was wonderful being around that kind of really masculine environment.”

“Oh, Rosario,” responds Leto, “she is so beautiful. Such a great   woman.” He drops his head, smiling, not exactly asking for forgiveness.“Working on Alexander was an amazing experience. It’s all about connectivity. There is an old saying that the greatest leader is the servant of them all. Meaning, you are the most powerful when you are giving.”

“I think that as an artist, in any kind of expression of creation, that   you must have to be in love with the process. It is the most exciting part of the work, and that if you have a desire for greatness, you will have to be willing to f***ing bleed. I think it’s true for me.That’s what drives me.”

He claps his hands over his face. “F***. People are going to read this   and think, 'What the f***? Is weirdo Leto on crack? Hitting the old acid tab again.’ But honestly, it’s what I believe. One of my favorite things about getting older is that my intuition is often wrong.To me, it means I’m uncovering something   new about the world.

#flaunt magazine #jared leto #2004 #interview #did i ever post this? #he used to give great and funny interviews