reel-to-reel xylophone color bars in French
I feel an agreeable and pleasant ringing in my left ear when I think about striking him.
It's so easy to visualize the upturned blade of the box cutter, working its way through the thin, knit fabric of the briefs, already transparent from too many launderings. Once the tiny hole has been developed, the only requirement is a flick of the wrist to bring the sharp edge across and up through the worn elastic band, flimsily held together with a washed-out manufacturers label. No point in saving any of it; it's just a dull, useless sheath when it's time to access the contents.
Riiiiip-thunk! Like the opening notes of a symphonic movement. All that would follow just rushes through my head like so much pounding blood, shattered at times by brief visual and aural motifs that careen towards ecstasy. A herd of choice cattle, charging desperately and blindly through narrow corridors, destined to become the steaming, carmel-black-red flanks on fine porcelain for the salivating mouths of porterhouse lovers in the finest Kansas City steakhouses. Not too much parsley, please.
Those are my thoughts, anyway, following two successive weekends of hot proximity to familiar flames.
An aesthete might have some conclusion to draw from it, some patronizing homily-by-way-of-western-humanism. I have my own approach, though I hesitate to define it. Whatever it is, it seems to be working of late, but I'm wondering now if it's not too much to bear or if it's exactly what I need to advance to the next square. And maybe it's not either/or but simply a natural symptom because I'm not making any plans to do anything about the condition, and if the plans make me, I'm not worried about the outcome, because it just keeps leading to better terrain.
The unanticipated roughness of the tastebuds, for instance, massaging my own. The low vibrations, dancing and reverberating in my rib cage, haunting me each Sunday night. Both of those massive frames, too solid to dismiss or to assimilate at once, but unbelievably compelling. And that blonde carpet. So good. So guileless. So sincere. So unstudied. So ingenuous. I want to destroy all of it as thoroughly as I can, until there's not one molecule of wanting or mystery left. All the plants watered and asleep.
All questions answered.
It's so easy to visualize the upturned blade of the box cutter, working its way through the thin, knit fabric of the briefs, already transparent from too many launderings. Once the tiny hole has been developed, the only requirement is a flick of the wrist to bring the sharp edge across and up through the worn elastic band, flimsily held together with a washed-out manufacturers label. No point in saving any of it; it's just a dull, useless sheath when it's time to access the contents.
Riiiiip-thunk! Like the opening notes of a symphonic movement. All that would follow just rushes through my head like so much pounding blood, shattered at times by brief visual and aural motifs that careen towards ecstasy. A herd of choice cattle, charging desperately and blindly through narrow corridors, destined to become the steaming, carmel-black-red flanks on fine porcelain for the salivating mouths of porterhouse lovers in the finest Kansas City steakhouses. Not too much parsley, please.
Those are my thoughts, anyway, following two successive weekends of hot proximity to familiar flames.
An aesthete might have some conclusion to draw from it, some patronizing homily-by-way-of-western-humanism. I have my own approach, though I hesitate to define it. Whatever it is, it seems to be working of late, but I'm wondering now if it's not too much to bear or if it's exactly what I need to advance to the next square. And maybe it's not either/or but simply a natural symptom because I'm not making any plans to do anything about the condition, and if the plans make me, I'm not worried about the outcome, because it just keeps leading to better terrain.
The unanticipated roughness of the tastebuds, for instance, massaging my own. The low vibrations, dancing and reverberating in my rib cage, haunting me each Sunday night. Both of those massive frames, too solid to dismiss or to assimilate at once, but unbelievably compelling. And that blonde carpet. So good. So guileless. So sincere. So unstudied. So ingenuous. I want to destroy all of it as thoroughly as I can, until there's not one molecule of wanting or mystery left. All the plants watered and asleep.
All questions answered.