half drunk virtuosity, thank you Johnny Cash

I am the man in black, save the fact that I am not am a man, and am only half clad in black, and fully intend upon not making any point whatsoever. This is an exercise in physicality, fingers moving effortlessly, combining words into sentences, letters into words, except that my fingers are less nimble for the alcohol and my brain less agile for the drinking.

I admit to thieving this last Cash CD from my folks (surely a felony) I played it when I was driving back to the City, and I nearly drowned in my tears. It feels like a long goodbye, a long and lovely and angry and three parts bitter goodbye, but mostly an extended homage to a tumultuous love story, and I think that made me weep the saltiest tears of envy.

Tonight sandwiched between four couples whom I love, I got a bracing sense of myself, myself alone. Which, mind you, is not a quiet death, it is infact quite a life... Now Johnny is singing "The first time ever I saw your face..."

These past summer months, have been busy and good, but I have felt that I have been hovering on the precipice of some great throbbing thing, as if, as I do feel the drum beat under my feet, and so I have lingered in some half limbo waiting for the the dull throb to shoot up through my calves, rock my thighs, sway my hips, rent my heart asunder, throw back my shoulders, exalt my neck, sweep my face of care... And then there is the weather, a perpetual, and unyielding fog, damp creeping in between my sheets, winter sweaters in August, the ever unrealized dream of a long, long sleep.


And you could accuse me of utter self absorption, and I would, in the face of the world. Except if you were - oh shit are you striving for justification.... And this is where I start to get lost... I would like to comment on the state of the world and throw my two useless farthings to the blythe winds of the innernet, but though my opinions are strong if inarticulate, I would rather keep drinking and stick to the subject that I know best, Emma, booze and my semi-retired sex life.

The thing about writing, writing is the thing. You let is languish for awhile and all the lovely angels of subtlety off and fly away. The sadness of writing is when all you are sitting on the bus and there is a couple in desparate need of a filling out, a few adjectives and adverbs and a mixed metaphore and they exist, they exist in my memory. But if one can't connect them to words do they cease to exist to le lecteur (of course dummy, they never existed before you codified their bodies in words) and I am sqarely blaming P for having reinundated my already signifier saturated brain with all those happy Satuday songs from School House Rocks.

So I will stop here, with a wish. I am going to a party for Rock and Roll High School, I would like to do some illicit drugs and make out with a straight boy, I'll be dressed as a cheerleader, so my quest shouldn't be so difficult to achieve....