Myriad

I've been ill for the last few days.

Some sort of viral infection. I thought it was rubella but the blood test says it's not. Still all my symptoms were textbook rubella symptoms (that's german measles for you laypeople). Headache (from the swollen nodes), a mild rash, arthritic pain in the joints. Nothing too extreme but not particularly pleasant either.

Worse than the infection was the incarceration that comes with being sick and contagious. If you've ever spent more than a couple of days locked up inside your house you'll know what I mean.

Truth be told I didn't really feel that terrible. I didn't need to lay in bed or change my diet or take any medication. All I had to do was wait until my body fought off the virus and stay away from people (especially pregnant people) while it did so.

The trouble is, when you aren't actually sick to the guts, when you aren't so sick that you can't get up, hanging around the house or in bed all day can drive you a little loopy.

Because of the arthritis I couldn't do anything with my hands. I couldn't play my guitar and my head hurt too much to read for any extended period. So basically all I could do was listen to music, or talk radio. I listened to a lot of Air America online.

So basically I did nothing and got pretty depressed. I didn't even drink which is in retrospect a shame.

Did I learn anything? No. Did all that time alone lead me to some sort of epiphany? No. Did anything good come of the illness? Not much.

Then why did I bother to write about it? What was so fascinating that I felt the need to publish it here?

I don't know.

I felt the desire to write something and this is what came out. I know it's not pretty. I know it's not poetic. It is what it is.

The butter melts out of habit
The toast isn’t even warm
The waitress and the man in the plaid shirt
Play out a scene they’ve played
So many times before

I am watching the sun stumble home in the morning
From a bar on the east side of town
And the coffee is just water dressed in brown

Beautiful but boring
He visited me yesterday
He noticed my fingers
And asked me if I would play
I didn’t really care a lot
But I couldn’t think of a reason why not
I said if you don’t come any closer I don’t mind if you stay

My thighs have been involved in many accidents
And now I can’t get insured
And I don’t need to be lured by you
My cunt is built like a wound that won’t heal
And now you don’t have to ask
Because you know how I feel
You know how I feel

Art is why I get up in the morning
But my definition ends there
And it doesn’t seem fair
That I’m living for something I can’t even define
There you are right there
In the meantime

I don’t want to play for you anymore
Show me what you can do
Tell me what are you here for
I want my old friends
I want my old face
I want my old mind
Fuck this time and place

The butter melts out of habit
You know, the toast isn’t even warm



- Ani Difranco

Your lips, touch my lips
And then we kiss

I can't help doing
What it is we do

Kissing in the backseat of a parked car
Laying back looking at the stars

But I dont need any stars
'Cause my eyes are full of you

Your body against my body
It's all I wanna see

I want to tell you everything you want to hear
Even though I know it's a lie

But in that moment maybe its not
Perhaps it might be true

Maybe I am being honest
Every time I try to lie to you

Don't the hours grow shorter as the days go by
You never get to stop and open your eyes
One day you're waiting for the sky to fall
And next you're dazzled by the beauty of it all


When you're lovers in a dangerous time
Lovers in a dangerous time


These fragile bodies of touch and taste
This vibrant skin this hair like lace
Spirits open to a thrust of grace
Never a breath you can afford to waste


When you're lovers in a dangerous time
Lovers in a dangerous time


When you're lovers in a dangerous time
Sometimes you're made to feel as if your love's a crime
Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight
Gotta kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight


Lovers in a dangerous time



- Bruce Cockburn

Pull me off.


DON'T FUCKING PULL IT OUT!!


That's right two, count 'em, 2 exclamation points.

Motherfucker.

How often do you get a handjob (probably more often than me) and after the second stroke you come to that cold realisation, if you don't stop this RIGHT NOW you will soon be in as much pain as if you had agreed to marry her. Possibly more (but I doubt it).


They see the odd handjob in a porno, heard about jerking off from a guy friend or two and they feel like they can just start pulling you off. Without even asking, "How does that feel?"

"IT FUCKING HURTS!"


It's a cock, not fucking plasticine. There's like nerve endings and stuff under all the skin and blood. Slow the fuck down. I know it feels hard but it's actually quite a sensitive area. Who would've thunk it?

And stroke it. Gently. Do not. I repeat. DO NOT try and pull it out.

Soft hands, hard cock. Remember that simple rule and you should do fine.

The point after all is to make me cum, not cry. Up and down. Be firm but gentle start slow and build speed. Don't just start at 1000 miles per hour. There's no need for any sideways movements, no twisting is necessary. Just up, then down.

It's a simple mechanism that has worked for thousands, if not millions, of years. So don't start fucking with it. Don't think that just because your vagina comes with a series of instruction manuals that you are automatically some kind of plumbing specialist.

Take some time out and educate yourself. Just ask, baby. All you have to do is ask. I will gladly give you all the instruction you can handle.

Especially if it means that I get to blow my load.

In my mind I'd fucked her countless times.

Every single time that I saw her I'd start to daydream about
how I could penetrate her. Each fantasy different from the last.

Once in the kitchen, once in the car, once in a service station restroom.

In my mind's eye I could see her on her knees in front of me taking my cock in her mouth. Looking up and smiling.

It got to the point where I would look forward to seeing her just so that I could create some new and twisted mental image to spank to later.

So when, finally, she had succumb to my charms I became a walking hard-on. I couldn't wait to get between her thighs. At last. It was going to happen.

When you fantasise about a women for so long (over a year) it does something to your brain. When you finally get a chance to stick it in her it almost feels like you've conquered Everest.

Unfortunately, my mountain turned out to be a molehill.

I realise that with all the debauched scenarios I had played out in my mind, the real deal was always going to be a little less intense. However, what I did not anticipate was my dream girl's total ineptitude between the sheets. The phrase 'dead root' springs to mind, or 'starfish'.

I've never fucked a corpse, but that was kind of what I imagine it must be like.

Fuck. She didn't even suck dick.

Then to discover that, in fact, the girl who was in your mind synonymous with sex is actually quite a prude. Well fuck me. Not only was she a dead root but then later, after the act, she refused to even talk about it. Wasn't even willing to improve her performance (or mine).

I'm the first to admit that I'm not the world's greatest lover. But fucking hell woman, at least let's try and make it better. Please.

But no.

She just couldn't bring herself to be the filthy little whore I had dreamed about.

Needless to say, she didn't stick around too long. It just felt like she did.

Thankfully, I did learn my lesson from all this. Now I only fantasise about women I have no hope of ever, ever actually hooking up with.

Unless, of course, Angelina Jolie moves in next door.

The king stood tall and quiet
Waiting for the coming of the milky riot

He tried to imagine the sound
Of what would happen and what would be found

Creamy delicious explosions of violence
Never still, never silence

No time to stop and look and think
No time to eat, no time to drink

Eyes closed he wonders when it will come
Soon to be over, soon to be done

The grimace is etched upon his face
Time has already quickened its pace

The climax is about to appear
What was once far now seems so near

The outburst of emotion is nigh
And it brings with it a dizzying high

Finally the time is here
In his mind it all seems clear

But the moment will not last
And the darkness does return too fast

So now he stands all bent and broken
With nothing but a clinging token

Wretched, dirty, tired and glad
Almost as if he never had

But he did and he knows
And takes that with him wherever he goes.

Because someday he will rise again.

I enjoy being creative.

Really, I do.

Well, I enjoy trying to be creative. How my attempts end up I guess is a purely subjective matter.

I have a theory that people who at least don't try to be creative are a little empty inside. I guess you could call them less fulfilled. People who have given up.

But then again, what the fuck do I know.

There is nothing I enjoy more than writing. And playing (or listening to) music. I guess reading slots in there somewhere too. And sex is of course up there, but this ain't about sex (although I guess you can argue everything is about sex).

What I'm getting at is that art is kind of what I'm about right now. I don't know who said it, but I know I heard it somewhere, "Work is how we live. Art is why we live."

Work may put food in my belly and a roof over my head, but art is the reason I wake up in the morning. In my mind art is more than just pretty pictures on a wall. It isn't merely the representation of what we feel inside, it is what we feel inside. Emotion is art. Or at least that's how I see it. I guess it's a kind of Beauty equals Truth idea. I think.

The way I understand it, art comes from our emotions. And the point of art is to bring out emotion in the viewer/reader/whatever. Even if that emotion is hate, as Bill would say. It's a break from the yearly, monthly, weekly, daily, hourly, minute by minute grind of the harsh reality that is our universe. It's a vacation from mediocrity and sterility. A way to vent and release. An emotional cleansing.

I enjoy being creative, I really do. I enjoy it a lot.

Call me if you need someone to talk to.
Let me know if you need someone to care.

I know that sometimes.

Everyone.

Needs.

Needs a friend,
Needs a shoulder,
Needs a laugh,
Needs a hug,
Needs some air.

So call me if you have a need.
'Cause some day I'll have a need too.

And when I do.
I hope,
That on that day,
I'll still have you.