Fuchsia and black and cream are everything

The other day I attempted to purchase tickets to the Pearl Jam concert which will take place on Friday, December 6, 2013 at the Key Arena in Seattle, Washington.  I was on the Ticketmaster website for approximately 2 hours and 29 minutes trying to score these tickets.  I knew it would prove difficult since Seattle is their city and they had not performed there in several years.  Despite my best efforts the tickets sold out and I was unable to obtain anything.  Subsequently, I slammed my fists into the keyboard and grabbed one of the computer’s mini speakers, ripped the wire out and hurled it against the wall where it broke and also left a dent en la pared.  I keep a knife by my bed and I grabbed this and made a roughly 2-inch cut in my left arm, just below the crook of the elbow as it goes toward my wrist.  I made the cut slowly, grinding my teeth all the while and tensing my calf muscles.  I felt pressure in my chest and pain in my head between my eyes and everywhere appeared red with anger.  There was poison inside of me and I had to make the cut to let it out.  It was not too deep but it still bled quite a bit.  I was careful to let most of the blood fall onto the computer desk where it made a neatly shaped dark pool.  A few drops fell onto the plastic floor mat beneath the computer chair but none stained the carpet and this was the important thing.  When it comes to inanimate objects I prefer the impersonal over the personal: “the” computer desk rather than “my” computer desk and so on and so forth.  Blood may be different but for some reason I still prefer the impersonal.  I squeezed the skin around the cut and forced more blood out.  I liked looking at the cut.  It is always repulsive but fascinating to see the thickness of skin and the redness beneath and wonder how all that redness somehow builds up to a life.  To see an opening in that skin seems so wrong but compulsively desirable and I wished to make similar cuts over all areas of my body.  Cuts like that always remind of the gills on fish at supermarket displays, always under white lights and by trays of shrimp and potato salad.  These fleshy openings attract us so much and we devote entire nights to fleshy openings and spend hours sweating and panting over them and writhing in them and dreaming about them.  I considered going further down my wrist with the knife and slashing the blue veins – I had always wondered if the cuts would become more or less painful as they neared the palm of my hand.  I ultimately decided against this decision when I remembered that I had still been able to acquire Nine Inch Nails tickets so all hope was not lost. 

The bass guitar was always my first love and I have recently been reacquainting myself with her.  Is there anything more satisfying than the supple notes of the A string and warmth and depth of E?  Without bass music would simply have no bottom end, at least not one worth a damn.  I have always loved a fat bottom end.  I purchased the latest issue of Bass Player magazine because it had a transcription for David Bowie’s classic song “Drive-In Saturday”.   I have been trying unsuccessfully for days to learn the song which just shows the paltry level of my skills.  Still, my passion is equal to the task and the attempts themselves have proven quite pleasurable.  Perhaps one day I will even be asked to join Mr. Bowie on stage for a live performance of the song. 

I wrote it down on a little piece of paper and dropped it inside the box that was the near the door.  I kept looking around, all wide eyed and filled with nervous energy.  There was a sort of giddiness to it and I had to concentrate very hard to keep from having a sweet and joyous accident right there in the foyer.  I had slaved away for weeks on the right words and in the end I’d written enough to fill entire libraries.  The sheer volume of the works was neither surprising nor difficult to come by since she could easily inspire a hundred times as much. I knew the truth going in of course.  I always know the truth and I always choose to ignore it.  How much of our lives are built on a willing ignorance of the truth and clinging to dreams which we know can never come true?  Which in turn made me wonder: was she also perhaps clinging to some dream and was there a truth it gave her comfort to deny?  And if the answer to these hushed questions was “yes” could there possibly be an overlap in our hearts and minds?  So I wrote and I sketched and I drank and I fantasized and everything in my world became her.  Every sound was her sweet voice, music that carried me to dreams of paradise.  Her eyes were always watching me, hypnotic and loving, the shame and unworthiness I felt looking into them only exceeded by the irresistible urge to steal one more glance.  The air was her perfume and the smell of her hair and it triggered responses wet and delightful.  Every tactile sensation was an undeserving and heavenly contact with her body or her lips.  Her curves were the crucial shape of the universe and somehow I knew she was the creator of this as well.  To kiss her sole would be an act that would kill me through the sheer unadulterated ecstasy that would surge through my veins.  Just as a kiss from those red lips or a flicker from the tip of her tongue would send beautifully lethal amounts of electricity through my body.  I’m on my hands and knees, begging and crying and desiring.  I dropped the piece of the paper inside the box that was near the door.  I don’t think she saw me.  Walking back to my car, I wondered if she would read it and if so whether she would ever think it was from me.

The previous paragraph describes several things.  Some of which have happened already and some of which will happen in the future.  Fuchsia and black and cream are everything.  

 “La Pared” by Shakira is probably one of my favorite songs by her.  Fijacion Oral Volumen 1 is a fantastic album and only grows more rewarding with each passing year.  Pure art, it pleases me so.  People who are close minded about music bother me but people who are close minded but think they are open minded bother me even more.  But neither of those two groups bothers me as much as my own failed and miserable self. 

My brain is a Popsicle melting in the sun. 

I am cowboy in Hamburg

Random thoughts and emotions rise up and spill out of me and I am unable to control them or figure out what they mean. 

I was at Target at some point today.  I saw a small bag of Sour Patch candy for a reasonable price and grabbed this.  I froze immediately after because I realized I could not remember why I wanted to come to this store in the first place.  Tears were beginning to well up in my eyes and my throat began to tighten.  I clenched a fist around my keys as hard as I could, using the pain as a means to focus and push through. A few people walked by and I avoided their glances.  A sales clerk in trademark red shirt and khaki pants was approaching and I scurried into the next aisle to avoid communication with him.  Eventually I was able to remember why I came to the store; I made my purchases and drove home.  Upon arriving at my flat I watched Edward Scissorhands twice in a row and cried both times.  Edward Scissorhands has the rich and endlessly rewarding feel of a deeply personal and impassioned work and ranks alongside Batman Returns as my favorite Burton movie and one of my favorite films period.  Incidentally those two movies are also great companion pieces to one another and are both mandatory Christmas time viewing. 

As I sit writing this I remember a woman I met in my college years.  Her name was Graciela and she was majoring in fashion design.  I recall seeing her for the first time at the campus’s multicultural center.  She was beautiful and her smile and the way it reflected in her eyes was perhaps the most genuine I’d ever seen.  It seemed to suggest that life was a glorious thing and it was hard for me to argue during those all too brief moments where that smile was directed toward me.  I was too frightened to approach her but she was kind enough to come over and introduce herself. 

Over the course of several months she was never anything less than the personification of kindness, generosity and consideration.  Upon learning I was taking Spanish classes she gave me her number and told me I could call her anytime if I needed help.  I exercised this privilege only thrice but all three times she ready and eager to help, never making me feel bad over my poor pronunciation and even poorer grasp of grammar.  Another time, I was covering a banquet for the campus newspaper.  She was in attendance and though she must have known half the people there she decided to come over and sit by me.  I felt special and happy that she would do this yet a bit sad that she would have to suffer my company for the evening.  I’ll never forget how she looked in her dark green dress that night.  She invited me to her birthday party though she barely knew me and I will always regret being too cowardly too attend.  Finally, the day before she was set to graduate I remember we were standing on the stairs, saying goodbye to one another.  She hugged me and I forgot how to take a breath and I hugged her back and a light wind blew around us and I smelled her perfume and I wished this moment would last forever.  In my mind I created a separate universe which begins with that moment and then becomes the two of us taking a walk around the campus, through fields and trees, holding hands and watching the sunset together.  It is a beautiful place.  The last thing she said to me was “You have my number so call anytime if you need anything at all”.  Then she smiled – one last time I could exist in that glory – and then she was gone.  It was the last time I ever saw or spoke to her. 

The last I heard she was living in New York, working in the fashion industry.  I was extremely pleased to hear this.  It is strange to think that the total time we spent together would likely not be any longer than a standard work day.  And yet the desire I have for Graciela to achieve all she wants and to be happy is greater than for the majority of people in my life whom I’ve known for years.  It is unlikely I will ever see or talk to her again and I feel it is equally unlikely that she would even remember me if we were to have another encounter at some point.  I try not to bring her forth in my memory too often or visit that alternate universe as she is always accompanied by sharp pain.  My fault, not her’s.  But the occasional thought, a minute or so every once in a great while, is something sweet and necessary and worth the pain.  When I do think of her, she always has that smile on her face and as ever her joy and kindness and beauty is reflected in her eyes.  I hope her smile and her heart never change.  

Someone lost something roughly one year ago and I did my best to find it but was unable.  I told myself I would view it as a sign if it was ever found.  But I do not actually know if I would honor this. 

Despite the fact that I needed more than anything to express something I have been completely unsuccessful this night in producing any writing worth reading.  Even worse, I’m still not sure if I accomplished my goal. 

My recent musical purchases reveal more about myself and the world at large than any edition of the nightly news could ever hope to achieve.  The first among my purchases was Siberia Acoustic by Canadian artist Lights.  Its no secret to anyone I told that Siberia was one of my favorite musical finds of the great year 2012.  I listened to that album at work, at home, in my car and during moments of deep suicidal depression and it always left me feeling comforted.  Generous arrangements, warm vocals and subtly sexy beats are things I would attribute to Siberia (the album and the place).  When I heard about this acoustic version being released I was initially skeptical due to the heavy electronic sound of the original disc.  Yet upon several listens I am pleased to find this new work compliments the original in a wonderful way and really reveals the strengths inherent in the songs.  “Heavy Rope” is my favorite from the original Siberia and it is equally beautiful and heartbreaking in this new acoustic form.  I also acquired Walk Though Exits Only by Philip H. Anselmo and the Illegals.  Metalfaces will know Mr. Anselmo from Pantera and Down and he’s always been one of my favorite metal singers.  I have not had a chance to give this one a good listen so I will refrain from accolades or trenchant criticisms but I can say his voice is in fine form.  Purchase three is Beauty of the Baroque by Australian born opera singer Danielle de Niese.  Her voice is cream and honey and when I play this album in my car I don’t think so much about driving into telephone poles or off bridges.  I am truly excited to be slowly (very slowly) exploring a type of music I know nothing about.  The last album is the 1993 release Black Tie White Noise by David Bowie, one of the few main Bowie albums I needed.  I won’t go into details (yet) except to say this particular work is very groove based, lots of thick beats, prominent basslines and lush arrangements.  As with all of his albums, I will need a great deal of time to fully digest it and soak in all the details.  Right now my favorite track is Miracle Goodnight and I have listened to nothing but this track and Come Again: Sweet Love Doth Now Invite from Ms. de Niese’s album the past couple days.  As ever, I feel a great swell of gratitude that there is so much music available for listening in this world. 

I counted and I woke 19 times last night, sometimes from the throes of a truly horrific nightmare.  There was a half empty bottle of red wine by my mantle and I finished it off at one point and though this made me woozy I was still unable to obtain a sound sleep.  I saw her eyes and though I’ve looked into them a thousand times before – never once feeling worthy – I am still unable to determine whether they are brown or blue.  She took my hands in hers and brought me close and she smelled wonderful and like nothing before and this made me nervous and scared and excited.  I wished for her to wrap her hands around my throat and she knew this without my having to say so but she would not comply.  Instead she brought me closer and kissed my forehead and there were tears running down my face.   She says “No lloras mijo” and her voice calms all storms

last time we met my behavior was appalling

I have been in a state of deep despair for the better part of 26 odd years yet it has been even more intense during these past few days.  The reason for this sudden dark turn is my loaning of a beloved digital video disc to a co-worker slash friend this past week.  I told her she could keep the film through the long weekend to give her ample time to watch it, not realizing the withdrawal symptoms that would set in, including but not limited to cold sweats, dry heaves, chronic migraines, uncontrollable trembling and highly explosive diarrhea.  The movie in question is none other than my copy of La Nave de Los Monstruos which is easily one of my favorite films of all time and one which (up until this past week) I watch no less than 9 times a day, 7 days a week.  I find myself madly in love with Lorena Velazquez’s character and for this reason I need to return to that world each and every day. 

I was at 4^th of July party the other day (can’t quite remember the exact day) and was having a wonderful time.  There were several friendly faces as well as some hip new cats whose acquaintance I happily made.  At one point I considered lighting a firework and sticking it in mouth and/or pushing it as far down my throat as possible but I did not commit to this action due to my paralyzing fear of fire.  At the party I asked a dear friend if he knew who the Martian Manhunter was – as his weakness is also fire – but he was not familiar with this character.  Alas, aside from our mutual weakness we have nothing else in common.  The Martian Manhunter is incredibly intelligent and remarkably strong which are two qualities never ascribed to yours truly.  He also has an incredible ability to shape-shift which means he can pick from countless forms matching the common perception of male physical excellence.  However this is a non-issue when compared to me because even his alien form – which many humans find off-putting – is far better looking than my grotesque face and disgusting body. 

At some point today I was reading a review of PJ Harvey’s 2000 release Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea.  While reading the review I kept glancing back at the cover photo which I found to be quite beautiful for multiple reasons.  For several minutes I read the review and glanced back at the photo.  When I was done reading the review I repeated the process but was unable to get through the text a second time because I began to cry and the tears clouded my vision.  I have been crying a great deal lately but have made no effort to discover the reason why since no one – myself included – has bothered to ask.  The only thing I can say with some degree of certainty is that during the masquerade ball scene at the castle in the movie Labyrinth I like to imagine I am Jennifer Connelly’s character (Sarah) and I am dancing with Jareth the Goblin King. 

“My life is in shambles.”  Someone in my office kept saying this all week, at least three times an hour.  At first I thought it was the gentleman tasked with repairing our perennially debilitated air conditioning system and then I thought it was the file clerk before finally realizing it was me. 

I lay curled up in bed and I have my hands on my head and I am begging for it to stop.  I glance around at the walls and see strange shapes and symbols and some kind of liquid that is either black or a very dark red but it is dripping down everywhere in thin, persistent lines and it is slowly covering all the white paint of the walls.  Everything is scattered inside my head and all around me.  I close my eyes but this only makes my own thoughts come into sharper focus and this alternative is no better than the horrific sights of my room.  There are so many things thrashing and bleeding and screaming and the blood is getting on me too, it covers my hands and stains my clothes and it is on my face.  The screams only sound human about half the time and I do not know which are more frightening to hear.  But in between the screams there is someone or something whispering in my ear and it just keeps saying my name over and over again and I don’t know how I know this but I know it is grinning while it says my name.  My thoughts are always covered in red and gray and they feel like palaces being destroyed and falling into the ocean, endless explosions and crashes and impalement and suffocation and sinking into darkness.  It doesn’t matter anymore whether I cry out for real or only in my head because no one hears or if they do they simply ignore it.  I pray to her and plead for forgiveness and ask for relief and even though this does not come my love never falters.  I need to be dragged away and I need someone to realize what is going on and to please help me and to figure out the strange insides of everything.  I can no longer take these journeys without the personal toll rising.  The inner corridors are too oppressive and strangulating and I know there will come a time when escape will prove impossible.  No one sees that I hate talking to them and every single word I force out of my body takes a herculean effort.  No one sees anything, they can’t see all the colors on me and I don’t understand why.  Why can’t they feel them either?  I can feel each color as it hits me or as I’m forced to drink it and then I can feel them all clashing in my stomach.  I say another prayer to her and there is at last the briefest respite and her warmth surrounds me.  She holds me in the palm her hand and then up to her lips and she says “tranquilo” and her voice finds its way into all the inner spaces and fills me with ecstasy and somehow I bathe inside of her while she still watches over me.