Baby, I've been

Marina (not the one you think) is a glorious new inspiration.  At the same time she exposes how fiercely ignorant and worthless I truly am.  Strangely, last night I dreamed of Marina (this time the very one you think).  Or was it really her?  I was confused in the dream and confused upon waking and even now I am not sure.  Things were painted in broad strokes of teal and violet. 

Paperbacks used to guide me to new thoughts but now the pages and my brain are similarly empty.  I think a group of penguins is eagerly waiting to be fed.  I'm going to read a book on an ancient Indian philosophy soon.  I prick you.    

Lately I’ve been listening a lot to David Bowie’s 1997 album Earthling. What a fascinating piece of work!  I adore the idea of unexpectedly loving your new touring band so much that once the tour is over you immediately set about recording an album in order to capture that fresh and raw energy.  I also love the use of Jungle and Drum n’ Bass sounds.  I just fucking love the album, that’s all!  Mad props to you Bowie! 1. Outside and Earthling.  I can live inside these albums and I am home.  Maybe I can die there as well.  

I’m listening to the 1997 album Donde Estan Los Ladrones? by Shakira right now.  Track 4 is titled No Creo and maintains its status as one of my all time faves since my initial listen so many years ago.  Oddly, it is now reminding me of a woman who I have not thought about in nearly as many years.  They are pleasant thoughts, if a tad bittersweet.  Part of me wonders is the tinge of sadness I feel is not so much related to her as it is to the ever dawning realization of my diminished capacity to feel things in quite the same way as before.  Ah, the beautiful way I live without.  Please don't ever leave me.  

The doors of perception were open to me for just a bit last night.  I loved you so much.  Thoughts were already turned toward the future.  Why am I already writing my four last songs?  I guess it is oddly fitting it should begin on a Sunday. 

 I have an image of you where the sky is growing dim and your hair is being swept back in the wind.  The ocean is before us and I have never seen you so calm and your peace is mine.  It is like I’m watching from an old movie reel; it is grainy, the colors not as vibrant but in an instant it focuses on your smiling face and it could not be more perfect. 

 How can I not worry?  Every day there is some new and awful thing with which to contend.  Is someone just counting down the ways until something turns truly fierce? 

 It is complacent sometimes and in general it is far more calm than I ever expected.  It is raining outside and I can hear the sound of it on my window.  That color and sound is its closest approximation and in that sense it is unexpectedly lovely.

Sometimes there is a wall of ice and it is unbreakable.  Its creation happens in an instant; one moment there is nothing and the next it is there and it rises higher than either of us can make out. 

 Have I been shown the proper way?  It looks like it is all there.  He has such strong desires to submit.  How horrible are his thoughts?  Are they only creating a path to hell?   

 I feel your love so strong in the moments of fragility.  The figure of a woman.  Am I wrong?  Am I only a sinner and nothing more?  I do not recall the first time I knew you. 

 Others ignore or laugh or do not care.  And I imagine.  Is it the same thing?  Can I really say I am any better?  In all likelihood I am worse because my certainty does nothing to diminish my capacity and desire to do wrong. 

 What will happen when it is gone?  Where will you go and what will you be turned into?  The world will continue because the world does not care. 

Sorry (1)

I want to say I’m sorry. 

To you when the John Leguizamo movie Cronicas was on and we laid together and watched and you said you felt such a connection and I confessed to not feeling this and you cried and left. 

To my father for not making an effort during the holiday.  He would never say so but I am sure it bothered him on some level.

Back when I was part of a part of a quasi political ethnic based college group I was somehow in charge of the quarterly newsletter.  That first time I was so spirited and put in a great effort and the end result was a rich and passion-filled periodical.  However my enthusiasm eventually waned and my cynicism won over and eventually what was printed was nothing worth celebrating.  This was my fault. And to young Omar who was so integral to that group.  I inwardly mocked your passion and militant stance.  Was I perhaps afraid because you had so clearly found your purpose and I was still desperate for one?  Either way, I was ignorant. 

That time after everything was over and we went to a dance hall and I let petty annoyances override any sense of decency and you felt – maybe for the first dreadful time – so much anger and spite inside of me.  My apologies were real but understandably sounded so hollow.  And I am sorrow that afterward I was never able to find you again. And sorry that I did not look harder. 

I am a child so full of hate and I want to hurt because it is all I can do and I rejected that small box brought home from the store.  I hoped it hurt.  But I am sorry.  

I’m sorry for those recommendations.  Sometimes I think it was right and other times I’m not sure.  I assumed something and based on my then lack of experience it may have been the wrong choice.  I honestly don’t know.  But it frequently crosses my mind. 

I’m sorry for constantly disobeying and disappointing.  Is my passion and love only real on Monday mornings?  Ah, but then it is nothing more than an ugly self-serving thing.  And what of my desire to see you?  And the way I imagine you look as I am held in the palm of your hand.  I think I need to apologize for that as well. 

622

Sometimes I dream out loud and sometimes I have the strange sensation my dreams are trapped inside a wheel of death.  I sat across from you and explained the strange numerical uncertainty that I repeatedly tried and failed to grasp with my own cut up fingers.  If someone were to cut your throat with razors I doubt I would venture to suck the blood but maybe I would.  Maybe I would not be able to resist.  How is such beauty even possible?

I believe standing up during a sexual act is often quite pleasurable.  The moment where unconsciousness almost seizes is of course the very best. 

There is too much scar tissue underneath and that is why I was so slow hobbling by the golden pages and all the limitless possibilities.  The Russian mob is forcing themselves into my apartment.  They want me to confess.  Someone else burned a stack of phonebooks and drew something on the road with pink and green chalk and then she danced and chanted while the sun was setting and she saw things no one else could. 

I can’t buy anything.  I wake up and bleach the sun.  My skin is peeling off and my brain is screaming for a retroactive feel.  The supple tip of your nipple is letting me know we did not actually win the war and outside there is an awful dog barking and he is letting me know that contrary to popular belief nothing is ever going to be all right again. 

Information overload in the valley of pristine disappointment.  I flip over on my stomach.  What strange and over-calculated things we all are.  Though now I feel I may have gone off track.

Did you see me watching immediately after I swore it all away and took my seat on that humble plank of wood?  I watched so intently.  Flesh colored and peeping.  The proverbial heat was on and I imagined with such delight what a rich perfume would be made from the stress and the anger and the hatred.  What wonderful suffocation.  What exquisite torment. 

I miss peaches though I never knew her well.  There was a killer at my side as a child.  I am someone else and my stomach explodes.

A man on gray waves his hand to me or is it some form of evil salute?  24 bars in and I still have no idea.  Ideas flow from the pen like a waterfall on an undiscovered planet.  But even that isn’t really accurate.  Things are moving much quicker than most minds can process.  Danielle, will you never tell me what you are saying?  Turquoise strings stab at my heart.  And incorrigible melody melts like a clock inside of a sheepish man.  I wore the old suit too many times.  We were trapped inside of a blue dream filled with smoke and incantations and horrifying orgies were around us and penises were bending and mouths were breathing heavy and throats were grotesquely full. 

All these numbers turn to dust inside the rotting inner corridors of my diseased mind and I can’t make sense of any of them.  We swing on pendulums and stick needles inside ourselves and occasionally a spot of red marks the formerly white tile of the bathroom floor.  I shake and convulse at all the flesh eating puppets that are advancing upon us.  How can you say sexiness is a construct of the darkest one?  Have we not all disguised in a most hypocritical way everything we wish to have done to us? 

Wooden panels against a plastic machine made to hang us from trees while we fantasize about all those kissing cousins we never fully knew.  I’ve seen myself getting dressed in your eyes and it always ends with the man down the street buying and oversized plush teddy bear and climbing a mountain with a goldfish bowl clipped to his belt.  Every time I open my mouth to scream my testicles start to quake and I grab hold of myself and talk to silverware and wonder why the good time had to vanish like a thousand lost puppies out in the worst rain storm this world has never seen. 

I’ve never fucked for the hell of it.  I’ve only ducked for the halibut.  There is every season inside the palm of my hand and when I make a fist a baby cries and we all let go of ourselves and our orgasms are explosive and platonic inside the pious structures of long drawn out mortals.  We’d bite our own tongues off if weren’t for the massive paychecks we’ll be cashing on the morning of a star’s birthday.  Giant balls of gas.  Formations are so terrifying.  I’ve longed dreamed of dancing inside the vastness of a telephonic melody that plays inside the stadium of your love.  My fuckness is approaching new depths.  I may just have to buy a fucking submarine.  Can you believe all the equations that are spilling out of body?  It’s enough to make a man fume with regret and then order bacon and eggs until someone tells him to stop out of sheer, manic necessity. 

In my strange countenance I’ve forgotten the importance of the lovely.  I have many questions about this strange bittersweet air I am breathing.  Millions of lines of poems are inscribed on iron bars while I patiently hold for an interpreter. 

Windows are shattering all around me.  Orange to grey to some tap dancing shoes.  I love scary monsters so much.  I have a picture of you in my room and it is so close to my heart.  The screaming never stops. 

I want to die.  I wish I fell asleep with a bottle by my side.  And then I wish I woke up on red sheets.

I’m about 5 years too late.  And now I’ll never see you.  You’ll never touch me like you should have.  All I wanted was for you to make me cry.  But that’s too literal and pedestrian, isn’t it?  It would be so easy to see right through things and expose the uselessness barely contained within. 

I think there’s a picture of me splayed out on a car somewhere.  A woman is naked between two panes of glass and I am afraid to look at her as I pass by.  The spiral steps horrifyingly led to nowhere.  Everybody knows this is.  None of the favorites think this way, or do they?  He wrote so much about death but it eventually became one of the favorites.  My side will always be yours to take and at every moment I am invading your dreams.  I receive no strength from any statements because words are thinner than the air I breathe and I have resigned myself to make war inside a glass bubble. 

615

As I secretly alluded to in one of my last post’s I am an obese fan of composer Danny Elfman.  I recently purchases a new copy from a third party seller of his score for Ang Lee’s 2003 film Hulk.  I like to imagine myself listening to this disc in my automobile but not nearly as much as I like to imagine myself crashing in my automobile, being ejected from my seat and splattering my brains all over the unforgiving concrete. 

Hannibal tv series showrunner Bryan Fuller recently described the show as like a “pretentious art film from the 80’s”  Recently I watched the premiere episode of season 3 which was entitled Antipasto. 

Saturday morning I spent a great deal of time contemplating suicide before eventually settling down on my bourgeois sofa to watch a bit of television.  Fate had grandiose plans for me that particular day as I happened upon Gilberto Agustín Martínez Solares’s 1952 film El Bello Durmiente.  Is there anything greater than watching a beautiful Mexican cavewoman devouring what appears to be a chicken leg (standing in for some dinosaur meat). 

Oh Jade, you have stolen my heart.  I would let happily let you bash me over the head with a massive club made of prehistoric rock.  How I wish I could live with you millions of years ago and dance and play and be with you in the sun. 

I recently finished Clive Barker’s new book The Scarlet Gospels.  It is a relatively short book and I read it in roughly 4 days time.  It was a fast, brutal read and I quite loved it.  Early buzz from years ago said this was going to be a massive 1000+ page tome with multiple timelines and plot threads juggling a cast of who knows how many and there was a fair amount of controversy amongst Barker/Hellraiser/Pinhead fans when the final product was released with a huge amount of that stuff edited out. 

I will also say it seems the cartoon The Flinstones ripped off many of the ideas presented in this film.  One day I will own a massive home theatre system and illegally charge average American citizens to watch this film on it. 

I saw American Sniper at some point recently as well. Or did I?  The answers may be more difficult to accept than you had hoped. 

Back in January I made one of the biggest mistakes of my miserable worthless life and it will haunt me forever unless I am able to rectify.  Will I be granted a second chance?  If so, I swear I will not fail you again.  Deanna, I swear. 

She was in a house and there was a dead child by the stairs.  Anyone who looks at the child is hypnotized; their eyes roll over black and they start to scream.  How did she come by this knowledge? 

Self destruction is my heart.  And I have so much room to grow, so much to explore. 

The sweet pull of temptation.  I thought of you before falling asleep.  This was so wrong.  Have you ever thought about me?  You cannot possibly be this virtuous.  My diseased mind is playing elaborate tricks on me.  Still, I see such elegance, such grace and passion.  Art flowing freely out of you.  It is so intoxicating to be a part of that.  And in those moments the desire is so strong I just want to get down on my knees.  How I long to be subjugated.  I desperately want to be enslaved.  You are all in white.  And then black.  With a shroud.  There are two of you, one good and one evil, both glorious.  There is such tenderness in your eyes and that is something I have never and will never deserve.  Would you hold me in the palm of your hand?  And then crush me between your white teeth. 

They want me to be like all the other zombies.  What a disgusting world.  Despite my best efforts I could not muster the strength to care.  All that will ever be is reflected in their eyes.  It is an empty and horrifying vision; so much nothing.  We build our lives on nothing, create nothing and then die and our lives mean nothing. 

This is the house that Jack built.  That’s what one old man said to the other.  The 5^th dimension terrifies me.  Oh God, it hurts.  I’m sorry I failed you again.  I’m sorry for my whole rotten life.

Somehow David always makes things better again.  Is he the only one who truly understands?  I think of him driving like a demon from station to station. 

The ends of my fingers are all bitten off.  I was so terrified the other night and convinced someone or some thing was going to walk into my bedroom.  I pictured it walking in slow but silently and I would lying in bed awake but unable to move. 

My heart is a shameless disgusting whore and I hate it so very much. What right do I have to imagine?  How dare I dream the unthinkable. 

I listened to the album Ahi Vamos by Gustavo Cerati while writing all this garbage.  It is a great album. 

62

I ate a bowl of spaghetti for dinner the other night.  I also watched two spaghetti westerns which arrived in the mail sooner than expected.  It was very much a pasta oriented day.  Sometimes I like to imagine myself living in the old west.  Since I am very much a coward these imaginings typically end with me being gunned down after shamelessly begging for my life.  Actress Loredana Nusciak from Sergio Corbucci’s 1966 western Django was so darn beautiful and compelling.  Sometimes I fantasize about being in the old west and being rejected by her or women like her.  Then I go to an old saloon and drink all my problems away. 

It is possible dissension will take place at some near point in the future.  If this happens I have already made up my mind.  Truth be told, there was never any doubt to begin with.  Was it inevitable there would be infighting?  I think so.  Or maybe I like to think so.  I always feel so comforted when things take a turn for the worse because it proves my instincts – nay, my central core – as being correct.  What would I do if things ever stayed on the up?  Still, that question has no relevance to the current situation.  I’ve always known which side I am on.  I will follow you until the very end. 

Such sweet sexual splendor. And oh what delicious suffering.  All four of them shoot me with a taser and as I am on the ground with teeth clenched and writhing in agony and they laugh. 

The way you gave my hand that little extra squeeze I knew you wanted to kill me. 

Let it be known that I predicted it here: one day Shakira’s 2005 album Fijacion Oral Vol. 1 will be regarded as one of the all time greats.  I have written extensively about this release in the past and every day I become more convinced of my assertions.  The variance and MASTERY of so many styles combined with lush instrumentation (with the late Gustavo Cerati featured on a couple tracks), some of her finest vocal work and poetic lyricism all combines to create a glorious work of art; sometimes somber, sometimes pulsing, its explorations of love remain as poignant and intoxicating as ever.  I’ve also been listening to the Ramones and Scott Walker lots and lots lately.  I ordered Trickfinger’s new album the other day and I will diligently wait until it is delivered to my posh flat in a small brown cardboard box.  Then I will listen to it on a second rate stereo system.

Estrellita was eliminated from Baila Si Puedes last night.  It has been a glorious month or so following her progress and salivating over her every dance just as I salivate over her every wrestling match.  Please mock me.  Please humiliate me and strangle me.  Oh delightful hosiery.  I consider once more the phenomena of objectification and my own role in this.  Ultimately, I can only conclude that my own sexual desires are repugnant and inklings of some deeper evil lurking within myself.  Yet, I still love these desires; I still foster them and watch them grow.  I dance with them in the pale moonlight and I wake up beside them, full of hate but eager to take them with me wherever I go. 

After years of ever building pants wetting anticipation Hannibal season 3 finally begins this Thursday.  I am especially curious to see how the latter half of the season tackles adapting Thomas Harris’s original 1981 Hannibal Lecter novel Red Dragon.  It should be no problem at all to surpass Brett Ratner’s 2002 effort (all due respect to Mr. Ratner, his direction was surefooted if a tad pedestrian and that flick suffered from many more problems) so if any comparisons are to be made they shall be with Michael Mann’s stellar 1986 film Manhunter.  However the series has thus far proved so distinct that aside from an occasional homage to these aforementioned adaptations I would wager that any need for a comparison shall not arise. 

Is there a P Bass in my future?  I wish I had all the answers.  If so, I hope it is in the classic and timeless sunburst style.   

5 months of progress was shattered in the space of a single second.  One second was all it took to fall in love all over again.  Why do I always need a muse?  I don’t want to kill my inspiration but this inevitably happens.  Chew me up and spit me out.  I want you to throw me away.  I love being used by you.  My heart is a shameless whore. 

All my life I’ve been searching for a frame worthy poster of the flick La Nave de los Monstruos, one of my all time favorite films.  I feel I’ll be searching for the rest of my life. 

Lately I’ve also been thrilling to John Carpenter’s new album Lost Themes.  It is synth-laden instrumental greatness and I like to drive around at night with this as my soundtrack, imagining I may be about to do terrible things or – even better – that terrible things may be about to happen to me.  I’ve been on a Carpenter kick as of late, re-watching the original Halloween and The Thing and In the Mouth of Madness and buying Shout Factory!’s beautiful blu-ray releases of They Live, Escape From New York and Prince of Darkness.  All have great scores and I adore how he handles the music himself.  Carpenter’s artistic integrity has blown my brains from my skull! 

If I could I would go back in time and travel across dimensions until I found one where actress Maria Victoria really is the character Inocencia from the classic Mexican TV series/feature film La Criada Bien Criada and I would convince her to marry me through a potent mixture masculine charm, above average wit and several lies about my finances.  Once married I would politely ask her to always wear her maid outfit while doing everything in my power to hide from her the daring and intricate games I play involving forgery, extortion and the occasional improvisational murder.  I would always offer her a foot massage at the end of the day and hope she would belittle me while I undertake this action. 

Discussing the Lecter mythology has reminded me I desperately need to purchase the score to Red Dragon.  Good ol’ Danny Elfman.  I’ve been a mega fan ever since seeing Tim Burton’s Batman way back in the summer of 89’.  I was dating a vedette from Queretaro, Mexico named Sandra at the time.  We’d met at a club where she was performing during one rainy night.  I’d just lost several thousand dollars in a card game with a salesman from Cleveland and was drinking a Singapore Sling paid for with borrowed money to dull the pain.  As though she were bestowed with supernatural abilities she seemed to sense my despondence and promptly danced over to my table, giving me a far greater vantage point of her routine.  I was immediately taken by her coal black hair, her dark tempestuous eyes and the phenomenal curvature of her enormous seamed-fishnet-stockings wrapped derriere and stunning thunderous thighs.  Her smile was full of warmth yet also showing she completely understood and loved the mighty power she possessed over men.  I bought her several drinks with more borrowed money after her show was over, we began to chat and I was soon completely under her glorious south-of-the-border spell. 

We went out for several months and even though I knew I would never be the one to truly capture her wild heart it was an honor to be by her side, if only for a brief time.  How I yearn for the days of yore where she would return home after so many sweaty dance routines, slip off her strappy silver high heels and promptly use my face as her footrest.  It can be truly said that I loved her. 

I recall the night we went to see Batman at the midtown Cineplex that she wore a Batman t-shirt tucked into impossibly tight cheetah print pants that were under savage and wonderful strain of ripping and knee high leather boots.  She jiggled and I sauntered into the theatre and we left in awe of Burton’s gothic pop-art vision, Anton Furst’s glorious German expressionist Gotham City, Michael Keaton’s unexpected coiled intensity, Jack Nicholson’s gleefully unhinged lunacy, Prince’s ubran funk themes and of course Danny Elfman’s propulsive, enigmatic and utterly anthemic score.  We’ve been Elfman fans ever since and though we broke up soon after this flick left theaters we’ve remained in touch and I view that time as amongst the happiest of my life. 

So upon receiving this Red Dragon score in the mail I think I’ll throw it on the ol’ stereo, take a shot or four of El Jimador silver tequila, throw an old used (not by me) pair of pantyhose on my head and dance around my room, holding back simultaneous tears of depression and screams of ecstasy.  I have now ordered a “Like New” used copy from someone’s private collection via amazon.com; such is the combined wonders of time, finance and the written word. 

Sometimes I feel like my mind is diseased.  I close my eyes and grind my teeth and cannot make sense of anything.  It is highly unfortunate human beings were given the ability to breed.  I suspect we are all in store for a very harsh awakening. 

61

She wakes up and is not sure what day it is.  She fell on the sofa because she was too afraid to sleep in the bedroom.  Her phone is on the small table next to the sofa and she checks it and sees the time is 3:50 in the morning. 

Please forgive me for failing over and over again.  Am I talking to Jesus or his mother?

I type worthless things up, I sign them, I sign them, I receive them back for corrections, I resubmit and then I start all over again.  How can this become anyone’s life? 

The morning is when she most considers killing herself.  It is an oddly comforting thought and sometimes she laughs when it crosses her mind.  There is a lovely orange container with a white cap and white label in the cupboard full of sleeping pills and there is always an unopened bottle of wine somewhere to be found.  She could put on a movie or album and turn the lights off and simply drift away.  There are also at least a couple different ways in which she could easily acquire a gun.  She thinks it would be great somehow for her brains to be splattered against the walls of her apartment and slowly rotting while the big frightening and disgusting world outside keeps moving along as though nothing happened.  That’s true though: it would be nothing, but a glorious nothing. 

She hears Scott’s voice in her head saying he’ll give her 21, 21, 21 and she touches herself and imagines hands around her throat and for a moment there is ecstasy and a

I never want to leave my room. 

Death death death I want to fucking die I want to jump of a building I want to blow my fucking brains out and when they find my body they’ll blood and shit and all the rotten fucking garbage that’s inside my head maybe next time I go driving a semi will hit me and my body will be crushed and my bones will shatter and my neck will snap or my head will just be chopped off maybe someone will feel like I do and just stick a fucking gun in my mouth

Wherever I go everyone is staring at me.  Why does anyone even bother talking to me?  I hate all of them and I don’t want to hear a single word from their mouths.  I see people on fire in front of me and I see babies that are doomed from the moment of their conception. 

It occurs to her – not for the very first time – she mostly prays in the morning and most often right in bed or in the shower.  She prays for relief and to be taken away from everything.  She imagines a bearded face with long hair and kind eyes and being embraced and kissed and told that everything would okay.  There is a room with candles and a bed with white sheets and what follows is tenderness and fulfillment and then blissful sleep.   

Driving to work she has powerful to slam on the gas pedal and drive her car into a well or steel pole or off a bridge.  She imagines unbuckling her seatbelt and how it would feel to be launched out of the vehicle, her head shattering in the windshield before striking the pavement.  Sometimes she laughs when imagining an oncoming truck, the driver of which is unable to break in time and large tires crush her head and chest and she is left as a grotesque red stain on the pavement. 

Why does my head hurt so much?  There are whores living inside my head and the endless fucking keeps me awake at nights.  There is no one who can save us. 

I’m just a little girl with grey eyes. 

The police outfit is one of my favorites

I watched the movie Dangerous Minds again last night.  It hurts me to say it but I feel Michelle Pfeiffer never quite lived up to her full potential.  To be clear: I think she is an insanely, dementedly good actress but her roles/movies often do not meet this standard.  My hope is that she may have something of a late career renaissance.  That is all I hope for in this miserable fucked up world. 

I don’t know which brand I should select for a new electric bass guitar.  I’ve limited the field down to roughly 9-dozen choices including Fender (Precision), Lakland and Gibson!  Maybe I’ll just fork over my pitiable life savings for a deposit on a Carl Thompson bass.  That would make me the happiest man alive for about 5 minutes and then I would be back at square one with only my own rotten self as company.  It cannot be underestimated how much I truly despise myself. I am a bloated and ugly thing.  I have failed in every possible way imaginable.  I will buy dozens more bass over the course of my miserable lifetime.  I desire a Precision bass, a Thunderbird, a Stingray, that bass Peter Hook uses and another Jazz bass.  I also want a double bass – an acoustic one and an electric one – despite knowing my playing would be even worse on such an instrument.  Hamer too!  And a fucking Rickenbacker!  And whatever Ibanez makes!  Why the hell not?!

I typically stay from dancing shows but Baila Si Puedes premiered this past week and I was compelled to watch with my eyes as wide as saucers and my heart as cold as a winter’s night.  The reason for this sudden about-face is the fact that one of the participants slash contestants is Consejo Mundial de Lucha Libre luchadora Estrellita.  Those who know me best know I’ve been deeply in love with Estrellita since an early age and that this love eventually boiled over into a deeply unhealthy obsession.  I await her every new match with bated breath and now the same goes for her every new dance.  She makes my heart pound at a dangerously accelerated rate.  I need her. 

In my wildest fantasies I dance with Estrellita. However she soon grows tired of my well below average skills and promptly takes me to floor and puts me in various wrestling submission moves while verbally berating me in Spanish and heavily accented English. 

I just heard the announcement on my 2 way wristband radio that John Wick 2 has officially been green-lit.  This news makes me squeal with girlish glee.  Savvy readers will recall the original John Wick was one of my favorite flicks of 2014.  It narrowly missed my top ten list though I soon regretted this decision.  If I could go back in time and change anything in my life I would go back and put John Wick on my top 10 movies list of 2014. 

A flood of big pop culture related news and stuff has been exploding across the interwebs during these past few weeks.  I’ve been so excited I’ve hardly had time to feed the baby ducks nesting outside my window.  I like to wake with them and greet the dawn by venturing naked outside and allowing the rich glow of the morning sun to caress my ample body.  I have not yet seen Avengers: Age of Ultron.  Maybe one day.  Though I could not possibly be more excited for Mad Max: Fury Road which arrives at the multiplex in little more than one humble week!

I passed out last night after watching the movie Batman Forever for the first time in decades.  When I awoke at roughly 2 AM Pacific Standard Time I found that Chiquis – daughter of the late Jenni Rivera – had released a new single and video from her upcoming album NEEDTOCHECKTITLE coming out next month.  I’ve lost interest in this train of thought while writing it.  In summation: she super hot, muy rica, don’t know about the voice. 

Those in the know know that I’ve never been the physically largest and metaphorically biggest fan of the character Harley Quinn as I find she has a tendency to dilute the raw potency of the Joker.  However I gradually find myself growing more and more excited at the prospect of this upcoming Suicide Squad movie wherein Margot Robbie is playing the best gal of the clown prince of crime.  I approve of the recently released official pic of the group and of the spy pics I’ve seen on various underground cinema sites.  The pebble in my shoe – the fly in my ointment – regarding this flick is the presence of one Will Smith as I’ve sadly never cared for the man as an actor yet visually I so far have no problem with his interpretation of Deadshot.  This is another subject in which I’ve suddenly lost interest while in the midst of writing.  I wish I had a big bowl of Lucky Charms cereal right now.  I love sugary cereals.  I’ve been listening to Jane’s Addiction a lot lately.  Bassist Eric Avery is a huge influence on my sound.  Sometimes I play the bassline to the brilliant song Three Days for 9 hours straight just because I love it so much.  I’ve also been listening to an insane amount of Kate Bush.  Eat the Music is my jam.  Thank you Kate, for everything. 

There are serious doubts as to whether I am a real person.  I feel like she hates me.  There is no longer any meaning behind anything I do.  I began to wonder about heaven and hell and which one I was head for.  Is it okay to call upon you for help?  Everyone in that particular circle tells me this is not allowed.  But I want to. 

Tonight, I’m going to head to the local cinema and watch Russell Crowe’s directorial debut The Water Diviner.  Then maybe I’ll go home and swallow a bottle of sleeping pills or finally blow my fucking brains out.  I’ll probably fantasize about a fictional character (or several) at some point in the evening.    

Time has passed since I started writing this and I have now seen The Water Diviner.  I’ll only say that Andrew Lesnie’s work as cinematographer was stellar and I would be happy to see Crowe direct again.  I’ll also say that Olga Kurylenko puts a spell on me every time I see her.  I am truly, madly, deeply in love with her.  I have read she auditioned for the part of Wonder Woman in the upcoming film Batman v Superman: Dawn of Fishsticks and I am deeply gutted she did not get the role.  Just the mere thought of her as Wonder Woman makes me explode in ecstasy. 

I want to stand with Olga and Estrellita on a mountain. 

I love those Venusians

People are turning to gold.

I woke up on red sheets to another day of confusion.  I record my random and meaningless thoughts that I may play them back later, hoping to glean some insight – however small – into something I said but this never happens.  Even this river I see every morning only reminds me of another river.  I cried the other night while taking selfies, there was a bottle nearby.  I would like to be your friend but friendship isn’t possible.  With reason, I’m sure that gives you great comfort.  I still prefer to imagine there is two of you, one good and one evil.  I always end up with the evil one. 

 I viewed the feature film It Follows this past Friday in between bouts of self loathing, binge drinking and claim jumping.  It was above average which is basically the same as a genre defining masterpiece when dealing with modern horror.  I am a bit perplexed by the onslaught of hype it received as I found there to be more than enough silly moments to undermine the effective ones (sadly only one of which was really all that effective).  But whatever the fuck ever.  Who really gives a fuck what a joke like me thinks?!  I think I’ll watch The American Friend twice tonight when I go home just for the hell of it.  Then all I’ll think of everyone I’ve wronged and my wasted life and contemplate suicide until I fall asleep to ensure I am well rested for the coming workday.  I love going to work.  Some might even say I live for it. 

These past couple days I’ve been listening extensively to the David Bowie albums Lodger and Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) as well as the Iggy Pop album The Idiot.  Ah, the Berlin era and onward.  How wonderful. 

If I could just take it all back, starting with myself….

The popular fast food restaurant chain McDonald’s plans to test all-day breakfast in one U.S. market within the next month or two, according to a note last Monday from Janney Capital Markets, citing industry sources.  Please let this not be another delirious dream.  For years I have begged for a change in the status quo such as this.  McD’s has one of the most satisfying breakfasts around I truly hope with all my dark heart that the test proves successful and this becomes a reality for the entire country. 

Ana Bertha Lepe, I love you.  I wish I was on that ship of monsters. 

Toho is making a new Godzilla movie with a projected release date for some damn time in the sure to be great year of 2016.  This fills me happy and warm feelings as I love Godzilla but despised last year’s tepid Hollywood release.  I have faith that Toho can do it right as they have for so many years.  The only thing which gives me pause is the future film’s already announced use of CGI.  I want a guy in a suit!  I can’t be the only one. 

All you pathetic things care about is money.  Your status is completely illusory.  One day you’re going to have a devastating awakening.  We all will. 

So director Brett Ratner is now dating Mariah Carey.  I envy him.  He’s sloppy and not terribly attractive – which eerily similar to yours truly – but he has a successful and creative life which is much more than I can say.  I like when Mariah wears provocative clothing which shows off her body. 

I need to create again.  I need to make a world that makes sense, where things happen the way they should happen.  I need to make a world where you are happy. 

It’s difficult to remember a time when I wasn’t in love with Wonder Woman.  There are certainly drawbacks to being in love with a fictional character but when there is a love this pure nothing is insurmountable.    

I watched The American Friend last night with the commentary track which featured director Wim Wenders and star Dennis Hopper.  While doing so I ate a hearty bowl of Cap’n Crunch cereal, specifically the type that is only Crunch Berries.  I greedily helped myself to a second serving upon finishing the first.  Prior to this I also ate a stick of beef jerky.  I passed out on my bourgeois sofa shortly thereafter.  My final thoughts were of the lovely Monique.  I should be dancing. 

I should have left before I destroyed the love we had. 

Even my consolation prize is abandoning me.  Of course, I say to myself as my head goes light, how utterly proper. 

The idea of gender-swapping occurred to me the other day though perhaps not in the way y’all are thinking.  I don’t want to be a woman yet I often find myself detesting the expectations and restrictions put on me due to my being a man.  I was recently reminded of this when discussing the idea of some voluntary segregation.  I understand the reasoning yet it is frustrating to only hear the often limited and crude male perspective on things. 

The first time I saw you was at a potluck, was it not?  That’s funny because I’m not even a potluck kind of guy.  You reminded of someone else at first.  I was looking for someone else whom I knew would not be there but instead I found you and after a while I forgot about the other person entirely.  As John would say: there’s only one way for things to be between you and me. 

I recall we embraced while the sun burned everything around us.  I didn’t know this was the last time.  Every choice I’ve made to this point has been wrong.  Nothing feels real anymore. 

I know which connection I need to cut.  My heart does not accelerate at all over this prospect. 

Sara was new and asked Blanca for help.  Blanca had worked there for 7 years.  Briefly, it flashed in Sara’s mind that she could kill the other woman, could follow her back to her home just to see where she lived and then return another day when the husband would not be there. 

I am going to buy a compact disc which features a collection of old Florida funk recordings.  I don’t when or how I will even be able to raise the capital to afford such a purchase but I have resolved to do this.  Should I fail….. 

She walked around with death inside of her for a week.  She cried in sadness as she had so recently cried in joy. 

I will always be in your corner. 

It's only up we go, up we go

The day was horrific.  Nothing but trash.  Not so different from most days. 

God sent me a dream last night to make it all better. 

I see you and then somehow we are at a very familiar university.  I have been here before but it never looked so magnificent.  The architecture and geometry on display is surely impossible but somehow everything stays place; buildings descending down to apexes, strange asymmetrical brick and mortar protrusions as though the buildings kept growing past the point of their foundations and rivers passing through the walls and hallways, the sound of their currents musical. 

Where did those days go?  I wonder this in the present and I see myself reminiscing in the future. All those times downtown when we only had ourselves but that was enough.  We were in a university together then.  It is the same but so different.  It was charcoal on white paper; it was classic beauty and the end of many things.  And after so much time passed I finally had the courage to admit how wrong I was and say I was sorry.  You had no reason to forgive me but you did anyway and I cannot forget this.  And then I see the announcements and the names and the photographs.  Several of our old friends are there but I am not.  And a mutual acquaintance sees you at a party and relates my message: I wish it had been me.  Of course you laugh, just as he does and just as I do but my laughter should not be interpreted as my denying the validity of that message.  How many nights could have ended differently?  We exist in the past and the present simultaneously right now and I am smiling and happy with you and I am wishing you happiness with everything that comes after.  How much of my memory is illusory and wish-fulfillment? 

And then you change.  And I see you as you really are and the revelation is stunning and wondrous.  You were always there before but I was blind.  Though I never could have predicted this, you are somehow more beautiful now than before.  For a moment the certainty of things is so clear: all the times I was climbing those hills and running down those roads I was trying to find you. 

You took me my by the hand and said my name and I felt nervous and wonderful and nothing else around me mattered.  We walked through the university and through fields and there was sun and rain and the air was perfumed.  You are elegant and the obvious shortcomings of my own physicality do not matter to you.  And we find a hideaway and we are closer than ever and we kiss.  There has never been a feeling more exquisite and I have never experienced such exhilaration and such unexpected completeness in my life.  You kiss me again and the world around us is earthen pastel colors running together on a canvas.  You say those words and I want to die and I want to live a thousand years.  What do the tears signify?  I know you mean it and I don’t deserve it and you mean it anyway.  Thank you so much.  I do not deserve this at all but thank you. 

You are taking somewhere now.  We pass through long hallways with abstract paintings on the walls, night flashes to day and back in the space of seconds.  We are laughing and I know I would follow you anywhere. 

 We are in a strange place and there is a man I don’t recognize and I don’t believe you do either.  His appearance changes several times but somehow I don’t really notice and I continue to see him as the same person.  He is a shop owner of some kind and there are glass cases all around us containing countless treasures for us to buy.  I find something, several things.  I want to buy you something but you tell me no.  There is no place for my insecurities any longer.  I believe you.  I know you would never lie to me.  You are the one who never lies. 

What happened to the history?  I knew you so long ago when we could barely understand anything.  Do you recall death lurking around every corner?  I remember so much passion and fear and all the while my devotion was never where it should have been.  And all those strange nights underneath watchful and interdimensional eyes, what do they mean now?  Where are we?  I wonder sometimes if there was a doorway I could have slipped through and when coming out the other side I would see you and your eyes on me would be different than before.  Nothing ever occurred to me until we met here and until I felt your hand on mine and knew the full privilege of your gaze. 

You kiss me again and there is no hesitation and I feel joy inside both of us.  I don’t have to wonder how this is possible anymore and I don’t have to apologize for anything.  We hug and it is tender and safe and I don’t feel ashamed for my desire to feel safe.  You say those words again and everything is reborn.  For a moment everything makes sense and I realize this is how it was always supposed to be. 

The last thing I see is your face.  Your smile tells me it will all be okay and your eyes say you will always be there. 

I love you.  This is true.  I don’t know if I told you that.  Even if I did I am almost certain I never will again. You will never understand any of this and you will never know and I think that is somehow proper. 

I think Lights may be the soundtrack to all of this. 

When I awoke there was a tinge of disappointment but the feelings of tranquility and the lingering sensation of bliss were far stronger.  I laid there in this warmth and felt calm and surprisingly ready for the day.

Nothing had truly changed but my thoughts were more beautiful than they were before.  They were more beautiful for your spirit.  And that is enough for today.  

And I say thank you.