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.