I've had this idea rolling around in my head of a playlist consisting entirely of songs that have to do with the moon. The moon is so literally and metaphorically powerful, it controls the tides, females align with the moon, and full moons always bring craziness into my life, so I thought I would pay a little homage to that great, big, romantic symbol in the night sky. Sometimes, it just feels good to howl at the moon.
"Moon River" by Louis Armstrong
"It's Only a Paper Moon" by Nat King Cole
"It's Only a Paper Moon" by Rufus Wainwright
I couldn't find the Louis Prima version of "It's Only a Paper Moon", so instead I have included a traditional Nat King Cole version as a light apertif, but then I found the creepiest version ever by Rufus Wainwright that is faintly reminiscent of Taco's "Puttin' on the Ritz" so I just had to add that in too. (You'll have to copy and paste this one)
http://youtu.be/oHgElwD0VQQ
"By the Light of the Silvery Moon" by Fats Waller & The Deep River Boys
"Havana Moon" by Chuck Berry
"New Blue Moon" by The Traveling Wilbury's
"Yellow Moon" by The Neville Brothers
"Kiko and the Lavender Moon" by Los Lobos
"Where is the Moon" by Southern Culture on the Skids
"Sugar Moon" by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard
"Bad Moon on the Rise" by Creedence Clearwater Revival
"Bad Moon on the Rise" by Hayseed Dixie (Copy and paste)
http://grooveshark.com/#/search?q=hayseed+dixie+bad+moon
"Tahitian Moon" by Porno for Pyros
"Bad Side of the Moon" by Elton John
"Child of the Moon" by Blanche (Copy and paste)
http://grooveshark.com/#/search?q=blanche+child+of+the++moon
"Black Moon Creeping" by The Black Crowes
"Moonlight Mile" by The Rolling Stones
"Drunk on the Moon" by Tom Waits
"Grapefruit Moon" by Tom Waits
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
The Vaccuum of Your Eyes or Passion Awakened
Your eyes, Jesus, your eyes. They are one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. The intensity behind those eyes is something that dreams (or possibly nightmares) are made of. They burn into my body, especially into my own eyes, so much so, that I have to look away every now and then because I can't take it. But I eventually get up the courage to look into them again and the intensity builds once more. They suck me into their vortex, it takes all my strength not to fall right there on the spot. They don't look at me, or through me, they look into me. It's like you are staring right into my soul. I catch you looking into my eyes, even when mine are closed or my head is thrown back. I open my eyes right into yours. Those dark, soulful, almond-shaped eyes; they haunt me so. I can think of nothing else. The way your face slightly cocks to the side, your eyes open wide, peering into my subconscious, a wisp of hair delivers a droplet of sweat onto my lips, it's both salty and sweet. You never close those eyes, you just keep studying me. I soak it up, I bask in it, as much as I allow myself to. I won't fully let myself go, I want to so desperately, but I know what will happen if I do. I wonder what really goes on behind those black orbs, is it the evil side or the sweet side that's present? Pressed together, in the middle of the bed, my legs wrapped around your back, looking straight into each other's eyes, never wavering, even for a moment, as our bodies rhythmically move simultaneously into and against one another. It is one of the most intense moments of my life. I feel so connected to you. I am not outside myself, like usual, I am so in tune, I am so present, so involved. Your hands caress ever so gently the sides of my face as you kiss me. It feels so good, so honest, so real. I feel like it is one of the few times I am made love to, it is more than just fucking. And it's not something I am just projecting onto it after the fact, I feel it right then, I just didn't have the guts to write it down. The way your fingers interlace with mine as you kiss all over my body, it feels like something. A long ago feeling, maybe something I have never even felt before, I don't know. It is hard to describe with the accuracy and significance it deserves. It is other-worldly, ethereal, beyond intense, it is visceral, yet cerebral, and wholly emotional, despite my best efforts for it not to be. But those damned eyes of yours, they make me a sucker, they hypnotize me into total submission. They make me nervous and awkward and enamored all at once. Those eyes could be the most genuine thing I have ever known, or they could be the biggest con, their sole existence just to drive me wild with unrelenting desire. Those eyes pierce me to the very core, keeping me from seeing things clearly. They entrance me, making me a fool for you.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Cerebral Charm or Too Far Afield
"Before, Again II" (1985) Joan Mitchell, DIA
It's like someone looked directly in my brain and saw it's essence at the very core, then put brush to canvas. This is exactly what I feel like every waking moment. Simultaneously energetic, frenetic, dizzying and sullen, sagging and misunderstood. I like to stand in front of this massively imposing painting and let it wash over me. I can feel the cool paint dripping down my face, and down my body, over my toes into a growing puddle on the floor. The pungent smell of oil-based pigments, sadness and comfort swallowing me up. I feel very akin to this particular painting. I feel people would stand in front of us both and say "I just don't get it."
"I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, that I didn't know who I was...I was far away from home haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared, I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost...I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future, and maybe that's why it happened right there and then that strange red afternoon." -Jack Kerouac, "On the Road The Original Scroll", circa 1950's.
This quote too often describes what I feel like. Acting outside of myself, outside of any rational control, in both my inhibited and uninhibited extremes. Thoughts swirl and bubble inside my brain, I can pick up on inane details outside myself, but can never quite connect to the external world. Always just one, perpetual out-of-body experience, I am there, but I am not really.
I have this ridiculous notion that maybe sometime, somewhere, someone might actually understand me, or even care to. I daydream that someone will find my irreverence and flippancy intoxicatingly charming. But people, as much as I try to analyze and plot their next move, they elude me. Humans will inevitably let you down, hence why human equates with error. Words, words on the other hand, they are always there. Like a loyal old coonhound, never asking you for anything, but ready to drop whatever they are doing at a moments notice to help you. Faithful and rock steady, they flow whenever I feel like letting them. With their serifs and boldened lines. They are this monolith of permanence in a world full of the flighty and volatile. I always need inspiration to write. I can only seem to write if I am in a contemplative state and generally depressed in mood, the rest of the time I am too anxious to sit down and write a full page of anything. I am constantly looking for stimulation. Writing is a release, much like sex is for me.
The water is the only thing that equalizes me. Driving by the water makes my thoughts slow down just enough to get a cohesive picture of them. But there is this latent fear in that relaxation, that for whatever reason my hands will cut the wheel hard to the right, and I will sail right into the rocky and shallow outcropping. And even worse then sinking down, car and all into the murky depths, I will just get slightly and mortifyingly stuck. Then they will inevitably question why I did it, and since I wasn't drunk, they will haul me away. Driving by the water makes me lust for the ocean. I begin to taste the salt on my tongue, and I feel the saline residue it leaves upon my milken skin. The sense of it gets so overwhelming that I immediately want to pack up and start driving to either coast. My longing for the ocean just gets stronger and stronger as the days go by with no winter thaw in sight. Everyday, if not dreary and raining, is cold and overcast, with a wind that cuts right through. I have given Michigan enough of a chance. It's time to go where the weather suits my clothes. I need to feel the burning heat of the sun searing my flesh with a passion and vigor that no person has been able to produce in a very long time. I need that envelopment of warmth from the choking humidity, that wraps around me like the arms of a long-lost lover, the rose-tinted memory of which has only grown more sensational and romanticized.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Helene BonMarte and the Case of the Torn Trojan
Chapter 1- The Curious R. Nussbaum
As Helene made her way up to the rusted, and weathered door of the foreboding warehouse, she couldn't help, but get a little shiver down the small of her back. She pushed her finger against a barely-breathing buzzer with the name "R. Nussbaum" haphazardly scribbled beside it. It made a weak attempt at producing a sound faintly reminiscent of a "buzz" and with a disarming clank the door unlocked. The innards of the warehouse were completely the color of midnight, except for what light was shining through the broken window on the opposite end of the vast room.
"Up here, Ms. BonMarte," a gruff voice called out of the shadows from above. "There is a staircase to your left, sorry about the lack of lighting," he added half-heartedly.
She looked up to see a catwalk, and in the dim luminescence, she could just make out a rather largish man. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she found her way to the wrought-iron, industrial staircase, and stepped carefully and noisily up each step. The squeaks and sound of metal rubbing against itself filled the almost barren warehouse floor with an eerie series of echos. As she was ascending, she did notice what appeared to be a brand new BMW, lacklusterly veiled under a sheet that wasn't quite doing as it was intended.
"Can't you walk any faster, Ms. BonMarte?" he barked. "I have a very tight schedule."
Helene was glad it was so dimly lit now, so he couldn't see her scoff at his self-importance. She finally made her way up to the landing and saw for the first time, Mr. Nussbaum in full focus.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Nussbaum, I am Helene BonMarte," she said curtly as she thrust out her hand for him to shake.
"I know who you are, Ms. BonMarte. Please come into my office, and shut the door behind you."
Helene walked cautiously into his office, which thankfully had the full spectrum of colors. She closed the old-fashioned wooden door behind her, against her better judgement.
"Have a seat," he said as he gestured to one of two dilapidated institutional-looking chairs, as he sauntered behind his desk covered in a sea of papers.
She reluctantly took a seat on a low-slung black vinyl/duct tape excuse for a chair and pulled out a leather-bound journal and pen. "Mr. Nussbaum, you seem to be a very busy man, so let's just get right down to it, then. How may I be of service to you?"
"You're right I am a very busy man and I don't have time for games, especially when it comes to matters with-" he paused slightly and uncomfortably at this point. "With women. I have a case for you to look into, one that is very, very important that I get to the bottom of."
"If you could tell me of the details about the case, it would be a good start. I am guessing you are involved with said 'woman.'"
"Yes, I have been seeing a particular woman for the past few months. Everything seemed to be going fine for a while, but, you know, with a woman like that, things don't go smoothly for very long." He started looking around the room nervously, pulling on the collar of his very expensive Italian shirt. He even began to softly choke. Sweat was beginning to bead atop his increasing forehead. He was quite an imposing man, built like a refrigerator, really. When he stood he had to be 6'4 or maybe even taller. His sausage-like fingers wrapped around his cellphone, encasing it in a death-grip, so much so that it looked like it would give way at any moment and shatter into a million tiny electronic pieces.
"You don't seem like you are feeling well, perhaps I should come back another time?" Helene said, now feeling more anxious herself.
"No!" he snapped. "I mean, you are all ready here, you came all this way, let's just have the meeting now," he said faux-apologetically.
"That's fine, just tell me everything you can about this woman, then." Helene said exasperatingly.
"Well, I met her a few months ago, in a little piano club I have a hand in." Mr. Nussbaum's demeanor changed suddenly. He got a far-away glint in his eye. "She walked in, she had this commanding presence. She wore this floor-length satin gown, in the old halter style. It was this inky black, with these sparkling eyes to match. I hadn't ever seen such a creature. She was shamelessly flirting with all the waitstaff, she had them all eating out of the palm of her hand. She has this warmth to her smile, that just made everything she uttered past her candy-red lips seem so sincere. I knew right then, she was to be mine."
"Mr. Nussbaum, that is a very lovely story, but what has this got to do with why you called me here?" Helene prodded.
Mr. Nussbaum continued, as if he didn't hear a word. "I sent Pedro over with a bottle of our best champagne and two glasses. 'Oh, I didn't order this,' I heard her say to Pedro. 'I know Miss, it's compliments of Mr. Nussbaum, the owner,' Pedro responded. At this point, I made my way over to her table, 'That will be fine, Pedro. Please pour this lovely lady some champagne,' as I casually slid into the booth. From there we talked and laughed all night, as if we were old friends, reconnecting after so many years." Mr. Nussbaum reminisced. He seemed very impressed with himself.
"Mr. Nussbaum, can you please just give me the facts of the case? What is it you need from me? I am not here to listen to faded past-glories or misty-eyed romances. Get a hold of yourself, Mr. Nussbaum."
This seemed to shake something loose in Mr. Nussbaum, and his demeanor swung the opposite direction, yet again. "Of course I didn't call you here to listen to some, as you put it, 'past glories,' you petulant girl. I called you here to find out who's she's been fucking! I know she is two-timing me, I can just feel it. And nobody plays Richard Nussbaum for a fool, especially not some cheap harlot," he was positively shouting now. Veins in his neck began to distend and bulge, sweat was coming down quite fast now, and that enfeebled phone in his hands would be gasping for air if it had lungs.
"So, you think your girlfriend is cheating on you?" Helen summed up succinctly.
"I don't think that little trollop is cheating on me, I know she is," he retorted.
"Well if you know, what is it you need from me?" Helene posited.
"I can't be sure, I need some proof, and I want to know who it is. I need his name."
Something sent another shiver down Helene's back when Mr. Nussbaum hung on the word "name." She needed the money from this job, but she got the distinct feeling that there was something much more sinister going on here, than just a cheating girlfriend.
"So what makes you think she is cheating?"
"She always seems to be too busy to see me lately, she only lets me come up to the house after midnight. And she has a lot of "friends" that call her all hours of the night. And one night last week, I had to leave abruptly for an emergency business thing. She seemed pretty dismayed to say the least, but I had to. I had left a, pardon me, I don't know how else to put this, condom," he coughed, "on the bedside table and jokingly remarked that it better be there when I get back the next night. Well as it turns out, the next night, it was gone. I wanted to ask her about it, but she pre-empted me saying that she went to put it in the drawer when she noticed it was tore open, so she just threw it away. I know for a fact that I didn't tear it open, I was going to take it with me, but decided I might as well just leave it there. So I took it out of my pocket, completely intact, and set it on the nightstand. When I questioned her further about it, she was adamant that it was opened, and that I must have done the opening. I know it wasn't opened. I mean why would I leave an opened condom on the nightstand? It just doesn't make sense, something doesn't add up."
"Is there any way you just ripped it, not thinking, you know, in the heat of the moment? Or perhaps it was ripped all ready, from when you separated it from it's condom brethren?"
"What are all you women in on this together, or something? That's exactly what she said. I can't believe this shit," he muttered under his breath.
"It's my job to ask questions, Mr. Nussbaum. I am a P.I. as you very well know. I would be more than happy to look into this matter for you. If it's not too crass, I would like to discuss my fee at this time. It's $100 a day plus expenses, and I think a bonus of $1000 is in order if I can produce a name definitively."
"Yes, yes, whatever you want, I just need to know," as Mr. Nussbaum waved his hand dismissively.
"And of course, I will need my first day's payment in advance and in cash," Helene said in a deadpan tone.
Mr. Nussbaum reached into the pockets of his Italian crepe suit pants and pulled out a wad of cash as thick as a phonebook. He tossed two hundred dollar bills onto the desk. "Here, take two day's worth, but I expect results, young lady. You came very highly recommended, but I don't impress easily."
"You seem pretty easily satisfied with yourself." Helene thought nastily.
"Oh yes, before I forget, what is the woman's name in question?" she asked while striding towards the door.
He took a long pause before answering, he cleared his throat, "It's Jessica, Jessica Harrington-Drake," he sputtered out reluctantly. "I'm sure you can see yourself out."
Helene couldn't quite remember where she had heard that name before as Mr. Nussbaum slammed the door behind her.
As Helene made her way up to the rusted, and weathered door of the foreboding warehouse, she couldn't help, but get a little shiver down the small of her back. She pushed her finger against a barely-breathing buzzer with the name "R. Nussbaum" haphazardly scribbled beside it. It made a weak attempt at producing a sound faintly reminiscent of a "buzz" and with a disarming clank the door unlocked. The innards of the warehouse were completely the color of midnight, except for what light was shining through the broken window on the opposite end of the vast room.
"Up here, Ms. BonMarte," a gruff voice called out of the shadows from above. "There is a staircase to your left, sorry about the lack of lighting," he added half-heartedly.
She looked up to see a catwalk, and in the dim luminescence, she could just make out a rather largish man. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she found her way to the wrought-iron, industrial staircase, and stepped carefully and noisily up each step. The squeaks and sound of metal rubbing against itself filled the almost barren warehouse floor with an eerie series of echos. As she was ascending, she did notice what appeared to be a brand new BMW, lacklusterly veiled under a sheet that wasn't quite doing as it was intended.
"Can't you walk any faster, Ms. BonMarte?" he barked. "I have a very tight schedule."
Helene was glad it was so dimly lit now, so he couldn't see her scoff at his self-importance. She finally made her way up to the landing and saw for the first time, Mr. Nussbaum in full focus.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Nussbaum, I am Helene BonMarte," she said curtly as she thrust out her hand for him to shake.
"I know who you are, Ms. BonMarte. Please come into my office, and shut the door behind you."
Helene walked cautiously into his office, which thankfully had the full spectrum of colors. She closed the old-fashioned wooden door behind her, against her better judgement.
"Have a seat," he said as he gestured to one of two dilapidated institutional-looking chairs, as he sauntered behind his desk covered in a sea of papers.
She reluctantly took a seat on a low-slung black vinyl/duct tape excuse for a chair and pulled out a leather-bound journal and pen. "Mr. Nussbaum, you seem to be a very busy man, so let's just get right down to it, then. How may I be of service to you?"
"You're right I am a very busy man and I don't have time for games, especially when it comes to matters with-" he paused slightly and uncomfortably at this point. "With women. I have a case for you to look into, one that is very, very important that I get to the bottom of."
"If you could tell me of the details about the case, it would be a good start. I am guessing you are involved with said 'woman.'"
"Yes, I have been seeing a particular woman for the past few months. Everything seemed to be going fine for a while, but, you know, with a woman like that, things don't go smoothly for very long." He started looking around the room nervously, pulling on the collar of his very expensive Italian shirt. He even began to softly choke. Sweat was beginning to bead atop his increasing forehead. He was quite an imposing man, built like a refrigerator, really. When he stood he had to be 6'4 or maybe even taller. His sausage-like fingers wrapped around his cellphone, encasing it in a death-grip, so much so that it looked like it would give way at any moment and shatter into a million tiny electronic pieces.
"You don't seem like you are feeling well, perhaps I should come back another time?" Helene said, now feeling more anxious herself.
"No!" he snapped. "I mean, you are all ready here, you came all this way, let's just have the meeting now," he said faux-apologetically.
"That's fine, just tell me everything you can about this woman, then." Helene said exasperatingly.
"Well, I met her a few months ago, in a little piano club I have a hand in." Mr. Nussbaum's demeanor changed suddenly. He got a far-away glint in his eye. "She walked in, she had this commanding presence. She wore this floor-length satin gown, in the old halter style. It was this inky black, with these sparkling eyes to match. I hadn't ever seen such a creature. She was shamelessly flirting with all the waitstaff, she had them all eating out of the palm of her hand. She has this warmth to her smile, that just made everything she uttered past her candy-red lips seem so sincere. I knew right then, she was to be mine."
"Mr. Nussbaum, that is a very lovely story, but what has this got to do with why you called me here?" Helene prodded.
Mr. Nussbaum continued, as if he didn't hear a word. "I sent Pedro over with a bottle of our best champagne and two glasses. 'Oh, I didn't order this,' I heard her say to Pedro. 'I know Miss, it's compliments of Mr. Nussbaum, the owner,' Pedro responded. At this point, I made my way over to her table, 'That will be fine, Pedro. Please pour this lovely lady some champagne,' as I casually slid into the booth. From there we talked and laughed all night, as if we were old friends, reconnecting after so many years." Mr. Nussbaum reminisced. He seemed very impressed with himself.
"Mr. Nussbaum, can you please just give me the facts of the case? What is it you need from me? I am not here to listen to faded past-glories or misty-eyed romances. Get a hold of yourself, Mr. Nussbaum."
This seemed to shake something loose in Mr. Nussbaum, and his demeanor swung the opposite direction, yet again. "Of course I didn't call you here to listen to some, as you put it, 'past glories,' you petulant girl. I called you here to find out who's she's been fucking! I know she is two-timing me, I can just feel it. And nobody plays Richard Nussbaum for a fool, especially not some cheap harlot," he was positively shouting now. Veins in his neck began to distend and bulge, sweat was coming down quite fast now, and that enfeebled phone in his hands would be gasping for air if it had lungs.
"So, you think your girlfriend is cheating on you?" Helen summed up succinctly.
"I don't think that little trollop is cheating on me, I know she is," he retorted.
"Well if you know, what is it you need from me?" Helene posited.
"I can't be sure, I need some proof, and I want to know who it is. I need his name."
Something sent another shiver down Helene's back when Mr. Nussbaum hung on the word "name." She needed the money from this job, but she got the distinct feeling that there was something much more sinister going on here, than just a cheating girlfriend.
"So what makes you think she is cheating?"
"She always seems to be too busy to see me lately, she only lets me come up to the house after midnight. And she has a lot of "friends" that call her all hours of the night. And one night last week, I had to leave abruptly for an emergency business thing. She seemed pretty dismayed to say the least, but I had to. I had left a, pardon me, I don't know how else to put this, condom," he coughed, "on the bedside table and jokingly remarked that it better be there when I get back the next night. Well as it turns out, the next night, it was gone. I wanted to ask her about it, but she pre-empted me saying that she went to put it in the drawer when she noticed it was tore open, so she just threw it away. I know for a fact that I didn't tear it open, I was going to take it with me, but decided I might as well just leave it there. So I took it out of my pocket, completely intact, and set it on the nightstand. When I questioned her further about it, she was adamant that it was opened, and that I must have done the opening. I know it wasn't opened. I mean why would I leave an opened condom on the nightstand? It just doesn't make sense, something doesn't add up."
"Is there any way you just ripped it, not thinking, you know, in the heat of the moment? Or perhaps it was ripped all ready, from when you separated it from it's condom brethren?"
"What are all you women in on this together, or something? That's exactly what she said. I can't believe this shit," he muttered under his breath.
"It's my job to ask questions, Mr. Nussbaum. I am a P.I. as you very well know. I would be more than happy to look into this matter for you. If it's not too crass, I would like to discuss my fee at this time. It's $100 a day plus expenses, and I think a bonus of $1000 is in order if I can produce a name definitively."
"Yes, yes, whatever you want, I just need to know," as Mr. Nussbaum waved his hand dismissively.
"And of course, I will need my first day's payment in advance and in cash," Helene said in a deadpan tone.
Mr. Nussbaum reached into the pockets of his Italian crepe suit pants and pulled out a wad of cash as thick as a phonebook. He tossed two hundred dollar bills onto the desk. "Here, take two day's worth, but I expect results, young lady. You came very highly recommended, but I don't impress easily."
"You seem pretty easily satisfied with yourself." Helene thought nastily.
"Oh yes, before I forget, what is the woman's name in question?" she asked while striding towards the door.
He took a long pause before answering, he cleared his throat, "It's Jessica, Jessica Harrington-Drake," he sputtered out reluctantly. "I'm sure you can see yourself out."
Helene couldn't quite remember where she had heard that name before as Mr. Nussbaum slammed the door behind her.
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