Perfect
Previous - this entry written on 2001-03-27 at 01:44 p.m. - Next


Spin, flamedance, sweet hot rush and the words begin... it's late, early, i have no concept of time at the moment. This... this is new, letting my mind and fingers wander for an audience greater than one, for someone other than myself, simply letting music and words flow free fast hot, such desire, such dreams...

I've music, building, painful, slow out-of-control spinning, and it never really stops, bloodred techno beat and the whisperhush of classical music, the bitter scream of portishead and the agony-perfect touch of counting crows... margerie's dreaming again and again and again...

So I write, while the music floods me, words pouring from fingertips that have no conception of what they type, my mind disconnected briefly, filled so completely with sound and emotion that I've no room left for conscious thought, only the rush... fast, so fast, blissful... I remember a line from a favorite book: faster, faster, faster, until the thrill of speed outweighs the fear of death... and that is this, that is the tumble and pour of words onto the page.

And then the song slows... comes to a halt... and for a split second infinity pushes in, the silence painful as I wait for the next new flash of music to build... 'living dead girl' and now I'm trapped in a flash of memory, of Julie with her tiny little-girl mouth and her barbie goth costumes and the way she looked at me at Rocky... gods, so perfect, that such a darling little masochistic, sadistic, evil gothbabe would be jealous, would be threatened... so perfect, so wonderful. Such an ego-boost... living dead girl.

The music is loud, pounding, delicious. I can taste it, when it goes like this, it's like a copper rush in the back of my mouth, sour-tart stinging the tip of my tongue, and the wonderful saltiness of blood... I am tearing into the screen, into my heart, into the music, and it all bleeds. My words become my weapon, razor-sharp for this moment, all I need to so-carefully tear at the edges of thought and rip into my own existance... it all changes at the touch of the music, at the sound of the words as they land on the page, the click-tap-growl-hush of it all, so perfect again, still, forever...

I never thought I would be rambling into the diary, I hadn't thought I could bear to let myself go so completely... letting the strange spark of a hundred mood swings condense, burn, turn into a single flame that even weeks or months later, I will look back at and cringe... and want... and need...

I do need this. I need the flame, need the aching, deepening burn of exposure, of desire unhidden but not understood, of everything I feel turned into that pinpoint glow. This is what my art is reduced to at times, the one flash, the one brief perfect image... that's what I hunt for, what I try to create, and although I can't ever really match it in words, this is the closest I come.

'Carry on, carry on dancing... closer... passion... stronger..." the music is again building, again rising, cresting, wave bliss line beat harmony drums pounding deeper into me and I fall... it's a magic in its own way, leaving me uncaring... no more rules of grammar, no more spelling, no more striving to form each new piece of thought into a complete whole... because right now, it's ALL whole, all one blurring frightful dreamscape that I can wander freely, the music my ticket to the wastelands, the agonizing sound my passport to the silent temple I found once before...

...and again, silence...

...then slow, build... and this time not the fiery beat, but something slow... pain, turned into music. I love it. I had half-forgotten how exhilerating it is to write to this sound, to the delicious, delirious, halting feel of someone's heart breaking, each note carrying an expression of emotion that I've yet to manage to match... music... graphics... now words... I've tried it all, I'm an expressionist junkie, desperately looking for my next fix, my next chance to spit out a part of what is inside, my next new method to ease the ache.

That's why I am so willing to try some new form of art... and at the same time, why I don't want something direct. I am pouring out my soul... I don't WANT someone else to catch it, not without work, not without knowing that they share my dreams... even here, half my words are hiding between an odd cloak of madness and innocence, and I'll let them stay there, safe.

I like being safe... but I need to feel fear, to feel pride, to feel alive.

"On a hot desert night, with the windows down low, the sirens will sing me their song... and the ghosts of the sailors who died on the rocks feel not a twinge of regret... though the wind may tangle the hair on your head, you sing like a siren to me..." Bonus points if you know the song, kiddies... ah, but no doubt that's just another mask for me, really. How can I tell? I've given up trying... I don't recognize half my disguises any more, I've become something I hate and despise... but oh, right now, it feels so blissful, so heavenly perfect... and I'm glad for the ache of it, one more chance to prove to myself that I am indeed alive, that I exist... switch of music, drastic and sudden now, portishead buiding with 'glory box', a song I never tire of, it's perfect...

I'm so tired of playing / playing with this bow and arrow / I'm gonna give my heart away / leave it to the other girls to play / for I've been a temptress too long / just / give me a reason to love you / give me a reason to be a woman...

I just wanna be a woman...

And the music is building but my fingers are slowing, a tear, a gasp, the floodgates are opened... the other reason I let myself sink into the madness of this, the chance to cry... I cry so rarely, only a few people have even seen my tears... it shames me to cry, I hate it, but I need it. I stifle it so often... but now, here, I can cry, lost in the maze of sound and text, forgetting that an hour ago, I wanted to die, that five minutes before that, I was extatic... no more mood swings, no more anything, just the tears and the music and I, existing...

...content...

...perfect.

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