She is not on the visible spectrum

Sensations were writhing and dancing and their orgasmic cries echoed through the halls.  A mingling of colors formed two – no, three – perfect composites.  Pink and black, everything started with those two.  There were other colors previously and I remember them with great clarity, there was white, orange, green and red.  They were wonderful; each sparkled in their own way.  The palette of the three is rich and glorious and picturing this in my head causes all my muscles to flex and tense beginning at my calves and traveling to my fingers and jaw. Yet it was the pink and black this time and such a joyous mingling.  Pink with such obvious connotations but the electric pull was anything but common.  Even the shade – if that is even the right word – was something deeper than expected, outside the normal parameters.  Please forgive my endless longing.  I have heard those words before, from a voice so beautiful it had to come from the outer interstellar expanses which it described.  Those words became an exchange across our hearts and across all time and space and I uttered them myself a thousand times afterward and I thanked her for giving them to me.  She is always female during the day but at night I am not quite sure.  But the pink…how generous the color is as it slides down, not stopping until it reaches the wrists, this is not something I see anywhere else.  Please forgive me and do not look too long into my eyes, they hide things I would never want you to see.  But this color is surrounded by black and somehow the black is the best thing.  It is the color of coal or ink and it curves and curves and is supple and wonderful but it also blows in the wind and caresses softly and cascades down in waves.  I imagine myself drowning inside of it where mysterious words which I do not understand ring out in honeyed voices and otherworldly perfumes come to fill my remaining senses as a glorious finality takes hold.  Such tenderness, I plead for all your pardons and I beg you not to look inside.  One single touch destroys me – the very first and very last time – as these colors mix and coalesce and there is such softness.  My back arches and fingers interlock.  Memories and dreams crash along endless shores and we are pulled through space and into castles made of ice.  I have just begun to dream. 

I am always trapped inside my own disgusting body and sometimes I pound my fists into the walls or into my own face and I scream as loud and as hard as I can until it feels as though my throat is ripping apart.  I shower once every hour on the hour while the movie Blue Velvet plays on a continuous loop in the background.  My skin never appears anything less than repulsive and I frequently take furtive glances at the knife by bed and consider using it to obtain some relief but I have not done so yet. 

I remember not long ago sitting on the sofa and she was sitting right next to me and we were watching a movie which I had seen before but she had not.  The room was dark aside from the light provided by the television.  There were empty beer bottles on the window sill and empty wine bottles on the little table next to the sofa.  Sitting there I recalled asking someone the same question on different nights regarding how many sleeping pills they had taken.  My voice was always panicked in those instances.  But sitting on the sofa I was no longer able to fully understand my panic.  The images on the television ceased to make any sense to me.  People and objects were interchangeable, words became meaningless sounds.  The constructs of the room began to disappear and the bottles were not a recent memory but something completely abstract with no associations I could understand.  I still comprehended her at my side and I was filled with a harsh despair which was somehow so powerful it brought forth pain in my chest and head.  I took off my glasses and tears streamed down my face.  We moved together and as she held me tight I was somehow able to find the words and I simply told her “nothing has any meaning”.  I do not remember what happened after that. 

Ultraviolet by U2 is such an absolutely perfect gorgeous song from one of the bestiest albums of all time.  Playing the bassline for that song is deeply fulfilling and brings me some weird sense of peace.  Achtung Baby by U2 and Pies Descalzos by Shakira are the two albums that mostly perfectly and purely express love and all its complex parts to me. 

You are returning to me and I want to cry.  I cannot remain still for even one moment but I know you understand me like no one else does and it fills me with comfort knowing you have returned.  I will be able to lay on my bed in the dark and not feel terrified, at least for a while.  All these abstractions and harmonies, somehow they all come together.  I feel her presence throughout the day and everything is better.  What am I allowed to feel and what am I allowed to think?  Everything is always so much more comfortable when on my knees.  I could not identify the sound but I knew it would stay with me for as long as I lived.  My doubts are answered every time I hear the voices or see the faces.  It’s impossible to give myself over to such beauty and not be redeemed.  I realize I will never solve the mysteries and I am not meant to know what any of these visions mean.  They come to me and kiss my forward and cradle me in their hands.  My face is against the awakening and I drink and I bathe and I am cleansed. 

The fish market revealed so much to me

She was behind the keys and I was below everything else and staring at a mass of snakes and other creatures – many unfamiliar and most horrifying.  What was left to explain about male and female anatomy?  This question was posed to me at some point during the day by a man who may or may not have been a stranger to me.  I have no memories of speaking with him or seeing him before that day yet he was quite insistent in our shared past and I must admit to there being something familiar about the way he speaks and our rapport was quite natural.  He was in the same room as the woman behind the keys but his presence was not as constant.  He would leave to secure physical gratification with someone whose face was always guarded by the shadows.  When he left I would plug my body into various outlets and feel electrical currents raise the hairs on my skin and accelerate my heartbeat.  The woman was actually two different women and they wore two sets of clothes – one predominantly red and one predominantly black – so the rest of us could tell them apart.  Her fingers and her mouth created such rapturous beauty and in those moments I was unable tell either of them apart.  Only when finished would one promise such exquisite pain and agony with the other providing sweet words and caresses of comfort.  Logically, they should both yearn for my death but despite my attempts I was never able to discern what true feelings lay behind their smiling eyes. 

I was in bed after all of this and could not stop shaking for many hours.  I felt a door open in my brain and my room was suddenly bathed in red light.  There were still patches of black and I knew things were standing in those patches but I did not want to know what they were.  I closed my eyes and somehow the red light still penetrated through.  My hands clenched the blankets and the things approached and I could hear deep and irregular breathing. 

I cried and I cried at some other point and the tears were hot running down my face and some landed on my shirt and some spattered onto the floor where they gathered and accumulated and made something strange and frightening. 

I vacillate between The American Friend and Cosmopolis, watching each one a total of 9 times before switching to the other.  Occasionally, I will slip in The Minus Man just for something different.  Sometimes I curl up in my bed and put the pillow over my head and imagine I have been permanently snuffed out but reality eventually sets in and I weep uncontrollably and bite down on the pillow and grab the knife next to my bed and make several more etches in several different places.  Regrettably, my name has never been Victor and I strongly suspect it never will be. 

Over the course of the past few days I have purchased 7 albums by everyone’s favorite funk band AC DC.  It is amazing to me how my seething hatred for this group turned into adoring love.  I spent 57 hours today listening to their last (but hopefully not THE last) album Black Ice and learning the basslines to every song.  Even when I despised the band so much that I had their logo tattooed on my back to remind me of what a colossal failure I am in life I still always considered Cliff Williams to be perhaps the best bassist of all time.  “Skies on Fire” from this most recent release has an incredibly groovy bottom end (not unlike Colombian singing sensation Shakira Mebarak) and I played the song roughly 223 times in a row, taking a shot of El Jimador silver tequila between each time.  Eventually I was so wasted I actually believed I could amount to something in life and ended up inventing a new universal language as well as a teleportation machine which I used to transfer 9 crates of plastic Looney Tunes themed watches to poor starving kids in Africa. 

Afterward, I used this amazing technology to teleport all the way to the chilly expanses of Montana, USA where I befriended a gorgeous and generously hipped German woman with a limp – the origins of which I never inquired about – and we frolicked through the snowy fields and made out like ducklings and I told her I would love her forever and would kiss her feet every time she came home from work because that is when they would smell the finest and she said something back to me which I did not understand because I don’t speak German but it sounded incredibly beautiful because German is easily one of the sexiest languages I have ever heard in my life and this immediately made me feel like a real stale bastard because the aforementioned universal language I invented did not sound anywhere near as sexy so I immediately used my brilliant machine to travel back to my lair where I destroyed all the plans, diagrams and paperwork of this new language – burning them in a fire which burned brighter than a thousand suns – and I also destroyed my teleportation machine when I realized all the watches I’d shipped over to those poor malnourished youngsters had a serious design flaw – hence the discounted bulk rates I’d secured – and would forevermore run roughly 8.5 minutes fast and the guilt I experienced over those hungry hungry kids never having a time piece that kept accurate time was too much to take and I also knew that the world was not ready for this technology and it could easily fall into the hands of corrupt politicians and dictators but what really made me destroy this machine and all evidence of it was the realization that this gorgeous and voluptuous German woman could never really love someone as vomit-inducingly ugly as myself and I could not live with this device which had brought such love and such subsequent heartbreak into my life and so it was destroyed forever more.  I do it all for love. 

There is one thing I always wish for but it never comes true and I don’t understand how people cannot take notice.  John Frusciante (pronounced frue-ski-ant-ee) understands perfectly and outlined it all on the 10^th track from his amazing album “Curtains”.  Me heart him with all my heart.  

I cried and took the Polaroids

I wish I had a future…anywhere.

I prefer to have liquid dinners these days.  I sleep better and wake up with a better taste in my mouth and it also helps flush out my system.  No one asked my opinion but I would not mind Scott Adkins in the role.  I absolutely loved Universal Solider: Day of Reckoning.  It was a surprisingly Lynchian film with cinematography and good brutal fights.  Speaking of Lynch, I watched Lost Highway 7 times in a row this weekend, each time adding another mark in my arm and during each viewing I became more frightened.  I thought of a woman whom I met in the valley.  As a tense shift takes place I remember her hair is incredibly black, blacker than coal, blacker than the depths of the ocean.  She always lets a little fall to the side of her face.  I complimented her on a bracelet she was wearing and she explained all about its history and family ties and the greedy oil barons and persecution and necessary escape.  She is fascinating.  She tells many stories yet somehow reveals nothing about herself in the process.  Her hips are wondrous and her beauty addicting.  I suffer withdrawal symptoms when I go more than a week without seeing her, long sweaty nights of pillow chewing and dry heaving and banging my head against the walls until they are covered with red dents.  It took me 3 weeks to read a very short book by a very popular author and I found the book to be very bad.  Still, friends have given me other recommendations by this author and I will try those before writing him off.  Tis’ only fair.  I love the vocal on the song “Sweet Thing” from the Diamond Dogs album, it slays me.  So does the next song and the ones after those.  In fact, that whole album beats my pale hirsute buttocks into the ground and then pisses right on my face and into my mouth for good measure.   

It gives me comfort sometimes to imagine that somewhere out there exists a person who is so consumed with hatred for me that they spend every waking moment plotting my demise.  I like to imagine them forming layers upon layers of plans and writing them all down and conducting psychological profiles of myself and those closest to me and having several untraceable and healthy bank accounts with which to finance these plans.  I hope he or she knows me so well that my every action and move is anticipated and the grand undoing will be a systematic elimination of every aspect of my being and personality until I am begging for the end.  What a noble pursuit it would be.  Who did I create?  Who is this hero perhaps now lurking in the shadows, not quite ready to show him or herself?  I await the revelation.  Every day we all give birth to new identities and they want nothing more than our utter destruction.  But how can we blame them?  We’re all alike. 

I played Fire by Jimi Hendrix 16 times on the bass guitar today.  Then I played the cover by the Red Hot Chili Peppers 13 times.  Afterward I ripped out a page from the new issue of Esquire and ate it, washing it down with an 11.3 fluid ounce bottle of Sunny Delight.  I have always enjoyed this juice but it rarely quenches my thirst.  I visited several pawn shops recently and browsed the bass guitars as I am keen to purchase a new one.  In my heart and aortal pump I imagined my greasy fingers sliding along the luxurious neck of a Fender Jazz Bass, ideally with a sunburst or cream body.  Yet, there are several models of Ibanez basses which have also caught mine eye.  If I had billions of dollars in unmarked bills I would simply purchase one of each type of bass guitar and have a marathon cocaine fueled and sleepless try-out session where I did nothing but test basses, drink cheap gas-station bought red wine and experiment with various forms of autoerotic asphyxiation.  However I am not fortunate enough to have this much dough so I must content myself with a singular purchase for now.  I suspect I will be mulling these choices over in my brain for the better half of the next 60 years so if anyone has any advice I’m all ears. 

For the past hour or so there has been a terrifying voice saying words I do not understand coming from somewhere in my flat.  I searched for the source of this voice and can only conclude it is coming from the closet but I have been too scared to open it and see what is inside.  The voice is male and the tone goes from prodding to furious to petrified and back again.  I cried last night and reached for the full bottle of pills on my night stand and the glass of water there but chickened out at the last minute.  Somewhere small children were laughing and pointing at me for my cowardice.  There is a flat below and to the right of mine which looks quite nice during the day.  It is big and fully furnished but despite a complete lack of venetian blinds or curtains I have never seen anyone walking through it.  At night some of the lights are on, including in the bedroom.  I can see inside and there is a large mirror which faces me.  This place is deeply frightening at night and somehow I know that to enter there – particularly the bedroom – would mean facing something unspeakable. 

I see you lying on your side on a red bed in a dim lit room.   Your dress is gold and form fitting and runs all the way down to your ankles.  You are nothing at all like me and this is a wonderful thing.  Your eyes are so dark but somehow the light and warmth in your heart is reflected in them.  You smile and without words tell me it is okay to step closer.  Your smile is seductive and inviting and it promises safety and is an embrace in and of itself.  I know there has never been anyone else who has mastered that particular type of smile and there never will be.  You turn your head and let your hair fall across your chest and the gentle rise and fall created by your breathing moves this as well and the moment is electric.  Slowly, you slip off your black heels and these fall to the floor and the sound makes me jump and I am unsure why.  Your hands slide across the pillows, your hands are gentle.  There is only kindness and love and forgiveness and so many other things which only you can give and which I do not deserve.  “Ven carino,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. 

For a long time I hated the band AC DC but these days they don’t annoy me as much as before. I’m not really sure why.  

What if I threw the typewriter overboard?

At some point in the past few weeks I read the book Cosmopolis by Don Delillo.  It did not take long to read as it is a relatively short book however there were many things about it I did not understand.  I never before read a book by this author but when I saw David Cronenberg crafted the movie adaptation I knew I needed to read it.  I hitchhiked over to Barnes and Noble Booksellers and purchased the copy with the movie image on the cover.  I hate editions of books featuring the movie image but whenever I am purchasing a book I may not have otherwise known about were it not for the filmic version I always snag those editions so I may constantly be reminded of my ignorance and inadequacies.  Despite the fact that I didn’t really like the book I rented the blu ray yesterday or the day before and watched the flick on a television set I was given for Christmas.  Halfway through I regretted renting it and wished I had simply purchased it instead.  The movie was mesmerizing and I could not take my eyes off it.  It tickled all the dank and dark corridors of my brain while deepening my appreciation of the source text.  There were still long passages which flew right over my head like a flock of seagulls on a migratory trajectory yet these were somehow more palatable when accompanied by Cronenberg’s gaudy digital visuals and Howard Shore’s and Metric’s musical accompaniment.  Robert Pattinson was mesmerizing and the supporting cast equally up to task.  How I wished Juliette Binoche would have slipped off those high heels yet there was also great pleasure in my being denied this wish.  I watched the movie 14 times in a row while drinking 11 red bulls, 1 five-hour energy drink and two spicy chicken sandwiches which I’d procured at Carl’s Jr. and saved in my refrigerator for just such an occasion.  I have little doubt that once the movie is in my possession I will have a similar marathon.  Finally, the first film about our new millennium. 

The BBC version of Pride and Prejudice figured prominently in my dreams slash nightmares two nights ago though the actors looked nothing like their real-life counterparts much to my chagrin [I had a substantial crush on the lead female actress while in high school, the crush was so serious that at one point I considered slicing off my own face and mailing it to my fourth grade pen-pal whose old letters and address I still had (we would discuss Australia and Sonic the Hedgehog comic books) just to take my mind off things].  In this dream my French teacher was a beautiful French woman with long curly, dishwasher-blonde hair and butterscotch colored skin.  She had kind blue eyes and wore old, slightly tattered black tank-tops and green khaki pants with many pockets.  Her accent was adorable and she said comforting things.  I repeatedly disappointed her in many respects and this eventually drove me to frantic tears.  I ran several miles and woke up on a moving train before waking up once more in my bed where I promptly began to weep uncontrollably for this lovely woman whom I was unable to satisfy. 

In another dream that occurred the following night I encountered another French woman.  She looked completely different but was equally attractive.  Her hair was short and dark against pale skin and she wore nylons and was wild, fierce sexuality.  She reminded me of someone but I could not quite place who.  In this dream I looked like a strange combination of Matthew McConaughey and Josh Lucas and I wore a charcoal grey suit with black wing tips, a white undershirt and a red tie.  For some reason a man who looked astonishingly like Christopher Reeve though with unspeakable evil in his eyes was trying to kill me.  I know we grappled at some point and I believe he actually succeeded in stabbing with a very long and shiny knife – the type with a silver glistening handle and what you would probably find in a set adorning an island in most thoroughly modern kitchens – but somehow I was able to escape.  The French woman worked at a diner which had no walls and was located on a jungle area that surprisingly bordered a well-kept sidewalk.  I believe we were intimate at one point and I do remember developing some rather strong feelings for her.  I cannot recall her name and this hurts though I suspect I shall be seeing her again at some point. 

Jane’s Addiction truly is a great band and I have fallen in love with them recently.  I've even gone so far as to listen to them in my car while driving.  Eric Avery is one of my favorite bassists and I have tried with repeated and expected failure to learn as many of their songs as possible

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I never knew opera could be so sexy.  There are many things I do not know about life and about my immediate surroundings.  When she smiled I did not know how to respond so I looked away.  The moment was too lovely and I was violently yanked from my comfort zone.  Who else has consumption related dreams?  We’re all consumers after all.  Oh, the almighty dollar, we are slaves to you.  Yet I do not speak of that type of consumption, do I?  I don’t think I do.  But that is how I always know whether it is real or not, whether there is love or only cheap sticky lust.  It is only when I am devoured that I know it is someone who owns my heart and soul.  And from then on I will always long to feel myself crumble and break before and within them.  And then afterward they will comfort me and tell me it is all okay. 

Today I was singing and using the lower register of my five octave voice.  It was a good cleansing feeling and I began to feel some type of spiritual reluctance give way.  I wanted to succumb but there was still something holding me back.  Whose permission do I need to be able to think of her as her?  Please, whoever it is, please give it to me.  I am a bad man.  I could feel her and I could almost see her yet I still wondered about the nature of these feelings.  Even as she kissed my lips I could still not ascertain the color of her eyes or the thoughts that lay behind them. 

I know recently I began an elaborate question and answer session inside my head but I had to abruptly stop when I realized with no small amount of horror that I no longer recognized the voice asking the questions.