So, where was I?
Holed up in the tower of one of the few remaining Spanish lookout towers in the area, sipping absinth and pounding out the opus on a century old typewriter as the lightning in the sky twisted my shadow on the wall. And when completing the work I, of course, flung it into the fire a la Robert Louis Stevenson, but was unable to recreate the magic as he did, so I spent the rest of the week watching Lucy reruns to punish my faulty brain.
No. The Italian Girl and the Mathematician threw me in a car and took me out to Houston where the Violinist had arranged for an orgy of sorts. I spent the week tracing my fingers across smooth, slick flesh; jamming my tongue between soft, moist folds and sucking on stiff, dripping shafts; slipping in and being slipped into. There's the vivid memory (perhaps it was merely a hallucination) of the Butch Girl finally strolling in through the sliding-glass door, cowboy hat askew, and a bottle of Southern Comfort in her hand, saying, "You're mine now, boy," and me grinning like a fool.
No. It was a flying saucer -- like in some schlocky movie from the 50s -- that descended on the field as I was walking back across the field from finally finishing the roofing on the house, and little blue men jumped out and offered me delicious looking hamburgers and gallons of Coke if only I'd step up this little ramp into their ship. And three days later they'd finally had enough of me saying, "C'mon, guys, just one more probe. You can't have found everything yet," so they plopped me down somewhere in the Yukon Territory right in the middle of a rather elaborate and surprisingly illegal jellybean smuggling operation. I hooked up with a Steven Segal type character and an Eskimo with the most amazing ass, and, Bob's your uncle, I was riding across the Canadian boarder on a tidal wave of jellybeans.
No. Trouble from the past found me again. The man with the fedora and the limp. The blind kid with the deaf seeing-eye-dog. The woman who hid her weapons in uncomfortable places. Both the freak show from Georgia and the old folks home from Albany. All big players. Lets not discuss the horror of limping through a fun house with a pair of dentures locked around your ankle, a disoriented dog pursuing clumsily, while surrounded by a hundred reflections of a beautiful woman literally pulling an Uzi out of her ass.
No. I fell in love. Bumped into the woman of my dreams while returning overdue books at the library. I became a teenager again; uncertain of what to say, babbling and simply staring at her beauty. Thankfully she was smitten as well. She brushed the bangs from her eyes; I jammed my hands into my deep pockets. I made a joke; she laughed, reaching out to touch my arm. We went back to her place, watched a few episodes of The Prisoner, discussed post-modern narratives while we made dinner and the possible changes in the course of music that may have occurred had Buddy Holly lived while we ate, screwed like bunnies until we could no longer move (save for tracing a tongue lightly across salty skin), and drifted into slumber while Douglas Adams read to us.
No. My mind was consumed in a research project. No, I masturbated until I was dehydrated. No, I was flown out to LA first class to doctor a script but was sent back in a VW bus when my changes were all adding sex scenes. No, I embraced the narcotic of sleep for a week. No, I conversed. No, I hid. No, I lived. No, I.
No. No. No. No, no, no.
Holed up in the tower of one of the few remaining Spanish lookout towers in the area, sipping absinth and pounding out the opus on a century old typewriter as the lightning in the sky twisted my shadow on the wall. And when completing the work I, of course, flung it into the fire a la Robert Louis Stevenson, but was unable to recreate the magic as he did, so I spent the rest of the week watching Lucy reruns to punish my faulty brain.
No. The Italian Girl and the Mathematician threw me in a car and took me out to Houston where the Violinist had arranged for an orgy of sorts. I spent the week tracing my fingers across smooth, slick flesh; jamming my tongue between soft, moist folds and sucking on stiff, dripping shafts; slipping in and being slipped into. There's the vivid memory (perhaps it was merely a hallucination) of the Butch Girl finally strolling in through the sliding-glass door, cowboy hat askew, and a bottle of Southern Comfort in her hand, saying, "You're mine now, boy," and me grinning like a fool.
No. It was a flying saucer -- like in some schlocky movie from the 50s -- that descended on the field as I was walking back across the field from finally finishing the roofing on the house, and little blue men jumped out and offered me delicious looking hamburgers and gallons of Coke if only I'd step up this little ramp into their ship. And three days later they'd finally had enough of me saying, "C'mon, guys, just one more probe. You can't have found everything yet," so they plopped me down somewhere in the Yukon Territory right in the middle of a rather elaborate and surprisingly illegal jellybean smuggling operation. I hooked up with a Steven Segal type character and an Eskimo with the most amazing ass, and, Bob's your uncle, I was riding across the Canadian boarder on a tidal wave of jellybeans.
No. Trouble from the past found me again. The man with the fedora and the limp. The blind kid with the deaf seeing-eye-dog. The woman who hid her weapons in uncomfortable places. Both the freak show from Georgia and the old folks home from Albany. All big players. Lets not discuss the horror of limping through a fun house with a pair of dentures locked around your ankle, a disoriented dog pursuing clumsily, while surrounded by a hundred reflections of a beautiful woman literally pulling an Uzi out of her ass.
No. I fell in love. Bumped into the woman of my dreams while returning overdue books at the library. I became a teenager again; uncertain of what to say, babbling and simply staring at her beauty. Thankfully she was smitten as well. She brushed the bangs from her eyes; I jammed my hands into my deep pockets. I made a joke; she laughed, reaching out to touch my arm. We went back to her place, watched a few episodes of The Prisoner, discussed post-modern narratives while we made dinner and the possible changes in the course of music that may have occurred had Buddy Holly lived while we ate, screwed like bunnies until we could no longer move (save for tracing a tongue lightly across salty skin), and drifted into slumber while Douglas Adams read to us.
No. My mind was consumed in a research project. No, I masturbated until I was dehydrated. No, I was flown out to LA first class to doctor a script but was sent back in a VW bus when my changes were all adding sex scenes. No, I embraced the narcotic of sleep for a week. No, I conversed. No, I hid. No, I lived. No, I.
No. No. No. No, no, no.
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xoxo Alexis