We live and breathe music.
Daydreaming in Traffic IV: Down by Numbers
Maybe you have. Seven is definitely better than six. It looks and feels longer than the previous. Tasty oxen blood is better as others stuck together may weather. These are the idle thought of the long haul.
“I’m here,” I say allowed. For fuck sakes, it sure took long enough. I take off my gloves and reach for a hat that I never put on in the first place. I see a note on the refrigerator. It says ‘Love ya- home at 8’. That brings me a nice warm feeling, alongside the fact that I am no longer outside daydreaming in traffic and warding off the cold. Taking my jacket from shoulder to floor, I pounce on the couch and kick off my shoes. Clicker flip flip flip flip pause, flip flip hesitation, pause, consideration, repeat, more consideration, flip flip, charming music, beautiful women, plastic to table, enjoyment. Samples and loops, words being spoken, not sung. Charming women, bikini clad, dancing, moving. No longer cold. Brewing feelings. I like the sights around me and I enjoy this private approval of the objectification of the fairer sex. Zipper slip slap slur. Rhythm and bass slip slap slur. No longer watching. Participating. Slip slur slur slur.
“I’m new here. Do you think you could show me around?”
“Sure. No problem at all,” noticing her long red hair and green skirt so short I am sure she is game.
“Thank you so much for taking me around town. I would have gotten lost with SLIP out SLAP you SLUR. I grab SLIP her and pull her SLAP SLUR closer to me, smelling SLIP her SLAP hair SLUR. Skipping formalities, I pass up the kiss quickly to show her I am in charge. She obliges in a way that I know she is the one in SLAP SLAP control, she is only letting me SLIP SLAP feel like I am SLUR. Tongue to SLAP ass SLAPP SLAPP skirt down, legs SLIP SLAP SLAP spread SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP red hair SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP pulled hard. A smile SLAPSLAPSLAP pulled SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP hard, “Harder, harder, you won’t SLAPSLAP break SLAPSLAPSLAP me SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP SPLAT. The music continues, the pool party ensues, my girl goes way, her face forged, her green skirt plain, her existence erased. Naked no more, pants pulled up from the ground. I have to leave the sexual state, though it will reoccur. The music’s charm is lost flip flip flip. Time for a more intentionally selected sound.
Leaving my personal scene behind, the TV is shut off as I get up from those thoughts. Dinner must be started. Chop chop. The carrots in the pot. One half cup ice cream dinner, two hot dogs. Simpler ideas have taken more time. Broccoli in the pot, meat defrost, onto the rest. Waiting to watch water boil like pebbles under my feet slip away. Long nights dream, long days walk home. Remember only too late to look again, to see. The water has boiled, again.
With dinner on, head phones go on as well. Spinning in sound so beautiful. The gentle voice pulls me around the room, not dissimilar to the red haired girl. VRRRRROOOOO, VRRROOOO, VROOM! Lifting chairs, moving couches, pushing and pulling boxes. She is so sweet. VRRRRROOOOO, VROOOO VROOM. Smell of dog hair as the motor gets used to running. Disgust. I have no pet. Is that what this thing really picks up? I should have gotten a Kirby when I had the chance. Oh, beneath the weather. The words are hard to hear amongst all of the instruments, but whatever was being aimed for was certainly obtained. I little paranoid. The place is looking better but the dog hair smell is dominant, making it feel like I have somehow made things worse. Tss Tss Tsssssss CITRUS and all better. Chord wrapped, vacuum to closet returned. Spray Spray Spray. Sizzle. Bubbles wiped down, smell mixes with citrus and dog hair sick. Trash tied up, bags pulled. Spray Spray Spray. Things wiped, carefully kept from the stove. No boil overs, carrots fine, broccoli steaming. I have done this all before. The clean things bring reward to a greater level than before. A lost longing swirls around, the attention to things small and meaningless no longer satisfying to the heart, mind, or anything of the sort. The wailing of the whale call, hands to counter clean, mind rest. Wanting to crawl up and be part of the solid non-adjustable world. A Disneyland of sound surrounds, up from the table I come and move the chairs back to where they belong, check the pots, push out the smell of all things unnatural only to hear the train and church bells. Headphones amplified.
All things loose and shuffled into the basket, some white, some not, segregation a must, no bleeding through. My fucking love not. Home around eight. Only five. Dinner early and alone. Sit FLIP FLIP FLIP, hesitate. Animated yellow dwellers satisfy my eyes. Rest, a short disappointment, but content. So hungry, meat, simply not to be understood, carrots apt, tasting as orange as they look, broccoli, heavy but great. No thought of the one half cup ice cream yet. They must be separated. The Disneyland of sound removed, all things serendipitous.
Sitting and eating, laughing inside only, no one to share them with. Not until eight o’clock. Can’t wait, acknowledge that I might not want to laugh at eight o’clock. This is my fault, not hers. I just might no feel like anything at that time. But I do now. No outside communication. I don’t want to go back to the cold Christmas light world to use another white noise mechanism. Not now, only in case of boredom emergency. Now is when I am at my most occupied. Tired, eating laughing (only on the inside, not as good), and the eventual prospect of ice cream and sawing ugly ducklings into swans. How unreal. But I can accept that if they can. Little yellow friends dissolve into doing dishes. Setting everything just right. Hours until eight. Longing and a sense of urgency give way to the ice cream carefully selected. Thoughts of health and fitness subside for a moment to pass the felling of joy from head to stomach and back and forth.
At one half cup, the feeling, however, does not last. Feeling like the plug of a drain has been pulled, I try to hang on as the whirlpool tugs below, wanting only to let go. Take me down and wash me out; IN the shower I go from head phone to boom box, blasted loud, soap bubbles clean, steam clouds, hair to wash, no cloth. Emotional wash. Over not off or away. Home around eight. Six, six-ish, more than lately. Music concludes, water stops, mirror wiped, razor swipes, ice to face.
Clean feeling. Anticipation kept at bay long enough. Music, music, more slight cleaning. It is always like this. They will never see the dirt we make together. I will always be here first. Two hours to go. Love is on its way, in the flesh, much better than just in thoughts, though that is not always the case. I am lucky. Toweled and covered in clothes. Back to seat, FLIP FLIP some more. Crap. The transformation begins, not for me, but for me to see.
“I’m here,” I say allowed. For fuck sakes, it sure took long enough. I take off my gloves and reach for a hat that I never put on in the first place. I see a note on the refrigerator. It says ‘Love ya- home at 8’. That brings me a nice warm feeling, alongside the fact that I am no longer outside daydreaming in traffic and warding off the cold. Taking my jacket from shoulder to floor, I pounce on the couch and kick off my shoes. Clicker flip flip flip flip pause, flip flip hesitation, pause, consideration, repeat, more consideration, flip flip, charming music, beautiful women, plastic to table, enjoyment. Samples and loops, words being spoken, not sung. Charming women, bikini clad, dancing, moving. No longer cold. Brewing feelings. I like the sights around me and I enjoy this private approval of the objectification of the fairer sex. Zipper slip slap slur. Rhythm and bass slip slap slur. No longer watching. Participating. Slip slur slur slur.
“I’m new here. Do you think you could show me around?”
“Sure. No problem at all,” noticing her long red hair and green skirt so short I am sure she is game.
“Thank you so much for taking me around town. I would have gotten lost with SLIP out SLAP you SLUR. I grab SLIP her and pull her SLAP SLUR closer to me, smelling SLIP her SLAP hair SLUR. Skipping formalities, I pass up the kiss quickly to show her I am in charge. She obliges in a way that I know she is the one in SLAP SLAP control, she is only letting me SLIP SLAP feel like I am SLUR. Tongue to SLAP ass SLAPP SLAPP skirt down, legs SLIP SLAP SLAP spread SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP red hair SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP pulled hard. A smile SLAPSLAPSLAP pulled SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP hard, “Harder, harder, you won’t SLAPSLAP break SLAPSLAPSLAP me SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP SPLAT. The music continues, the pool party ensues, my girl goes way, her face forged, her green skirt plain, her existence erased. Naked no more, pants pulled up from the ground. I have to leave the sexual state, though it will reoccur. The music’s charm is lost flip flip flip. Time for a more intentionally selected sound.
Leaving my personal scene behind, the TV is shut off as I get up from those thoughts. Dinner must be started. Chop chop. The carrots in the pot. One half cup ice cream dinner, two hot dogs. Simpler ideas have taken more time. Broccoli in the pot, meat defrost, onto the rest. Waiting to watch water boil like pebbles under my feet slip away. Long nights dream, long days walk home. Remember only too late to look again, to see. The water has boiled, again.
With dinner on, head phones go on as well. Spinning in sound so beautiful. The gentle voice pulls me around the room, not dissimilar to the red haired girl. VRRRRROOOOO, VRRROOOO, VROOM! Lifting chairs, moving couches, pushing and pulling boxes. She is so sweet. VRRRRROOOOO, VROOOO VROOM. Smell of dog hair as the motor gets used to running. Disgust. I have no pet. Is that what this thing really picks up? I should have gotten a Kirby when I had the chance. Oh, beneath the weather. The words are hard to hear amongst all of the instruments, but whatever was being aimed for was certainly obtained. I little paranoid. The place is looking better but the dog hair smell is dominant, making it feel like I have somehow made things worse. Tss Tss Tsssssss CITRUS and all better. Chord wrapped, vacuum to closet returned. Spray Spray Spray. Sizzle. Bubbles wiped down, smell mixes with citrus and dog hair sick. Trash tied up, bags pulled. Spray Spray Spray. Things wiped, carefully kept from the stove. No boil overs, carrots fine, broccoli steaming. I have done this all before. The clean things bring reward to a greater level than before. A lost longing swirls around, the attention to things small and meaningless no longer satisfying to the heart, mind, or anything of the sort. The wailing of the whale call, hands to counter clean, mind rest. Wanting to crawl up and be part of the solid non-adjustable world. A Disneyland of sound surrounds, up from the table I come and move the chairs back to where they belong, check the pots, push out the smell of all things unnatural only to hear the train and church bells. Headphones amplified.
All things loose and shuffled into the basket, some white, some not, segregation a must, no bleeding through. My fucking love not. Home around eight. Only five. Dinner early and alone. Sit FLIP FLIP FLIP, hesitate. Animated yellow dwellers satisfy my eyes. Rest, a short disappointment, but content. So hungry, meat, simply not to be understood, carrots apt, tasting as orange as they look, broccoli, heavy but great. No thought of the one half cup ice cream yet. They must be separated. The Disneyland of sound removed, all things serendipitous.
Sitting and eating, laughing inside only, no one to share them with. Not until eight o’clock. Can’t wait, acknowledge that I might not want to laugh at eight o’clock. This is my fault, not hers. I just might no feel like anything at that time. But I do now. No outside communication. I don’t want to go back to the cold Christmas light world to use another white noise mechanism. Not now, only in case of boredom emergency. Now is when I am at my most occupied. Tired, eating laughing (only on the inside, not as good), and the eventual prospect of ice cream and sawing ugly ducklings into swans. How unreal. But I can accept that if they can. Little yellow friends dissolve into doing dishes. Setting everything just right. Hours until eight. Longing and a sense of urgency give way to the ice cream carefully selected. Thoughts of health and fitness subside for a moment to pass the felling of joy from head to stomach and back and forth.
At one half cup, the feeling, however, does not last. Feeling like the plug of a drain has been pulled, I try to hang on as the whirlpool tugs below, wanting only to let go. Take me down and wash me out; IN the shower I go from head phone to boom box, blasted loud, soap bubbles clean, steam clouds, hair to wash, no cloth. Emotional wash. Over not off or away. Home around eight. Six, six-ish, more than lately. Music concludes, water stops, mirror wiped, razor swipes, ice to face.
Clean feeling. Anticipation kept at bay long enough. Music, music, more slight cleaning. It is always like this. They will never see the dirt we make together. I will always be here first. Two hours to go. Love is on its way, in the flesh, much better than just in thoughts, though that is not always the case. I am lucky. Toweled and covered in clothes. Back to seat, FLIP FLIP some more. Crap. The transformation begins, not for me, but for me to see.
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