28.Jun.2003
give me prolonged exposure to uv rays as a declaration of self-renovation
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hi, chuckles.
Very shortly, I will be releasing "RavieSlave: The Unpublished". If you want it, come and get it.
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I want one of those dreams where the intangible becomes tangible, and your subconscious body remembers every action your conscious body has endured. Dendrites of both realms intermesh and trail their spicy tongues against the synapses, manifested by the soft amnesia of impalpable touch. I want one of those dreams where my bedroom wall is still my bedroom wall, however, instantaneously it separates and dissolves into an illusory and warm domain, heavy with numinous surroundings, and equally marked by untainted whims.
Those are always the Plexiglas layers over the murky and subdued dark-blue of a California gloaming, or a scope at the top of one of my favorite memories, with its transparent sliver of light shooting over every angle of you as all of your molecules blend with the horizon. Disjointed magenta clouds and golden buildings shot asymmetrically from the ground, overlooking miles of cinnamon ripples over a hypothermia-welcoming Pacific Ocean. The sandy passersby melt into a rivulet of flesh-colored splotches with hot little pink sunburnt grins. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, with his opium-eyes and his Eastward hallucinations, never saw this one coming.
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I am listening to VNV Nation's "Electronaut", and if this were one of those early-morning California drug-binge club-rushes, I would be shimmying my hot little sunburnt nipple-colored flesh to each beat.
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It goes without saying that I decided to take Tan and Tone America up on both of their offers; locked in a tanning bed with my hard little fantasies and immeasurable quests for the perfect skin, it goes without saying that the sweat-tainted futuristic UV vessel held me for far too long. It goes without saying that I desire eight perfectly meticulous hands rubbing aloe vera lotion into every crevice of every burn. It goes without saying that I'm, in fact, a moron.
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Nightly, my cell vibrates, and it's always a different universe on the other end of the wires.
Vibe once, and it's Terri with her endearing insecurities or hi-what's-up.
Vibe twice, and it's my brother with his blustery inebriation that elicits nothing but pure humor in the only way a walking Tool song can evoke.
Vibe thrice, and it's Jonathan in San Diego spouting charming Californiaspeak through persistent intoxication.
Vibe four times, and it's La B�te with his somnolent, strung-out joshing and the brief moments in between breaths where I repeat his name as I titter.
Vibe five times, and it's an ex-paramour reaching a metaphorical hand to smack around the past for thirty fugacious minutes, evoking the same question of why-was-I-with-them? and that awkward silence when I realize I honestly do not know the answer to the question.
Vibe six times, and it's the loving everything of Giz who you can veritably hear age from six miles away.
Vibe again, and it's the present; vibe again, and it's the past pushing its unsightly head. Vibe once more, and it's the future, and the final vibe is always the near-immaculate amalgamation of all three, where my amygdala turns neon orange, true and honest and bonafide sensory fucking overload, and I can't stop smiling.
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I'm currently reading Invisible Monsters, and as I proclaimed to La B�te, it has, indeed, taken its toll on me. I'm 95 pages from the metaphorical Chuck Palahniuk finish-line and already it's Give me that insipid impulse to construct sardonic phrases like I've been living in his boxer-briefs for twelve straight days.
Why did you lot let me wait five days before I updated again? You honestly think you can leave me up to my own sun-burning and quixotic devices for that long?
Unfortunately, quixotic impulses have only spun themselves dizzy in my cerebrum and subsequently faltered quietly there. Maybe that's more fortunate than anything.
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I began a conversation with my mother in which I used the phrase Things I Want Out of Life, and she asked me seriously, "What do you want from life?"
"The universal want?" I answered. "Power. Notoriety. Stilettos and clean hormones, passion, the comfort of change."
One of these days I'm convinced when I say, "I'll see you in ten minutes." it won't just be to placate the short hot line of distance.
Give me the tolerance for out-of-state pining.
Give me a decent moisturizer.
Give me a brain which rightfully upholds aversions to tanning booths.
Give me a break.
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time & machine