“pumping over ground...”

( Goodbye, End of Days )

OOC Dropbox, Scene Requests, Comments Screened

   “embrace the closest thing real to you...”
It occurred to me -- or, rather, it was pointed out to me, by a friend I really don't converse with enough lately -- that I spatter much too little of myself among all of you fine ladies and gents here, and my ego is too bombastic to hide quietly in wait for the spark of a savior to come for my sins. I, of course, rolled my eyes at the notion. I am never waiting; I am always looking. But never the less, here I am, updating a blog to advertise my presence. Kicking, alive and well, enjoying this time in the studio in between legs of a Spring tour. All through March, the music was my home away from home. The throngs of fans and worship that I love, but cannot take credit for, because every song appreciates its following on a pumping ground that is different from individual to individual. One man's meat is another man's poison. Music could never be poison, but taste is preferential.

And, check it. My attention span is too limited to focus on these thoughts until they get to their point. I'll write again, soon, but in the meantime, let's share a few ideas. Someone posed a question to 3eb on our official cyberspace community of freaks. What are your answers?

"If you were the keys where would you be? Why? What would you unlock?"

My official answer: How dare you ask this question. Who are you to strip me to the very soul of my meaning. Zoonds. If I were the keys I'd be sitting in plain sight somewhere slightly just other than where I should be laughing at Stephan as he walks by again searching in vain for me. "ha ha keep looking fucker!"

I would unlock a love with both feet off the ground; a clear voice, a pure heart, the present tense, the childhood summer cottage I never went to, the forbidden rooms we're not supposed to go into, you know that kind of thing.

   “to live this way is not for the meek...”
01:37 Regular journalling for leisure has always been a thing that I've tried to do, but with the disorders that are armed against me, maintaining a clear and present focus on any one subject tends to be more of a colossal drag, rather than something I could call a pastime.

02:04 My "journals" are more often found in the form of scribbles on coffeehouse napkins, quick phrases -- sometimes long and painful -- that come to mind and spawn enough motivation for a pen to be found, and the passing thought documented...

03:31 Already, I seem to be trailing from my purpose, unsure of where this directionless perusal into the vocations of my mind will take me. As if I am counting streetlights from a caravan's backseat, down the worming trail of a highway lost, and I'm uncertain if the driver of this journey can be trusted, or if this should weave itself into a horrific serpent with neither head nor tail -- an unwanted trip, like a tab of lsd ingested by a damnable imagination.

03:52 Things can go so wrong when words are made to follow into the mind's eye. I don't think the subconscious of a being necessarily wants to be unraveled. I don't think people -- in general -- want to engage in a challenge. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. We do the hokey pokey and turn ourselves about. That's all that it is about, isn't it?

04:26 As you may have noticed, even now in these parts and parcels, my subconscious is fighting -- resisting all my efforts to unlock a deeper level of awareness. Only chemical aid seems able to reach me to that plane of consciousness; yet, chemicals rarely engross the dedication to a pen. Or, keyboard.

05:10 A tape recorder may suit my purpose, but how would I transcribe from that mottled abstraction? It's a losing battle to discover one's own Truth.

And now, my mind has turned to more practical things -- a splendorous album to anticipate, the redemption of my music-making soul, my faithful Boo to take out for her jog, and a veining crack in the sidewalk to disclose the remainder of my thoughts to.

For fuck's sake, I pray that her beauty guides me back.

   “where have you Sinners gone...?”
08:22 After my jogs, emerging from the steam of a shower makes it impossible for me to find Sleep, or for Her to find me.

08:39 After another three cigarettes, and I'm still waiting for the vampires.

08:51 I've started on a bottle of cheap red wine -- one of the finest things in life -- and I'm humming a tune to further beckon Their arrival. I want you. And I can't get enough. Send me all your vampires. I want Their fangs of immortality sucking me dry, draining me of my existence, so that I may exist again.

09:40 I belong in a creek, with fluid subtlety that won't be lost on a generation of the forgettable -- those fraudulent mystique's that couldn't hold their templates to a flame. I want you, and I want the desert on my taste-buds, grains of spirited rapture shredding my tongue -- all of your sandpaper on all of my soft tissue. It's madness and that's the spirit! I'm speaking too soon, and that's three times the charm.

10:32 I want you, and I want this city to quake when you come. I want to wake and wait for the vampires once more.

17:08 I really, really, really want her. Johnny Marr introduced us, and she is, this evening, the sole object of my affection. To run the balls of my palm over her perfect body, is -- presently -- my single-most desire.