(Part 10 of 10)

I find you in the finest of spirits.  

The finest of earth-made spirits is floating around the room.  You claim you do not yet know but it is all predetermined and deep down you know much better than you are letting on.  That is why you cannot stop smiling.  

When did this happen?  Was it surprising?  Was it beautiful?  That question hardly needs to be asked.  There was a symphony and later on everyone was lighting candles.  Sinful feelings come out but they do not last long.  This is a good and unexpected thing and shows genuine growth.  Underneath there is sadness but sadness is not a sin.  

They were quiet at first and everything somehow felt new again.  They were their original selves.  I am having false memories but they are wonderful.  I am an observer and a participant.  I see this truth unfold and I grow with it and experience every moment for the first time.   They are in the rain and her shirt is wet and he can see the color of her skin through the sleeves.  There is water in her hair and she is smiling.  

There is hot coffee later on but before that is a chance encounter whose charms have never relented.  They embrace with genuine feeling and the end result is predictable only to one.  It is so delightful to see happiness.  

What color are they?  I will never have the answer to that question but it seems more appropriate that way.   These neon lights keep swirling and passing us bye.  They are quite magical in a sense.  

Does she know that when they hug it is by far the greatest thing he has ever felt? A flash of jealousy again; ugly and mean.  What does he have to do to…?  But this time he is able to take hold of it and strangle it and stab its corpse.  There is nothing beautiful down the path he was taking.  

At the same time there is a traveler on a journey imparting wisdom of sorts.  And we find that grace is always available to us regardless.  We can be taken back.  Sometimes he imagines himself being hanged and his body eventually crashing to the ground where his stomach explodes and his putrid insides spill everywhere.  This is a horrid dream.  Even he can be taken back.  

But despite this vision, everything is happy here.  He accomplished what he wished.  He was never recording music but only water.  The number was actually around 10,000 (probably a bit more) and this was the price begging to be paid.  So many strange and wonderful symbols were manipulated to come to this point.  Fantasies dance with new life of strangulation and mocking and sweet caresses and tender words.  Purification has rather appropriately not erased this.  Even this morning there was another, new and glorious.  I think we are in a cage.   

 
This never dies.  It is always born again.  But perhaps it is born into something kinder and something more pure.  What is the best thing one can do for another?  We are always going to be surrounded by people wearing masks.  When you look at me you tell me how tired my eyes seem.  He will wish for that song to never end and already there is a new plane of existence forming where his wish will be granted.    

Don’t address me that way please, not me.  I have thought about this too.  Haven’t you noticed just the slightest touch?  The way language consistently fails us is something worth noting.  There is sweetness to this.  I have opened myself up, just a bit, but more than with almost anyone else.  Things do not always become gift wrapped.  But this will never be too far from my thoughts.    

I don’t think you knew of anything that was happening and it is very possible you have no desire to know.  It is easy to conclude this as the most appropriate outcome.  The only thing could happen really.  And now luck is no longer on his side, it stays with her.  That is a sweet and dizzying failure.  Things are now so deliciously full.  He can watch her riding off and dancing from various spiritual planes, coming into contact with ancient and mystical forces before reverting back to this human form.  Black and blue are the colors inside his eyes. 

 
Those words he said and the sentiments he expressed were refreshingly true.  And he is quite aware he owes that newfound genuineness to someone other than and infinitely greater than himself.  Thank You so very much.  His mind is so limited.  It would be lovely to retrace her steps and to absorb every word she already used up, to add those texts to the ones already lining the shelves and know they would always be there.  

I suspect it is too late to be reborn.  He watches her having a unique vision and making contact with someone who once birthed the universe.  Is everyone becoming one at this very moment?

There was trial and error like always.  There was the desire to come in out of the rain and the need to satisfy more than one bad impulse.  And then it was impossible to leave.  His thoughts were invaded and he was changed and things could never go back to the way they were.  But he is spent now.  His fingers are broken and his insides damaged and he can no longer think about fields of oranges or blood flowing like wine.  

  
But yes, they were real.  And that touch was real and now forever part of this time stream.  Maybe there is a place things can go on from there and the story continues and ends up beautiful for everyone.  Everyone is allowed to be happy in that one and there is not so much grey covering everything.  But this is quite enough for now.  

Leave no doubts.  When he said he was happy for you.  He felt it.  That made everything better.  

New year, new life.  

Are all these books wrong?!

I will say that this newest Suicide Squad trailer blew brains away in all sorts of great ways.  I’m excited for everything about this movie (except for Will Smith, poor me).  Jared Leto and Margot Robbie (swoon) look great!

The new Wonder Woman footage also pleased me but that is a post for another day.  

I think I’ll watch George A Romero’s Dawn of the Dead in a little bit.  Why the heck not says I?  Much of this stuff was written during another time entirely.  It feels so distant now. 

There is computerized voice on the telephone crying for help.  I am utterly terrified.  I am taping up my door but I truly think something is going to get me.  

Why is the apocalypse on everyone’s mind all of a sudden?  Is something going to happen soon?  That black planet looming just behind us…I don’t know if I can take that.  It wakes me up in the middle of the night.  Something is going to come from the sky.  I think our faces are going to be melted off while we are screaming.  

Scott Walker’s first solo album has so many gems on it.  I was driving around in a motor vehicle the other day and when I entered the McDonald’s drive thru to order a 6-piece Chicken McNugget meal I was struck by how great the arrangements and songwriting truly is on that release.  

Don’t we all have a fetish for women crossing their eyes?!  Is it just me?!  That just does it for me! 

I spent the afternoon watching Robert Dyke’s 2008 sci-fi classic Inalienable.  I purchased this film back in the day because it co-stars Marina Sirtis.  I follow all of Sirtis’s work and I enjoyed her part in this.  In fact she was recently in an Asylum produced picture called Little Dead Rotting Hood.  It was about as good as it sounds (maybe slightly worse) but it now belongs in my collection thanks to Ms. Sirtis’s presence (sadly only in the opening scene though it was a memorable cameo).  IMDB says Dyke is coming out with a new motion picture next year called Moontrap Target Earth which stars Sarah Butler who was inMalek Ahhad’s 2014 flick Free Fall which co-starred another hero of mine in D.B. Sweeney which means it also holds a proud place in my collection!  It’s not easy being me which explains all the gun licking I’ve been doing these days.  I fear I will spend all my life searching for a copy of Annihilation Earth.  I really do like Inalienable. 

You are going to be in everything from now on.  

What were you think about, Egypt?  Yeah.  If only someone would jerk the handle that I may die in my dreams.

There were two World War 2 movies released within six months of each other in that great year of 1998: Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan and Terrence Malick’s The Thin Red Line.  Ryan was the one that cleaned up at the Oscars but it is painfully obvious that Line is the far superior film and I truly feel that decades from now our grandchildren will know the truth.  

I recently purchased the recently released Criterion blu ray of Wim Wenders 1977 adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s 1974 novel Ripley’s Game (the third novel in the Ripliad) though it is important to note that Wenders retitled it The American Friend.  It is one of my favorite feature films of all fucking time and Criterion’s 4k color corrected remaster is sumptuous and beautiful.  I have it watched 7 times in a row every night for the past 5 nights, bursting into tears each and every time.  The two leads – Bruno Ganz and Dennis Hopper – do superb work and the lovely Lisa Kreuzer does excellent supportive work and brings genuine depth to what could have easily been a one-note character (is it sexist that I called her lovely?  She is!)  But I do want to single out Hopper for a moment: he has forever been one of my favorite actors and in a long zany career that includes manic performances in things like Blue Velvet, Easy Rider, Mad Dog Morgan, Speed, Hoosiers, Rumble Rish, Apocolypse Now, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 and many others I may pick this movie as my single favorite Hopper performance.  It is big yet small, in your face yet subtle, colorful yet painted in stark black-and-white.  I say with 100% truth this performance breaks my heart every single time I see it and the amount of character building he does with comparatively little screen time is stunning.  Out of the five actors who have played Ripley (all greats including Alain Delon, Matt Damon, John Malkovich and Barry Pepper) Hopper’s may resemble the literary version the least but he is by far the most complete and compelling version realized on screen time.  

She turns and walks away in hong kong.

I’m writing about the CLF.  Do you understand what I mean by that?  CLF?  Am I talking about Cliffs Natural Resources Inc?  Hang out on that message board for a while if you desire some zany antics!  Or am I talking about something different?  Something far greater?!  Ah, the jade pendant is coming back around on itself yet again, how wonderful.  Do you give up?  

Britney Spear’s 2007 album Blackout really is great, super icy pop, still sounds about perfect.  Aphex Twin’s 1994 album Selected Ambient Works Volume II is also beautiful.  But I listened to Station to Station a few dozen times today.  How is it possible that he was so far ahead of everyone else?  And how so little has even come close – or how so few have even made the attempt – since then?  

I suddenly have a devastatingly strong desire for Trix cereal.  

One of the most delightful things I heard recently is that he rejected an offer from Coldplay to collaborate and appear on one of their songs, responding to them by saying about the proposed song, “It’s not a very good song, is it?”  This delights me because I am a small, sad petty man and I’ve always maintained that Coldplay are quite awful, one of the very worst.  

One of the most interesting things I heard recently is that Kanye West may be planning an album of David Bowie covers.  Despite West himself having not confirmed or denied, there are already articles appearing claiming West is the only one of today’s artists capable of pulling off such a feat and on the flipside there is an anti-West petition making the rounds in an effort to stop this from happening.  I have not yet made up my mind how I feel but I think the part of me that wants it to be true outweighs the part of me that does not.  I love at least a couple West albums. 

I am still awful; absolutely nothing has changed with respect to that.  I am likely more awful now than I was before.  Certainly, the world is more awful now than it was before.  

I'm cold to this pig

She finds herself alternating between a state of cold detachment and one of rediscovery.

If she is feeling terrible she returns to random New York streets where it is the easiest thing in the world to disappear.  She left a message there that no one will ever read.  Her lack of ambition is casting a spell and the next generation is going to be more lost than this one.  

She sees a kaleidoscope in front of the church windows.  She lit several candles even though there was no reason.  The statues were beautiful, their shape sumptuous.  I pray in two different languages and my heart was present in neither of them.   Glass has a strange hold her and she frequently imagines herself breaking glass in her room.  It is a fascinating thing to fill in all those missing passages and realize that something which was somehow considered lesser is now on an even keel with everything else.  Oh, it feels so good, she can even imagine she was alive during those times and sometimes feels alive right now.  I am not very anxious for the next.  

She is an architect of fear and they say she has no mouth.  Someone somewhere is very desperate to believe.  I drop my money in the bag and before I leave I look back several times to check on who may be watching me.  She dances inside the goldmine and her body is half animal.  

These feelings are slipping and cause a pit of guilt to swell inside her stomach.  I would like to hang on to my anger and look back on those other times with a blurry fondness.  There is too much joy for me to be sad forever but I am far more effective when walking along a lovingly crooked path.  I have no interest in the betterment of anything.  Someone keeps holding up a black book in front of my eyes and I am terrified to read any of the words inside because a part of me knows exactly what they will summon.  This voice says I am a whore.  The way it uses the word “morning” suggests something incredibly frightening.  Very soon she is going to whipping herself and exposing raw tendons.  When blood splashes on her wall it appears quite bright.  

Why has this already dried up inside of me?  I have cathedral eyes.  I have two sexes.  I imagine I will be impaled.  All these electronics are wrapping themselves around my brain and I don’t think that sharp looking man in the suit is truly whom he seems.  These recordings were made without my permission.  How she wishes everyone would stop sending her their lamentations and sympathies.  She sees them as false things and wonders what it is floating above their heads when they pray.  She tells them to sit back down at their desks and keep plying their meaningless trade.  When he is inside of her she feels no relief and instead simply wonders how long it is going to take to finish.  

There is a startling lack of self-control on display for such meaningless things.  In the middle of the night she begins to draw stars and reads weird things and she is pretty sure she can change the channels of her television by blinking in a certain way and she laughs at the hedonistic messages from people she thought she knew and is now relieved to say they no longer have a stake in things.  

She trembles at the transition and there are tears in her eyes when she remembers a decade full of nothing.  Would you like to have sex tonight?  Can we please stab ourselves in the eyes?  All my little clay figures have melted and the bones in wrist no longer support anything.  She is going to fly tonight and there is will be no brave soul to step in and take his place.  You believe once your dues are paid and it has lengthened you will have done a good job – the best of jobs – and that you will feel fulfillment but this is not true.  You are going to wake up deeply dissatisfied and you are not going to understand why.  And then you’ll go to a high ceilinged place and we’ll glisten inside again and we’ll spasm and we’ll find comfort in a moment and nothing but hate and futility in our lives.    

Trap doors open up beneath her.  Believe me my love, she says, I am different and I will never disappoint.  Let us pick a name from ancient texts and beg to be sustained.  The walls in her room are painted a dark blue and she is going to live there.  Every morning when she wakes up she spits out little pieces of her teeth and this makes her laugh.  Oh, I must thank you now for the only thing that really matters.  This is not an emotion but a genuine and destructive manifestation that creates fierce and degenerative monsters.  I think we picked a rather improper trip.  

It’s so cold and numb but there has been an irreversible change.  Is it blonde life or blood light?  She is going to need a very long spoon for the foreseeable future.  It is such a pleasure to be swallowed up by something degrading.  She paints the worst pictures of herself to be closer to a false promise of immortality.  The pitch of your voice is beautiful.  My lack of talent is quite obvious when I am silhouetted by the light of the moon.  There is no need to pull.  She is still going to be blasting this when going through the streets.  

We are children of disobedience and it is no longer very fun to be in this universe.  On the bed she touches herself while lights flash across her ceiling which may be real or may be imagined.  During these moments her face wears a quivering joyless smile and she closes her eyes when she feels too scared.  They say she has two gods while another more insistent voice is telling her to jump.  

This is now a very very dark place and she fears it is only going to become even darker.  I am very afraid something is going to be horrid.  

Very sane he seemed to me

Is she allowed to be angry? 

Is has not stopped raining for the past several days.  

After she parked she waited in her car for some time.  Exteriors had a strange hold on her and she stared at the outside of the store, all blue walls and tall, thick panes of glass. The door is also glass and she imagines pressing her hand against it and what this will look like from the perspective of someone inside the store.  People pass by and she briefly questions if emptiness is a commonly inherent quality.  

This is not the first store she has gone to on that day and it will not be the last.  In every one she walks straight to familiar sections and it only takes a few seconds to confirm what she already knew.   Empty.  Less than a week prior this was not the case.  The stand at the front of the store which was well stocked when they first arrived only a few days ago is now empty as well.  This was the same in the last store and it will be same in the next store.  Whether it was imprinted on paper or a piece of plastic, they have all been bought.  

You are frauds and now that this world is even more bereft of true beauty you are all far more sickeningly easy to notice.  There are vermin and pestilence gathering in unison.  It is not even a question of their design or what they are doing with their hands.  She would like for them to ask themselves what they will be doing in a year, even a few months.  Will everything simply be collecting dust?  Will this cumulative work – a collection of thousands of notes, of strings and images, words and inflections – be relegated to the bottom of some stack, a reflection of their overall lack of personality and conviction?  This is the most likely outcome, is it not?  Disingenuous is such a polite word.  The whims of human nature and emotion are a foul thing.  

And there are others, those who only showed up when the weather was fair and now want to cry and beg and share things of such great importance.  When was the last time any of this even crossed their mind?  And once these precious few days pass, will they ever have the time to think about it again?  Isn’t everyone busy with their failed romances and their very important dream jobs and depositing checks?  Shouldn’t we all be planning how we are going to waste the next forty years of our lives invested in things we do not care about?  That is what they are busy doing so why should they waste any of their precious time?  Write out a couple sentences, put your fingerprints on a piece of plastic, watch a bright display light up with a familiar name and once the day is done we can resume our glorious adventure in mediocrity.    

This is not what was intended and it is quite contrary to the virtues she worked so hard to extol and though she deeply understands her own hypocrisy she is unable to change it.  All she is left with are her thoughts and considerations and she wonders how much her newly discovered uselessness is contributing to her sadness.  It is a strange thing to imagine praying but not to actually pray.  She wonders if there is even the slightest possibility of a trade.  One of her.  A billion like her, a billion like the others.  That would be more than fair.  But no, sadly, not today, all deals are final and there are no trades conducted after the toll of that bell.  

There’s a black and white photograph on her coffee table, an insert she did not know she would receive.  She wants to find a frame for it and hang it on her wall, maybe the one opposite the front door.  There is a book on the table next to the photograph and the cover of the book has a picture of a man smoking, a satisfied glint in his eye.  The book chronicles a specific time in this man’s life and where he was for a number of years and what he created.  And what it is that he created during this time and surrounding this time is inside of her and she knows this will never change.  Does this make her current state somewhat inexplicable?

This is an indelible mark; nothing will ever wash it off.  Why is she so angry all the time?  Is she allowed this?  Is this a sin?  It is so much better to be alone rather than look at the disgusting faces of those who are just going to live and die without any questions or any attempts.  Does she hate herself?  This is an excellent question.  Are her feelings deeply contrary to the messages she so holds dear?  

Smooth screen. Beautiful commerce.  Turquoise sweater.  Recorded image.  Jumping.  Laughing.  In the background.  Everything is beautiful for an instant.   This is the real message.  This makes all the aforementioned ugliness disappear rather easily.  She can recognize the hypocrisy in others and herself but this is forgivable, it scarcely matters.  There is pure joy emanating outward.  She brings a glass of wine to her lips and looks over at the person next to her and they both smile and it is genuine.  This is legitimacy and power and beauty.  She receives advice that is far too perfect and though she will eventually take it she is not yet ready to listen.  But this is the way out.  Through.  This is how to let it go.  She has to leave soon.  She looks down at herself and smiles because it is torn. 

While driving at night it was quite a comfort listening to the one with the orange cover.  For a moment it was more affirmative than heartbreaking.  It opened up the same doors to beautiful and strange alien landscapes.  Nothing will ever change this.  She cannot hear the rain against the windshield.  As long as she keeps driving she does not feel as bad.

As the world falls down

I was at home like always.

Little details are standing out in strange ways.  It is impossible to meet this quota.  In the middle of the night we tend to the prodigal sons and it was at this moment the necessary message from someone kind came through.  There were already candles lit.  Has there ever been another denouement so perfectly planned?  The photographs are not new anymore and it is much harder to read the words now than it was then.  

He cannot explain anything right now.  He can only splash clashing colors on a canvas and when he stands back from it he sees that nothing looks good.  He is inadequate in every possible way.  That is quite a frustrating thing, even more so when in the face of something so powerful.  But these things he releases from his brain.  Though since the sunrise his voice has trembled and been low.  

There’s something in his eye and there has been all day long.  He has to disguise everything.  There is no sense otherwise.  This is the world he has created for himself.  His pain is ridiculous.  

In a room somewhere this is all taking place.  There are very few people inside.  Precious words are given light soon afterward and this allows anyone who wishes a chance to enter, just a little bit.  That is enough for now and likely will have to be enough for always. 

You’re so deep in your room now, just a little girl.  There is such a fear of frankness and from that stems the desire to disfigure everything.  That is the reason for these cutups.  Taken as love, it is irreparably damaged.  

The grain of truth in everything is that one inspires the other.  I am beside myself with this sensation of freedom.  There was always going to be a limit to the transparency.  

This was a gift meant for those who knew.  And now he knows that he was part of that moment, right there when it really mattered.  Blue is the color of my room and that is where I shall live.  I do so hope the absurd won’t be taken for granted in the coming eternity for that was so crucial.  

He much time is he going to spend examining everything, trying to uncover symbols and second guessing every word?  Is there any chance of taking things on face value?  This will find a way into everything he writes from now on.  Though it is highly doubtful that anything he writes will ever be worth a damn. 

There is an unexpected train of thought and it certainly mixes things up.  Yet there was that necessary message; someone boldly stepping in.  That is why it came from you, I can see that now; something new and unexpected and wonderful in this world.  

It just plays on repeat right now, everything is black.  This is foreknowledge and this is touching sentimentality.  This is a particular type of gift.  

She hasn’t written nearly enough but she’s given it so much thought.  Every time she sees a new message tears threaten to spill down.  Sometimes they don’t just threaten and something catches in her throat and she begins to cry.  Is that blood on her face?  

She was there on the first day, first hour, the opening.  Now this is some perverse point of pride for her and though she acknowledges a certain sickness in this pride it does nothing to diminish it.  She shares her sadness and regret while begrudging others the same form of release.  She wonders if they were only present on the brightest days, if their devotion was somehow falser for its selectivity and short term memory.  She wants to go to them and tell each and every one that their feelings are false and their faces betray this and they will be smiling soon enough and moving on to something easily digestible while her feelings will never dissipate.  In the next breath she hates herself too much to do anything and realizes she is not what was desired.  

She has time to consider and recall meeting him once in a restaurant before she had any idea about anything.  The memory is still beautiful and it is too easy to put herself back there and feel how well they got on.  It is also easy to remove everything that came afterward and jump right to the awful end.  She has time enough to wonder if she had known how it would all turn out would she have ever wanted to speak to him at all.  

She clears the dust off the old piano and there are cobwebs stretching from the fallboard to the faded keys.  She presses down on a few of the keys.  She is not playing a song, not thinking about any proper succession of notes.  She is simply filling the air with anything that can take away the silence.  After a while others join in and gradually they find a melody, something familiar and warm.  By the end of it they are singing and she feels blessed that she never knew anything in advance.  

Later on his brain is still a scattered mess.  Stepping outside it was difficult to accept this shift.  There were many moments of melodrama and there will doubtlessly be many more.  He tries to focus on the plan, an impossible plan that somehow makes sense of all the tragedy.  One last change in this world.  A new career in a new…what, exactly?  Not everything can be revealed and it is somehow more appropriate.  He is entering the wardrobe one more time, this is his chosen finale, to be forever left as a muse and leaving us to wonder in what new fantastic form he may emerge as in the next life.  This is the best ending.  This is dignity.  This is purposeful.  This is art.  I still cannot stop crying.

  
There is smoke coming up out of the metal street grates in SoHo but it does not touch the flowers.  

David

I was watching you when it happened.  
I did not hear the final breath.  I heard the rumors and laughed them off.  My arrogance is one of my many flaws.  I was born under a stone.  He was born in a UFO.  Like in outer space.  
I don’t know how true anything is.  
Such control over everything until the very last.  It’s all deranged.   I hear some mad piano keys in the background and a manic saxophone hitting just the right notes.  
It is too easy to pathetically devolve until self….  I am a disgraceful human being.  Why I am still even here?  There is only true type of nobility.  
Raining tears upon the sheets.  
I light this candle.  
Don’t turn this is an expense of ego.  Everyone there is no point in comparison.  I would have flung myself from the highest….
How could you have known so much that we did not? 
Just like that bluebird, you’ll be free.  In private what have we all struggled with?  And this control maintained until the end.  My hands are trembling and I can’t see anything.  There’s something in my eye, something in the air.  Ziggy played guitar.  I thought you were an alient creature.  I can’t write anything.  I am in a corner somewhere.  I am lost somewhere.  Everyone says hi.  What did you write while everything was happening?  Words are spilling out right now without any real meaning and I wonder where you are.  My perception is everything or nothing.  
I take everything for granted.  When will the time for celebration?  Reinvention splayed across my years.  I laughed and cried in equal measure.  I was alone and then I was not.  It’s a slow burn, I think the angels are coming soon.  Is that all some kind of elaborate brainwashing?   Are these lights in the sky going to take us away?  I can still see that awful thing I drew on my carpet.  
How could you know to leave this gift for us?  I bought transparency.  I was found under a stone.  I was brought back to life and everything around me was autumnal. 
What was that like writing this?
I can’t fill my word quota anymore.  I can’t really write.  Fraud.  
I listened to Outside first and then Hunky Dory. That is just the beginning.  I am waking at 4 am and will be looking for some guidance.  
I feel so sad over someone I never met before at any point in my life.  Yet this person has impacted my life more than almost anyone else.  What a bizarre world we live in and now this world is quite a bit less nice.  
I left wrote you something on the bridge.  I left that for you in your city.  I’ll never see you.  I’ll never leave my room.  I love you.  I’m sorry.  
Oh God please bring me the disco king.  
You can’t give it all away.  No one can.  
Thank you 

Way up, oh honey, I’ve got game

I want to savor this moment, this entire day and night.  

Once again there is division.  My life is going to be defined and remembered now as pre and post.  Am I excited?  Of course, no need to ask.

I owe both of Y(y)ou so much.  It is obvious to whom I owe more and I will not delay in this for that is clearly wrong: You.  I am still torn and I recently listened to words about salvation and they left me questioning, not the conviction of the speaker but how that particular truth is applied to yours falsely.  

Please understand I am not making any comparisons.  

I don’t want to steal too liberally from Terrence but when was that initial moment of discovery?  I know one took place as a child though I believe this may have been born out of fear.  There is an image of fire and a man who at once is cartoonish and silly and overwhelmingly terrifying.  I question devotion that stems from fear.  That was only the first moment and there were many afterward.  Some of those were born from fear of something different (or was it the same thing in a new mask, maybe it’s like a Chinese box and I would just keep removing layers and never see the actual face) and some were born of desire.  Is that any better?  I never considered it until now but would he have stayed were it not for…blue…voice…maternal displacement, everything so thick with desire.

And this other I am discussing, the initial thesis here, the aforementioned pre and post assertion.  It was more than a decade ago but that was still too late for actualization, but not for adoration.  The great disappearing act was about to begin because I always arrive too late.  Still, the introduction was nothing short of glamorous, marking the first of many (lifelong?) traverses into intrigue, confusion and rather glorious affirmation.  

Would I need to ask for permission?  What is the lifespan of all this?  We may meet on the beach at some point.  Though I will never see you face to face. 

In the future I’ll probably have to watch old videotapes to remind myself how to do certain things.  I would love to share a kiss as has been described.  Its cliché but this breaks my heart every single time.  

At some point afterward I discovered the alien landscapes of orange skies and disjointed thoughts that impossibly mirrored my own.  Just as my brain was nothing more than breaking glass and strange (horrific) symbols drawn on my floor (a sad rejection on my part) I was blessed by this blackout and stumbling around in the dark I discovered something that made it all make sense and made it all okay.  

It was the beginning of never-ending discovery.  I stayed at frightening motels.  I saw bruises and tears and finally acceptance.  

Lets not take the easy way out.  Now both have found their way into everything that follows.  Cut-ups.  How many times have I mentioned this?  Disparate thoughts and emotions are like different colors of paints splashed across a canvas.  I feel psychotic and estranged and redeemed.  There was so much expansion and change for the better.  Time is a wonderful thing.  

There is a brief common element and that is (no) control.  How true is this?

If I don’t reject this, is something going to be horrid?  These images inspire such love and consistently confuse me. 

We could be approaching an end and this is not lost on me.  For that reason it is more crucial than ever that every single moment is treasured and given the attention it deserves.  I am living through a revival.  You have to believe you can do better otherwise what is the point of anything?  

I can’t deny there is a part of me which loves the fracturing.  

           
I’m the great…

Is this wrong?  Is the fact that I’m even questioning it proof of something?  I don’t want to say. 
 
I think we’re dancing in a castle somewhere and there are enchanted animals around us.  I also believe we created an awful machine, something which should be destroyed.  I wonder if I am going to disappear one day and no one will know what happened to me but there will be speculation that it was something horrid.  Will there be a recording of my distorted voice as I am about to be forced to do some awful things?  Leave me in the dark.  

Ultimately I do realize that I don’t know who I am.  

This has been the consecutive conclusion.  

How many people have instructed him as to whom he should be praying?  Can he fit inside her hand?  

When there is that awful and persistent thing struggling to get out these are the means by which to contain it again.  This dark muse continues to inspire and if I’m not mistaken it always shall.  

There is so much majesty here, so many soaring days in our lives.  Joy in this act of creation; one great and the other beyond greatness.  

There is a moment where I am absolutely terrified of my hologramic television set and this may have something to do with the fact that it literally consumed my girlfriend (the previous evening?).  I know at some point I will have to venture inside and rescue her and I wonder if I will be wearing a woman’s dress when that moment comes. 

I want to thank you and I want to thank You.  I am frequently questioning allegiances yet I am still in consistent blissful awe at the different levels of creation taking place.  

This is still pre and I am going to continue enjoying this phase through its last few hours.  A year from now and five years (which is all we got) from that we will see how the post is shaping up. 

Look up here, I'm in Heaven.  I've got scars that can't be seen

Look that up if you’re unsure.

Ventiginously (1,101)

“Te rindes?” 

Are there any words more alluring than those?!  I can’t go into more detail at this time because everything is still too raw but I suspect it shall be touched upon again in the future.  This jade pendant is always so lovely.  Sound and color and portion.  

You know I actually own copies of both versions of Solaris: the 1972 original directed by the late great Andrei Tarkovsky and the 2002 remake directed by the on time and also great Steven Soderbergh.  I find them both to be lush, achingly beautiful films though it is difficult for me to choose which one I prefer.  Though I suspect if someone broke into my posh flat and stuck a standard police issue Glock 9 millimeter handgun to my venous temple and threatened to blow my fucking brains out I would choose the original.  It is just a tad more supple and satisfying (and sans mid-movie montage).  Criterion put out a slamming blu ray of this a few years back and I picked up a copy at Ye Olde Conglomerate shortly before I went bankrupt on the tail end of the housing bubble bursting.  Still, man, the photography on Soderbergh’s is just absolutely fucking gorgeous and I give ample kudos and props to Peter Andrews (tee hee) for his work.  It makes me want to know who I have to kill in order to see it have a blu ray release.  I recall a young couple I used to know opted to make out for the duration of the 2002 version while at the theatre and I will forever regret not being afforded the opportunity to discuss the film with them due to their inability to resist for 98 minutes the temptations of the flesh.  However I am not judging, merely mourning the lost opportunity.  Amazingly, I have never read the book Solaris though I suspect I shall have to remedy that oversight at some point in my miserable life.  I also do not own the soundtracks for either of these motion pictures despite both of them – the first by Eduard Artemyev and the second by Cliff Martinez (alum of Red Hot Chili Peppers and Captain Beefheart) – being rather beautiful.  I think I shall correct these mistakes very soon and then wrap a blanket around myself and contemplate finally ending it all.  Ultimately though, nothing mentioned previously can compare to the original adaptation of Solaris which was a two-part Russian TV movie released in 1968 and co-directed by Boris Nirenburg and Lidiya Ishimbayeva.  I’ve yet to find a Region 1 copy but I’ve only just begun my worldly travels to track one down.  Such is the nature of wisdom.  

That black and white compilation truly was a life-changer.  

Yes, cut-ups.  I think that is what I mentioned in my last post.  Does it make any damn cents?  Probably not to those not in the know.  But I don’t say that in a condescending manner.  I would never want to condescend.  For goodness sake, I assure you I knew nothing of the horses or those strange, alternately horrifying voices they used.  I was just a little girl who never left her room.  I do wonder why every time I open my eyes the world has a blue tint.  Why do you both own me?  One in orange and one in grey.  I swear these sounds could bring me back to life if the situation called for it.  Everything is teetering on icy glass surfaces and pivoting on unexpected alien highways at the dawn.  There is so much discordance and what a world of good it brings to me.  This stack of brilliance gets me through everything.  

I think he saw her once and fell in love immediately.  We only deal in fragments and clues and the risk is all this passion becoming nothing more than pastiche and existing on the surface.  Do you not see what happens whenever you put your hand on his shoulder?  Black on blonde.  This is the combination that most comes to mind.  What a truly unholy vision.  Yet what delights it offers.  They would surely both be amateurs but would that not make it so much better in many ways?  Every ways?  Can you hear the sounds?  And the sights!  Denier.  That would truly be a gift of sound and vision.  

I bought some yellow legal pads the other day and some new Bic writing sticks.  I think I’ll brain-shit-storm elaborate ideas on those pads.  I’m quite wondering if she can hear me right now.  There are so many shadows in my home.  The previously mentioned vision only leads to others, all equal in their glory.  Limbs wrapped around limbs.  

If I’m not there no one is going to notice.  

The trailer for Lucha Underground season 2 makes me so giddy with excitement.  I need this premiere now.  What a television junkie I am.  Is the only choice self-immolation?  More slow-motion running please.  But what are you running from?  That is the real question.  And of course I spit my coffee out with the revelation at the end.   

Judy, just go out and fucking buy Tilt right now!  That goes for all of you too! 

That source of inspiration is something she needs to murder and revive on a constant basis.  It is the only way she knows to keep moving.  Sometimes she is nothing more than a small frightened boy.  There is so much confusion in consciousness.  She is not entirely sure what gifts she has bequeathed.  When she looks out the window at night she is horrified to see a face staring back at her.  Those lucky bastards still have a huge world waiting for them.  But I hope they are very careful with what they discover.  There is only the logic of a dreamworld, of retribution, birth and murder.  

There are castles in mountains and my bloodied face is a portrait on the walls.  A generous woman made of clay is dancing in front of the portrait and subsequently gives in to a process that does not involve counting.  The master is screaming orders and then is screaming in agony as the flesh of his back is torn and peeled off like a piece of parchment.  His bones are exposed and there is a strong hand gripping his spine.  Motorcycles roar outside though the drivers lie dead – their heads irreparably crushed like grapes reserved for barefooted wine-making – beside them on the ground.  The clay never hardens though she never stops smiling.  

I’m gonna have to punch a big slab of meat on my next recording.  

I always love the alien (think about it!)

The end needs to be set to Get Behind Me from Scott Walker’s seminal fourth album 4.  Gads, where would I be without Scott Walker?  I’m going to give them cue cards.  That’s right; I’m going to give the sonsabitches some cue cards.  At some point, I don’t give a shit when, I want you to call him a stupid sonofabitch.  Can you do that for me boss?  And at some point I need you to begin a scintillating discussion about politics.  Don’t look at me, I don’t give a fuck when.  Just fucking do it, ya understand me?  I knew you would.   You are both beautiful.  Sepia tones.  That’s what we need.  Some fucking sepia tones.  I want to see a big fucking glass of lemonade and for it to be the most beautiful fucking glass of lemonade that has ever been conceived and seen by mortal men.  I want the yellows to glisten and glow and destroy retinas with their intensity.  I need you on this.  You’re my tech. 

Oh how I am listening to the 1983 album Let’s Dance by David Bowie this morning.  I swear to everything in the world the vocal to the song Without You is one of the most gorgeous things I have ever heard.  I want to wrap this song around me like a blanket and then go swimming in deep oceans of sensual misgivings.  These days I need to be inside and beside myself to truly understand anything.  Such is the nature of wisdom.  

Oh why were these bestowed upon us in this exact time and place?  I feel I will always be falling for them the rest of my silly little auspicious and sometimes wonderful life.  It’s in my jeans, you understand?   It’s in my genetic code and my hermetic mode.  It’s inside the leaves as much as it is in the plaster.  How can I possibly help myself?  I am entranced every single time.  Ah denier.  How I love to ponder the mystical properties of denier.  Am I to blame for this?  Is it the greatest invention known to mankind?  I suspect so.  It would be such delightful strangulation.  There is so much desire for suffocation and insults. 

She commands him to lick her boot.  Good grief does this actually happen?  I pray that it does.  This is a most unnatural desire.  She is someone so pure.  It is necessary for there to be another.  It cannot be her.  It has to be an evil twin that no one knew about, an evil sadistic twin only interested in her own dominance derived satisfaction.  She loves to intimidate through the simple process of eye contact and her piercing beauty.  

And she orders it.  While he is completely at her mercy and she is savoring every moment, she orders her boot to be cleaned.  And the garb underneath?  Is it black or flesh colored?  No matter, they are equally glorious, most especially because she has had a hard long day of movement and creativity and now wishes to unwind.  The gates to paradise are opened and the air is perfumed and his senses are drowned in ecstasy.  “Pathetic,” she says while laughing, “you are such a loser.  As if I would ever even give you the time of day!  You deserve this and so much worse!  You are my pet from now on and you are going to do exactly as I instruct.”

Scissors, he begs for scissors, all day, every day.  

My heart has a hard time speeding up so I like taking things to facilitate the process.  I wonder if there is malevolent outside intelligence lurking somewhere saying right now it is going to be a pleasure for them to speed up the extinction of the human race.  We truly have outgrown our use.  Yet there are so many pretty things around.  I sometimes imagine as though I have never seen one before and what my reaction would be to seeing one for the first time, hair black as coal.  I think I would likely be quite vocal and explode messily.  

The cutup method sounds inordinately effective.  What a great big beautiful world.  I can see so many colors and I can see for miles.  I really like magenta wrapped tightly.  Magenta is always pleasing to the senses.  

I’d like to finish to finish (mistaken repeated words) that documentary I started earlier.  And then who knows what further zany antics may come my way?!  I think I’ll probably go buy some bread that has a tiny man lurking inside.  I’ll probably listen to some ambient music by Aphex Twin at some point.  Maybe I’ll watch Robert Rodriguez’s 2003 flick Once Upon a Time in Mexico.  That movie means so much to me.  It hit at such a crucial moment in my life and I know I’ll be watching it until the day of my richly deserved demise.  It makes me so happy.  And the blu ray transfer is so beautiful.  

Oh the Nibiru cataclysm.  This is a terrifying reality.  When I think of everything which has been done to cover this up….  We need to make ourselves aware, information is our only ally.  Yet, can knowing possibly have any effect on the outcome?!  Who or what are these forces conspiring against us?  I’ve said it a thousand times before now: I think something is going to be horrid.  There will be a collision.  There will be something that will black the sky.  There’s going to be a reckoning very soon and I can’t sleep anymore.  I feel so afraid all the time.  

In every awful moment I always turn back to my glorious false memory of the dance.  Everyone has masks on except for us.  People, for the most part, are vile.  I think we both feel so wonderfully helpless in that moment.  You are stronger and that is how it should be.  Underneath the mistletoe.  I am a criminal.  

Drink my young friend.  Drink from the mystical rivers of life and discover the effervescent restorative properties of water.  Your life will never be the same!

A man far greater and far more talented than my pathetic self could ever hope to be once said it best: some days I feel tangerine.  

Surely I am not the only one who always thought it made him horny.  This is a third person account.  I know when to go out and when to stay in, get things done.  

Summer of ham

I recently saw the Star Wars Episode VII The Force Awakens and all I have to say is that the emperor has no clothes.  Take that as you will.  

I have been thrilling to various small screen superhero adventures in recent days as I have binged watched several television programs in an effort to catch up before their respective mid-season premieres.  I’m going to say it again (though I’m not sure if ever said it before) The Flash is a nigh perfect comic book adaptation and watching these episodes has been one of the great pleasures of my life (it could be argued that deriving so much satisfaction from a TV show only shows how fundamentally empty my life is).  I would like to highlight in particular episode 5 of this current season The Darkness and the Light which gives full introductions to several key Earth 2 characters and showcases a great sort-of first appearance of Kendra Saunders AKA Hawkgirl played by Ciara Renee who I believe will be playing a very largely role in the upcoming DC Legends of Tomorrow.  I won’t bury the lead here: Her roughly 3 minutes of screentime was more than enough for me to fall absolutely head over heels in love with her.  I need her.  God, I need her.  

Many musical publications are calling In Colour by Jamie xx the best album of the great year 2015.  I have already put the first necessary wheels in motion that shall culminate in my listening to this album.  This is because I do not have an opinion on anything until I first read and hear what other people have thought.  I’ve not heard a single note or lyric of this release but I’ve little doubt I will include it in my year-end best of assessment.  

I’ve been listening to great old 90’s bands like Echobelly and Lush as of late.  I was delighted to find both those groups have actually recently regrouped and there now exists the possibility I may apply for additional credit cards and promptly max them out to make arrangements to see them at a concert or some such. 

I truly am a pathetic loser.  Is it any I wonder I reject your…what, exactly?

I’ve been considered buying a statue or some sort of print but I wonder if that is really a wise idea.  I’m just clearing the cobwebs here in a cents.  But seriously, I always come back to these same questions.  Maybe I always will.  Would it be some type of act of betrayal?  How many have fallen in love in a similar manner?  

This Friday I will be purchasing David Bowie’s newest album.  Make no mistake, I will.  I will also likely be hitchhiking down to ye old multiplex to view the feature film The Revenant.  These are just loose plans however and who know what strange and unexpected obstacles life may throw in my way?!  

I’ve been plucking away at the ol’ four-string lately like a man on fire!  Dig it: four counts of C sharp, four counts of B, 8 counts of F sharp and then repeat.  Anyone know what song this is?!  It’s a great fucking song.  I’m learning it for you; I’ve got the technology ready.  We are going to make beautiful music together.  Should I be engaging in pick playing?  Pick playing is so much fun.  No, it’s all fun.  What an instrument!  

It is a strange type of fracturing and loneliness, isn’t it?  It would be too easy to create poison.  Every time she looks into his eyes again for the first time it is a bit worse.  Those drives home never quite last long enough.  Viridiana.  He wonders what this all means.  He is somehow perversely satisfied that most things ultimately mean nothing.  He believes something very soon is going to be awful.  From his own lips there is something very terrible to learn.  

It was unexpected on that good night.  She was wearing blue.  She took place of many others inside a glorious false memory.  I don’t know what I wish for anymore save for this.  I think you would understand.  Maybe when I am found abandoned inside your home.  I wonder if we will see things in rich black-and-white in those moments.  

American Precision is still what I desire.  

It’s all a racket and I wonder what I could have worn that would have properly turned him on.  I desperately needed the cash and gave it my all.  I am inside myself far too often.  It is altogether curious that there is a saint for the criminals.  Though why shouldn’t they be privy to spiritual guidance and protection like the rest of us, she wonders while fingering herself.  

I feel so much has escaped.  

The song I’ll Remember by Madonna is quite lovely, a personal favorite of mine.  Tis a shame it was saddled onto the soundtrack of piece-o-crap 90’s flick With Honors starring Brendan Fraser and Joe Pesci.  It deserved better but at least it will always have a place on the soundtrack of my life (though that is actually a substantial step down).  

As recent as this very epic morning I heard Shakira’s new song Try Everything which is from the soundtrack to the upcoming Disney flick Zootopia wherein Ms. Mebarak also plays a character called Gazelle.  My apologies to all you Disney devotees out there but it is extremely unlikely that I will view this feature film.  Somewhere in the course of my miserable life I lost all capacity to enjoy such fare.  The problem is with me, not with the flicks.  However Shakira still remains one of my favorite recording artists and it has been so for more than a decade (ten years for all you numbers fans out there).  I feel secure enough in my fandom and slavish devotion to comfortably admit when I do not enjoy something she has recorded and there have been songs and even albums to which I have given unfavorable press on this very esteemed blog.  However I find this new tune quite delightful!  It is frothy and sweet in all the best ways and gives me big positive feelings of rainbows, animals and ice cream and her voice sounds real pretty on it!  I hope it is on whatever upcoming album she is working on though I can cope if its only place in the world is on the Zootopia soundtrack.  Perhaps that is actually one of the reasons it is so delightful: it is free of the usual trappings pop artists set for themselves in having to appeal to trends and mainstream expectations.  I need more happy music like this!  

I’m off to eat some blood popsicles now!  Don’t try and clock me!