Song Of The Day: I Don't Want To Go To Chelsea / Elvis Costello
Word Of The Day: Xiphoid / Sword shaped
My favorite part of I Don't Want To Go To Chelsea is when Elvis sings "Men come screaming / dressed in white coats / shake you very gently by the throat." The vocal on that entire line is fucking FLAWLESS. I am in awe-ness. Wow.
Wrote the ending to my book today. It was easy, I just took the last 100 pages of Kate Atkinson's book Case Histories and clicked "import". It still doesn't rhyme. Whatever.
Oh writing, writing. Some days it's like a self-administered urinary tract swab. Other days it's like having a dozen candy stripers chanting "Mr. Davis take that off, now turn your head and cough, Mr Davis! You're a cad, you've made the maidens mad."
Speaking of plumbing and remedies, my freaking bath tub clogged for like, the millionth time in a year. Thank God I spent $5,000 to have the floor ripped out and all piping replaced. That tiny, abject room is killing me. I half expect the next professional (criminal) to extract a demon from beneath our ceptic tank. There you are, bugger.
Speaking of demons, both my wife and I have had nightmares in the last two nights. I almost never, ever have nightmares anymore. Used to have them all the time, nightly, several times a night in fact. Night-terrors is what I had, to be precise. Night terrors are like nightmares on meth. Not nice. After a few short (long) years of going through the very gradual process of transmuting the accreted bile, karma, and contraction in the tri-kaya knot i euphemistically called a self, they stopped. Wow. I hated sleeping so much I developed a sleeping disorder. Insomnia. No friend to the subtle, that beast. At any rate, I haven't had a nightmare in a long time. Last night's wasn't so bad, it was more like a scary dream. I dreamed we were at some big party, and people were trying to give my daughter cocain, and I decided to commit homocide. It's funny, I become your quintessential berzerker in matters of the Dot. It's a two-stage process. Fuck with my daughter, I murder you. Nice and compact. Of course no one wants to do anything but hug and kiss and cuddle my Dot cuz she's a billion watts of What, so no probz. But to be extra safe, I am taking her to an island until she's 30. OK, a moon. OK, a moon in a parallel universe.
Speaking of the Universe, they call it that because all manifest and unmanifest Reality issues from vibration. Yes, that very vibration -the prime pitch- is what my daughter's name means in the language of IS. "Ara" is like the Kosmic (that's Kosmic with a "K" as in "Ken" Wilber, as in the dude who brought back the invisible dimensions of What) tuning fork to the Over-soul. It's all vibration.
Speaking of vibrators, have you guys ever used one? Yeah, I said guys. I know you gurlz have. Dudes? Vibrators? Self-sodomy anyone?
Speaking of sodomy, it takes a special man to make love to me. This guy -this special guy- he might be black, he might be white. I might know him, or meet him, or not even know I've met him. My guy, he lets me set the pace, I'm in control, and I like it way too fast, in an awkward place. Dilapitated car, crumbling underpass, musty putrefaction of a strange alley. I don't care where it is, as long as it's with my guy. Mmm, my guy's thoughtful. It's the little touches -sprinkles of ether on his banana hammock, My guy is different. He makes me feel... like an object. HIS object. He remembers I'm there, and remembers to pretend I'm someone else. Cuz I'm special, to my guy. He lays me down, lifts my gown, and drowns the crown. What is it about my guy? The furious, jack-hammer speed of his corpulent nethers? The peculiar geometry in the angles of his remaining teeth? If Dali and Picasso had paired in some genre-bending rural portraiture, that's my guy. What of his adorable penchant for collecting mementos from my apartment to remember our afternoon delight -a wallet here, a computer there- little remembrances that say "you had me at 'OH-NO' ?" I'm thinking of my guy.. right now. I miss you, mister.
