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.
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