My back is slowly untwisting, due in part to the healing ministrations of the Muse, and so the majority of pain is gone. The aftermath is still there, but it has started down the path of something I am able to bear. I can feel my mind restructure the sensations of my skin to push the muted tuning of that space aside, and create a whole new sensational map down that part of my body.
I'm relatively confident that with enough time, I will feel normal again. I worry about the blind spot, but as it tends to be, out of sight, out of mind, and there is hope that eventually I'll be able to stop thinking about it. The mind has a way of sealing things that cannot be changed away. Or at least, mine does.
Speaking of things sealed away, a spot of my troubled past has risen to the surface, in the form of a Facebook contact. It would be fair to say that I was a different kind of person then, and I'm not entirely sure I want to have those remnants in my new life. I am torn- on one hand a person is all they have been through, and there is a need to accept the past and learn from it, on the other, sometimes Bad Things happen for good reasons, and it is best to disconnect from those parts and those people entirely.
There is a certain segment of my life I am not particularly proud of; I went on a search for something at the bottom of a cesspool, and things got more than a little messy. The poem at the top of my blog is a three-way metaphor, and one of those ways is that I gave up an exceptionally moral existence in order to find an Answer that simply does not exist anywhere else.
Why am I broken?
Something happened to me when I was an infant. Actually, several things happened to me when I was infant, I nearly died at least 3 times before my first year; once from starvation, once from an aspirin overdose (I ate a whole 'family-sized' bottle of them), and once from a chlorine gas leak in a public enclosed swimming pool.
Sometimes I wonder if I am an unwelcome anomaly in the world, that if maybe in the Great Big Plan, I am completely unaccounted for. I do my best, I try and help, but in the end, there are a lot of lives that would just be better off if I had never existed. I tend to live a life of non-interference now, a Watcher, simply observing. I only act if there is need, a clear cut case of assistance. I am a good man to know in the short term, in the long term, it would be fair to say that I am a challenge. However, back to the point.
Something occurred in my first year that left me permanently sexually aware. There could be a few direct causes, but I would guess, like all scars that grow with you, it was probably a combination of things that has made things what they are. It could have been sexual abuse, there was an individual going about doing that sort of thing at the time, and I have some very strange recollections about the house. It could have been the moving, it could have been the naughty friend of one of my female cousins, it could have been the one of the backyard neighbors (the house was the entry point to the local mobile home park my grandfather owned, there were kids of all sorts around constantly) Certainly there was some of that in my second and third years.
At any rate, I have been sexually receptive and aggressive for my entire life, and it has presented challenges in a lot different ways. Friendships and relationships of all kinds specifically, spirituality, dealing with a conservative Christian family pool, dating and sexual relationships- everything tends to be affected by this at one level or another.
When I turned twentyfour, I became particularly engaged in Eastern Philosophy, and found a way to unravel the tremendous burden of guilt I felt all the time, even though at that point, I had done nothing wrong. As it turns out, I went down a long road of finding out what is Wrong and what is not. I spend a great deal of time learning about what happens when one does something Wrong, trying to figure out what it is about those situations and actions that makes them so. I was trying to find a good life by learning to recognize the crap, and went about it in utter disregard for many of the conservative teachings I had been handed as 'truth' up to that point.
Unfortunately, my learning style demands personal involvement to acquire knowledge; kinesthetics learn by doing. Not by listening, although I can often get the gist, not by reading or watching- all these things are superficial. For me to know something down to the bone, and accept and understand its nature to the core, I have to be there.
Mistakes were made, lessons learned, milk spilled, pasts rewritten, and futures destroyed, and now, in my thirtyfirst year, I finally feel like I am on the road to something meaningful and worthwhile. The Why has become irrelevant to me, I am what I am. The Wrongs I have done are behind me. What concerns me now is how to live Right.
Let's see how that turns out.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Thursday, April 17, 2008
A Broken Wing
So as it turns out, for the last week or so, I have had shingles. It is essentially a re occurrence of the chickenpox, which I had when I was little, and is related to stress, fatigue, or pretty much anything that takes the immune system down a peg or two.
It is a small flaming patch of pain. It hurts all the time. It doesn't itch exactly, it tingles, like the pins and needles of something falling asleep, and the reason it tingles is because the nerve endings of the affected skin are slowly being eaten and dissolved. It leaves little pock marks, just like its predecessor, and the redness fades, and the skin will eventually be mostly unblemished.
But it is numb.
There is some sensation there, but I have lost the fine tuning over a patch of skin the width of my hand, and about three hand lengths across, starting just underneath my nipple in a widening band heading back towards my spine. The doctor says the damage is permanent, and it will never feel the same again.
The parts that still hurt are slowly pulling the muscles in my shoulder and back out of alignment, and I am now in pretty much constant, screaming pain from the top of my shoulder to my waist. It feels like an angry painting of jagged spikes, dark and dripping with malignance, and the only comfort I have is that at least I am still feeling something around the edges, which is why my body is reacting in this way.
This is probably no big deal to a lot of people. I feel silly even trying to relate just how emotional I am about this. But my skin, my ability to feel and perceive through it is like a second sight, capable of recognizing thousands of shades of sensations and pressures. I know where all my nerves are, like I named them, like they are my children, and I can feel them dying one by one.
Imagine if you woke up and realized that you had just lost 7% of your eyesight, and there was nothing anyone could do to get it back.
Everything feels different. Shivers, music that makes your hairs stand up wash normally over one side of me, and either flare in pain or simply vanish on the other. I look at something beautiful, something stirring, and I can feel the heat wash up in part of me, and nothing, I feel nothing in this great, ragged hole. I used to delight in in the sensation of swimming in my own thoughts, of feeling my emotions ripple over my skin, cascading over every bump and hair. Now it is off center, uneven, ugly and incomplete. A great scar, twisting invisibly over every thought and my most intimate and personal of feelings.
I feel disfigured by it, I feel assaulted by it, and there is nothing I can do to change it. It is hard to express my rage and sorrow at the loss. For the rest of my life, that part of me will have a hearing impairment within the language of sensation. It's my mother tongue, and the one I prefer using whenever I can. I'm not entirely sure what it will mean for me in the future, I suppose I will make do with whatever I have left.
It is a small flaming patch of pain. It hurts all the time. It doesn't itch exactly, it tingles, like the pins and needles of something falling asleep, and the reason it tingles is because the nerve endings of the affected skin are slowly being eaten and dissolved. It leaves little pock marks, just like its predecessor, and the redness fades, and the skin will eventually be mostly unblemished.
But it is numb.
There is some sensation there, but I have lost the fine tuning over a patch of skin the width of my hand, and about three hand lengths across, starting just underneath my nipple in a widening band heading back towards my spine. The doctor says the damage is permanent, and it will never feel the same again.
The parts that still hurt are slowly pulling the muscles in my shoulder and back out of alignment, and I am now in pretty much constant, screaming pain from the top of my shoulder to my waist. It feels like an angry painting of jagged spikes, dark and dripping with malignance, and the only comfort I have is that at least I am still feeling something around the edges, which is why my body is reacting in this way.
This is probably no big deal to a lot of people. I feel silly even trying to relate just how emotional I am about this. But my skin, my ability to feel and perceive through it is like a second sight, capable of recognizing thousands of shades of sensations and pressures. I know where all my nerves are, like I named them, like they are my children, and I can feel them dying one by one.
Imagine if you woke up and realized that you had just lost 7% of your eyesight, and there was nothing anyone could do to get it back.
Everything feels different. Shivers, music that makes your hairs stand up wash normally over one side of me, and either flare in pain or simply vanish on the other. I look at something beautiful, something stirring, and I can feel the heat wash up in part of me, and nothing, I feel nothing in this great, ragged hole. I used to delight in in the sensation of swimming in my own thoughts, of feeling my emotions ripple over my skin, cascading over every bump and hair. Now it is off center, uneven, ugly and incomplete. A great scar, twisting invisibly over every thought and my most intimate and personal of feelings.
I feel disfigured by it, I feel assaulted by it, and there is nothing I can do to change it. It is hard to express my rage and sorrow at the loss. For the rest of my life, that part of me will have a hearing impairment within the language of sensation. It's my mother tongue, and the one I prefer using whenever I can. I'm not entirely sure what it will mean for me in the future, I suppose I will make do with whatever I have left.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Paradigm SHIFT
So DJ Dervish, a pretty damn fine DJ, and at least an honorary member of the Dark Tribe, has decided to run his own show Sunday nights.
I attended.
It was pretty amazing. The boy can spin.
Previously, I had reservations regarding his ability and taste - his sound is (or was) a little too grating overall, and hard to really step into for any prolonged period of time. Of course, these were also Dark Industrial outings, which calls for that sort of performance, so I was exceptionally pleased to find that when left up to his own devices, the man spins an even flow. Harsh in bits, soft in bits, damn near orchestral in others. A unique sense of timing, a remarkable ability for matching.
Some technical failure. I caught two mismatches and a full on dropped beat spread out over four hours, which all in all is not bad. I am very difficult to please; firstly because I have perfect relative pitch, and secondly because in being part of the music, harsh or technically incorrect transfers actually hurt.
I am a proprioceptive kinesthetic, meaning I have extra sets of nerve endings that run through my body. I feel with my muscles and movements what other people feel with their fingertips. Motion, emotion, thoughts and feeling are all the same to me. Dancing is like caressing the music with my body- it has texture and shape, it has movement and feeling. The vibrations of the sound itself are a sort of etherial medium to me, like water, or air - a substance that I become suspended in, and am a part of. When something is out of place, it is like a sharp edge on a smooth surface, or a rock thrown by a passing car. I feel it, and it is unpleasant to me.
The world is often a very harsh place to be. I take solace in loud, well written and well spun music, as it drowns out much of the painful noise I hear and feel throughout the course of a normal day. More on this later, I'm sure.
Three misplaced segments in an otherwise stunning session is a good enough marker to return.
Cast and Crew:
Quinn: Generally in coat check, but hangs out on occasion. Seems very nice.
Shame: Occasionally a bartender, sports an amazing tribal wing tattoo on his back. Seems likeable, but has the unfortunate habit of consistantly 'bumping' into the Muse. I am used to this, in some fashion, the Muse draws men like moths to a flame. Some are nicer about thier advances than others. Some are more respectful towards myself than others. I believe if you trust someone, you should let them take care of themselves, and so for the most part, I watch the Muse take care of those who approach her. When there seems to be any sort of situation developing, I simply make it clear that I am with Her, and so far that seems to do the trick.
I am six feet, four inches tall- the Muse is 6'2". It becomes clear to anyone that were are a match in more ways than association - we are of the same cloth, the same breed of people. I am solidly built; I have none of the gangly nature that generally comes from being so tall, and I consume vast quantities of sugar, leaving a light layer of extra weight covering my frame. Should I starve for a few months, I become quite cut, if I am contented for a few months, I lose some of that definition. At any given time I am between two-hundred twenty and two-hundred sixty pounds; even when heavy, the weight is evenly distributed along my body, and so I am neither fat nor slim, simply solid. To anyone with an eye for conflict, it is obvious that I can move faster and more solidly than most, and that I am practiced and proficient at what I do. This leaves only the mentally challenged who would attempt to to enter into physical conflict, and thankfully weak minds can be easily manipulated, leaving the vast majority of my life violence free.
Steev: An interest. He sports the nearly the same style of handlights I do, though seems to prefer handled glowsticks over my own uniquely fashioned rings. My own style is in fact reflective of what needs to be done to move in an endless, constantly shifting pattern of arcs and circles - the visual transference of ambient energy into a defined state. His style is far more aggressive, almost punk, with sharp bursts and pointed fists and stabs. He is learning more movement reversals, and is conscious of movement 'traps'; wherein the music or energy says to flow in a particular way, but the preceeding movement has rendered to required movement impossible to peform. He has been practicing, and I cannot wait to see how his talent develops.
Steev is interesting to me because he is on the verge of joining the Dark Tribe. His mind is establishing the connections between movement and music, and I beleive it will not be long until he has the spirit of it well in hand.
RedLocks: A larger girl with greenglowing dreads, in company of Steev. She works in LIFE, a gothic independant clothing store, creating and painting darker crafts of all kinds. I've seen her around.
Bartenders: Bruno and Boots
No Coat Check.
Time: 4 hours, with a fifteen minute break. I hit the zone fairly early on, and stayed up till the last beat.
Drinks: Barcardi Black at a predrink. Shots were 3.25, and so a few Jaeger were had. The Muse stuck to mostly water, feeling the rum pretty hard.
The Muse has taken to wearing her latex pants, and I for one, am all for it. That girl is sex and candy wrapped up in soft and pale skin.
I attended.
It was pretty amazing. The boy can spin.
Previously, I had reservations regarding his ability and taste - his sound is (or was) a little too grating overall, and hard to really step into for any prolonged period of time. Of course, these were also Dark Industrial outings, which calls for that sort of performance, so I was exceptionally pleased to find that when left up to his own devices, the man spins an even flow. Harsh in bits, soft in bits, damn near orchestral in others. A unique sense of timing, a remarkable ability for matching.
Some technical failure. I caught two mismatches and a full on dropped beat spread out over four hours, which all in all is not bad. I am very difficult to please; firstly because I have perfect relative pitch, and secondly because in being part of the music, harsh or technically incorrect transfers actually hurt.
I am a proprioceptive kinesthetic, meaning I have extra sets of nerve endings that run through my body. I feel with my muscles and movements what other people feel with their fingertips. Motion, emotion, thoughts and feeling are all the same to me. Dancing is like caressing the music with my body- it has texture and shape, it has movement and feeling. The vibrations of the sound itself are a sort of etherial medium to me, like water, or air - a substance that I become suspended in, and am a part of. When something is out of place, it is like a sharp edge on a smooth surface, or a rock thrown by a passing car. I feel it, and it is unpleasant to me.
The world is often a very harsh place to be. I take solace in loud, well written and well spun music, as it drowns out much of the painful noise I hear and feel throughout the course of a normal day. More on this later, I'm sure.
Three misplaced segments in an otherwise stunning session is a good enough marker to return.
Cast and Crew:
Quinn: Generally in coat check, but hangs out on occasion. Seems very nice.
Shame: Occasionally a bartender, sports an amazing tribal wing tattoo on his back. Seems likeable, but has the unfortunate habit of consistantly 'bumping' into the Muse. I am used to this, in some fashion, the Muse draws men like moths to a flame. Some are nicer about thier advances than others. Some are more respectful towards myself than others. I believe if you trust someone, you should let them take care of themselves, and so for the most part, I watch the Muse take care of those who approach her. When there seems to be any sort of situation developing, I simply make it clear that I am with Her, and so far that seems to do the trick.
I am six feet, four inches tall- the Muse is 6'2". It becomes clear to anyone that were are a match in more ways than association - we are of the same cloth, the same breed of people. I am solidly built; I have none of the gangly nature that generally comes from being so tall, and I consume vast quantities of sugar, leaving a light layer of extra weight covering my frame. Should I starve for a few months, I become quite cut, if I am contented for a few months, I lose some of that definition. At any given time I am between two-hundred twenty and two-hundred sixty pounds; even when heavy, the weight is evenly distributed along my body, and so I am neither fat nor slim, simply solid. To anyone with an eye for conflict, it is obvious that I can move faster and more solidly than most, and that I am practiced and proficient at what I do. This leaves only the mentally challenged who would attempt to to enter into physical conflict, and thankfully weak minds can be easily manipulated, leaving the vast majority of my life violence free.
Steev: An interest. He sports the nearly the same style of handlights I do, though seems to prefer handled glowsticks over my own uniquely fashioned rings. My own style is in fact reflective of what needs to be done to move in an endless, constantly shifting pattern of arcs and circles - the visual transference of ambient energy into a defined state. His style is far more aggressive, almost punk, with sharp bursts and pointed fists and stabs. He is learning more movement reversals, and is conscious of movement 'traps'; wherein the music or energy says to flow in a particular way, but the preceeding movement has rendered to required movement impossible to peform. He has been practicing, and I cannot wait to see how his talent develops.
Steev is interesting to me because he is on the verge of joining the Dark Tribe. His mind is establishing the connections between movement and music, and I beleive it will not be long until he has the spirit of it well in hand.
RedLocks: A larger girl with greenglowing dreads, in company of Steev. She works in LIFE, a gothic independant clothing store, creating and painting darker crafts of all kinds. I've seen her around.
Bartenders: Bruno and Boots
No Coat Check.
Time: 4 hours, with a fifteen minute break. I hit the zone fairly early on, and stayed up till the last beat.
Drinks: Barcardi Black at a predrink. Shots were 3.25, and so a few Jaeger were had. The Muse stuck to mostly water, feeling the rum pretty hard.
The Muse has taken to wearing her latex pants, and I for one, am all for it. That girl is sex and candy wrapped up in soft and pale skin.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Dancing With the Stars
I love to Dance, and try to go out and do it every week. I've decided to keep track of things on this front. I don't remember things very well sometimes, and often I get caught up in the moment. It's hard to keep track of background themes when the Muse is always in the forefront.
The Muse looked perfect as she always does, black bikini top, smooth alabaster skin. Long black hair, dipping just below the shoulders. She is an angel in her own right, though she is not entirely comfortable turning her face towards God. Nevertheless, doing is being, and in her own way, she becomes at as at one with the music and moment as any zen master or monk. The world fades, and there is only existence, only she and I remain in the hazy cloud of people around us.
It should be mentioned at this point, that I very rarely actually speak in public or in loud places, except to the Muse. I provide the illusion of conversation, which is to say I nod, and listen and provide understanding gestures, as if I was saying something. Most people when speaking are not actually waiting for responding information, or things to add to their minds; they are waiting for themselves to be understood and be given a social marker to continue. I provide this, and in their heads, they hear me say appropriate things, their mind fills in the gap with something reasonable, and it is assumed that I have spoken. In truth, I have gone years with out saying a word. I only speak when I feel that someone is really, honestly listening, and unsurprisingly, that isn't very often.
The Nights Cast:
Jim/John Blue - Looking good. He's a few pounds heavy, always wears a suit. He looked relaxed, which isn't always the case.
Danikka - A young punker with a colorful sense of flare.
Light friends with the Muse. She seems very sweet.
Noah: An older metro goth with an ear for music. He, like myself, is part of the Dark Tribe, the melange of musically connected people here in the City. I can't say for sure how many of us there are; we are at specific functions, new music outings, experimental DJ's, and dance clubs of all kinds. We are drawn to a darker, more ethereal flow in music, and generally have a good sense on where that will take place. I have been Watching for a long time, and seen many people come and go from this group. It's not so much a group as a state of mind, a set of preferences and a style of listening and being with music, new blood rises into this state, and old members - though I doubt they ever give up thier musical connection and appreciation - give up their search.
Skott Hawk: Dark Tribe. Militant. Graver. This boy can dance. I am inspired by him. His movements are like watching an explosion being carefully contained within the human body. We do not chat as much as acknowledge each other's presence, which for us is like catching up. I see him dance, and he sees me dance; our lives are written in flow and movement, everything important, everything deep, as already being said and being understood. Words would just be a shallow addendum to something deeper.
The Librarian: Sans Bookkeeper. The Librarian is a young twenty something goth, nearly always in a corset and full length tight dress of some kind, who nearly always dances with an older, sterner Victorian goth woman, the Bookkeeper. They are a duo, but lately the older one hasn't been coming out as much, and the Librarian has been seeing two or three different men there instead. She was hardly out on the floor at all last night, I think her boytoys feel uncomfortable either being out there with her, or her being out there at all.
Phade: An old friend, younger sister to another old friend. A sidenote really, I don't see her there very often. Shes kind of like a niece to me. Must have just turned 18, she's been out and about more.
Strawberry/Augustin: A twenty something redhead, very stylish, in the company of her Older Man, who is also very stylish. They look good together, and casually reflect my own relationship with The Muse, who is quite a bit younger than myself. She is very nearly Dark Tribe, though i believe she is more into poi and firespinning, rather than a body connection. Tools such as these provide a sense of disconnection with the music in order to be effective as an art, but that is another conversation entirely.
Dawid: Dark Tribe. Cyber-goth, light show fanatic. The man loves derblinkenlights. He can move; but the lunges are short and his sweeps reverse often, creating the illusion of an empty space. He still misses Angelique, his dance partner and friend - they dated for nearly a year and a half, and their dance styles reflected this. They would often spin lights with and around each other, filling in both sides with a dazzling display. His movements still remember her in his life, and its like he puts her there in his mind even though she is no longer present. He is starting to look around, but any one of Us can tell she has left a whole.
COAT CHECK: Helen. Newer, hangs out there in her time off. Little bit desperate for attention I think.
BARTENDERS:
Jet Black: Not on top of it tonight.
Newbie Ringlets: First time I've seen her, and fourth in succession of one night wonders. they are going through staff like a BC wildfire.
DJ: No Name Bland. (Half shaved head, shorter, thin) He 's trying to switch it up but his mixes are terrible. I don't think its his fault, obviously the brass is trying to get him to mix in some harsher metal and darker top forty crap, to hit up the mass appeal that is Saturday night. I think its safe to say that instead of making everybody happy, nobody was. Not the real dancers anyway. The ones that came to watch, drink, chat, and shake it were probably served up a dish or two they liked.
Time: Two Hours. Couldn't hit the groove at any particular point, and my side still aches from Friday.
Drinks: 6.25 a SHOT! Are you kidding me? That seems high. Pre-drinking, though I hate to do it as I believe in supporting the House, is becoming practical on a scale of five to one.
Still, two hours watching and being with the Muse was pretty much priceless. And we had a nice chat later about life in general. Love that girl so hard it kills me.
The Muse looked perfect as she always does, black bikini top, smooth alabaster skin. Long black hair, dipping just below the shoulders. She is an angel in her own right, though she is not entirely comfortable turning her face towards God. Nevertheless, doing is being, and in her own way, she becomes at as at one with the music and moment as any zen master or monk. The world fades, and there is only existence, only she and I remain in the hazy cloud of people around us.
It should be mentioned at this point, that I very rarely actually speak in public or in loud places, except to the Muse. I provide the illusion of conversation, which is to say I nod, and listen and provide understanding gestures, as if I was saying something. Most people when speaking are not actually waiting for responding information, or things to add to their minds; they are waiting for themselves to be understood and be given a social marker to continue. I provide this, and in their heads, they hear me say appropriate things, their mind fills in the gap with something reasonable, and it is assumed that I have spoken. In truth, I have gone years with out saying a word. I only speak when I feel that someone is really, honestly listening, and unsurprisingly, that isn't very often.
The Nights Cast:
Jim/John Blue - Looking good. He's a few pounds heavy, always wears a suit. He looked relaxed, which isn't always the case.
Danikka - A young punker with a colorful sense of flare.
Light friends with the Muse. She seems very sweet.
Noah: An older metro goth with an ear for music. He, like myself, is part of the Dark Tribe, the melange of musically connected people here in the City. I can't say for sure how many of us there are; we are at specific functions, new music outings, experimental DJ's, and dance clubs of all kinds. We are drawn to a darker, more ethereal flow in music, and generally have a good sense on where that will take place. I have been Watching for a long time, and seen many people come and go from this group. It's not so much a group as a state of mind, a set of preferences and a style of listening and being with music, new blood rises into this state, and old members - though I doubt they ever give up thier musical connection and appreciation - give up their search.
Skott Hawk: Dark Tribe. Militant. Graver. This boy can dance. I am inspired by him. His movements are like watching an explosion being carefully contained within the human body. We do not chat as much as acknowledge each other's presence, which for us is like catching up. I see him dance, and he sees me dance; our lives are written in flow and movement, everything important, everything deep, as already being said and being understood. Words would just be a shallow addendum to something deeper.
The Librarian: Sans Bookkeeper. The Librarian is a young twenty something goth, nearly always in a corset and full length tight dress of some kind, who nearly always dances with an older, sterner Victorian goth woman, the Bookkeeper. They are a duo, but lately the older one hasn't been coming out as much, and the Librarian has been seeing two or three different men there instead. She was hardly out on the floor at all last night, I think her boytoys feel uncomfortable either being out there with her, or her being out there at all.
Phade: An old friend, younger sister to another old friend. A sidenote really, I don't see her there very often. Shes kind of like a niece to me. Must have just turned 18, she's been out and about more.
Strawberry/Augustin: A twenty something redhead, very stylish, in the company of her Older Man, who is also very stylish. They look good together, and casually reflect my own relationship with The Muse, who is quite a bit younger than myself. She is very nearly Dark Tribe, though i believe she is more into poi and firespinning, rather than a body connection. Tools such as these provide a sense of disconnection with the music in order to be effective as an art, but that is another conversation entirely.
Dawid: Dark Tribe. Cyber-goth, light show fanatic. The man loves derblinkenlights. He can move; but the lunges are short and his sweeps reverse often, creating the illusion of an empty space. He still misses Angelique, his dance partner and friend - they dated for nearly a year and a half, and their dance styles reflected this. They would often spin lights with and around each other, filling in both sides with a dazzling display. His movements still remember her in his life, and its like he puts her there in his mind even though she is no longer present. He is starting to look around, but any one of Us can tell she has left a whole.
COAT CHECK: Helen. Newer, hangs out there in her time off. Little bit desperate for attention I think.
BARTENDERS:
Jet Black: Not on top of it tonight.
Newbie Ringlets: First time I've seen her, and fourth in succession of one night wonders. they are going through staff like a BC wildfire.
DJ: No Name Bland. (Half shaved head, shorter, thin) He 's trying to switch it up but his mixes are terrible. I don't think its his fault, obviously the brass is trying to get him to mix in some harsher metal and darker top forty crap, to hit up the mass appeal that is Saturday night. I think its safe to say that instead of making everybody happy, nobody was. Not the real dancers anyway. The ones that came to watch, drink, chat, and shake it were probably served up a dish or two they liked.
Time: Two Hours. Couldn't hit the groove at any particular point, and my side still aches from Friday.
Drinks: 6.25 a SHOT! Are you kidding me? That seems high. Pre-drinking, though I hate to do it as I believe in supporting the House, is becoming practical on a scale of five to one.
Still, two hours watching and being with the Muse was pretty much priceless. And we had a nice chat later about life in general. Love that girl so hard it kills me.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Message: To the Owner of a Small Red Puppy
He is out wandering several blocks to the North-East, and will return home by evening. He would love to play more ball, and does not like the large yellow wooden bee you have recently purchased to decorate your kitchen/hall closet. He thinks it is scary and intimidating.
And So it Begins
It has been almost three years to the day since my last messages were sent. It seems like I live a different life now. It is a different life. And I think, or at least I hope, that it is a better one. One may find the remnants elsewhere; I have left it in place as a sort of memorium.
Perhaps one day there will be a message here for you.
Perhaps one day there will be a message here for you.
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