08.Feb.2004

welcome to the electronic florilegium of my everything.

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aural overload

Thirteenth Step has been booted from the Aural Pleasure list. Too many dried catharses. These are things I wish to relinquish. There is no joy amongst the repetitious, James-Iha-fueled guitar anguish succeeding one-hundred hours of ear-thumping masochism.

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Valentine's Day.

Valentine's Day, which ultimately means nothing to the cynics, is upon us. I have a Valentine, though he isn't sure what being so entails. I posed the question sitting Indian style on my bed, in a small, diffident voice that mirrored every facet of my guileless romanticism previously harbored before the fingers of ghastly reality whittled me down to a paranoid skeptic and extravagant butcheress of the English language as we know it this very millisecond.

However, I assure you all of that twelve-year-old timidity and naivet� can be re-attained in less than four seconds, when the white jazz of your voice softens to being musicless and childlike, "Will you be my Valentine?"

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I've no idea how long my asperity will remain publicly subdued.

In an e-mail to a girl I'm growing to adore, I told her I had four months of intense introspection that resulted in the brutal realization that, holy-father-fuck, I'm human -
I'm normal -
I should just keep trekking along.

But, it rends my creativity, and this does not bode well.

There still looms unrest.

Above the clamor of domestically frayed nerves, the bromides of occupational authority, and the all-too-common diminishing comradeships that pepper and spice my daily existence, I perch on the edges of reverie, languidly tracing designs into the aureate beaches of the Mediterranean. Miles of seclusion through the Languedoc coast tempt me. I have a fleeting crush on the sun.

Any alienist would inform one that kind of daydreaming heartily suggests one's need for warmth and placidity.

Naturally.

But, I want an alienist to suggest that I'm heartily fucking demented and require physical medication in the form of unbridled romps around every coast this planet has to offer, and by God, that will be the only thing to cure me. I doubt there's a prescription for that.

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This is embarrassing but soft: I scarcely touch others around me, though when I do, I lay my burgundy head against familiar sternums and for a moment diffuse as arms, known and fancied, embrace and gather me. I believe this is what I desire, the Languedoc coastline of affections that, at each progressing hour, I am sacrificing to this fucking ghastly universe I presently know as my disconsolate - my human and my normal - reality.

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time & machine