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March 11th, 2004, 04:20 PM
#61
HB Forum Owner
(Disclaimer: Solomon Stills has ADD.)
Journal 3/10.
Looking out my window, I see a prostitute with a dirty streetlight halo. She has long, strangling blonde hair, and she can't be any older than twenty or so. I watch a car stop and pick her up, and I just sit down at the edge of my bed, and I wonder -- is it really a sin to sell yourself?
Should it be illegal? Is it all that bad? It's a shame what some women (and men) have to do for money, just to get food on their table, or to load their needles with fix. It's a shame that some are corrupted so young and spend the rest of their lives doing the same thing over and over, always risking their life. There could always be some psycho there, mangling a prostitute as though she is nothing but a spot on this Earth.
But what are the positives of selling your body? Maybe, sometimes, there is some degree of pleasure. I know, that if I was a male escort, and the females were half-attractive, I wouldn't be unhappy to get paid and do what I love. Not that I'm considering it, but it's just a thought.
It would be really great if Jennifer Lopez or someone like that needed someone to -- anyway. I'm getting off-topic. No, in fact, I think I should change topics because this is just disturbing me.
On another note, I decided to walk home today, and take a different route because it was nice outside. I saw some faces re-emerge that I hadn't seen for years, namely Kelly Mangelis and her boyfriend, Steve. I went back to their flat and we had a few beers and we just talked about the past.
Kelly reminded me of the time when I was so wasted that I actually stood on a table at one of her parties and stripped and earned fifty dollars. That seemed to piss Steve off a bit, but what does he know, he's a wanker, anyway. After I left, with some old memories, I thought about how much I missed the party scene, and at the same time, how happy I am not to be a part of it anymore.
The people in the party scene weren't plastic like the people I interact with on an everyday basis. They were real because they were never sober, they never denied the fact that they were addicted to certain things, and whenever you were ready to talk for hours, you could. But, at the same time, they were falling apart with bags under their eyes, and they still look the same way.
Don't get me wrong, I'm falling apart with bags under my eyes, but I'm also not out every night anymore. Sleeping with every girl because every girl I see is suddenly the girl of my dreams but doesn't turn out to be the girl of my dreams because she squeaks when she's fucking you, or she rips out my hair. That's fine, tugging on hair. But ripping it? Jesus Christ. I'm a solo man now (haha) or maybe just finally a mono guy. I don't know, but it feels good.
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March 14th, 2004, 04:44 PM
#62
HB Forum Owner
I sink down slowly next to my wall, and press my ear to it like I can hear the sullen thud of her heartbeat, the way I used to nestle myself to her breast and fall asleep was so peaceful. It was more soothing than any drug. I'm in the corner, I'm covered in paint. I'm half-naked. I can't breathe very well. I'm engulfed in my lids, and in the sunset of my mind. The floor is bare, but the mattress stays because that isn't coming to London. I bathe in it all alone, alone -- being the keyword.
I can taste her skin and listen to her gasp and pant and shriek rage at me within these walls.
And that's why it's best to leave them,
to leave her behind. If only for a month. Just escape her for a month so I can open my heart so wide. So wide for Kate.
I miss you, baby.
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March 21st, 2004, 04:22 PM
#63
HB Forum Owner
March 21st, 2004.
It's Sunday at five-thirty almost in the morning, and I know I don't have to work today so there's mass freedom. I just got home not too long ago, after a crazy gig at the Troc, which was only undermined by the fact that I later found out another shit band was playing after that, so I resorted to sit at the bar and grunt comments to myself only to have a Brazilian girl steal my drink and hold it over my head. So I let her have it, and she doesn't want it, and in the end she asks for a ride home. Her name's Tatiane, and I'm going to ignore the fact that she's incredibly gorgeous and write about what really attracted me to her.
She's telling me about how yellow cars are more prone to accidents, and I told her she made it up. She used to work as one of those 'car girls' at car shows, but got fired because she wore a t-shirt. So she's fairly comical. We ended up dancing in the rain as bizarre as it sounded, and I took her back to her motel 8 room, watched her curl up in bed and we talked about people and her history, and maybe even some of mine. Nevermind the fact that she pointed out I must have ADHD. For some reason it didn't offend me, I think honesty's a charming shade on her.
So I went home, without doing anything. I know, hell should freeze over. Solomon Stills left a motel room without sex, and he didn't desire any in the first place. I'm supposed to be talking to Sal about getting her a job on Monday, and I think it'd be wicked working with a girl I can actually talk to. But, I'm not to be giving up my hopes already; she has a nomadic gypsy glow to her, and I know better.
Other than that, this week has had it's ups and downs. I haven't been going out, and I don't know if it's because I feel antisocial or maybe I'm depressed. Tonight, was a miracle though--actually going out and staying out all night. I haven't done that since I was in London, and there were no drugs in my system. Until now. I'm still soaked from the rain and I want to sleep, and I know what I have to do. I'm going to go upstairs, sneak inside Quinn's, and first make sure her poet isn't there, because although he seems to have a placid demeanor to him, he might very well get pissed off and try to punch me in the face. Then I'm going to crawl in bed with her, and sleep.
I need a warm body, and although she tries to slap me away, she doesn't mind. That's my best friend over there. I think she understands.
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March 23rd, 2004, 09:07 PM
#64
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April 24th, 2004, 03:25 PM
#65
HB Forum Owner
stone love - she kneels before the grave
a brave son - who gave his life to see the slogan
that hovers between the headstone and her eyes
for they penetrate her grieving
new love - a boy and girl are talking
new words - that only they can share in
new words - a love so strong it tears their hearts
to sleep - through the fleeting hours of morning
love is careless in its choosing - sweeping over cross a baby
love descends on those defenseless
idiot love will spark the fusion
inspirations have i none?
just to touch the flaming dove
all I have is my love of love
and love is not loving
soul love - the priest that tastes the word and
told of love - and how my God on high is
all love - though reaching up my loneliness evolves
by the blindness that surrounds him
-- david bowie.
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May 3rd, 2004, 11:25 PM
#66
HB Forum Owner
Tutto che abbiate bisogno di ? amore,
Tutto che abbiate bisogno di ? amore,
All you need is love,
all you need is love.
She sang it like a spring-sunset canary; nestling the Italian shivering whispers into the canyon of his cheek.
The words were graffiti by means of a spraypaint can nozzle on his nostalgic walls in her hasty script. Solomon thought it was funny that the last open space in the living room was occupied by her. Vera. She couldn't read the messages left behind by the other lovers and pill-popping friends (but someday he could envisage himself teaching her, and perhaps gaining the education of another romantic language) but the evening goddess in her Persephone-black gown could feel the essence of warmth and pain radiating from them. They were a thousand memories he wanted to hide and store in a little black box at the bottom pit of his soul, never to be opened again.
Whenever he tasted her tongue in a liquored crush he swore her flavor and fragrance should've been bottled. Rugged in feminine textures; cigarettes, sex, violence. He swore he had known her for years, smelled her wafting in his sheets before. He sculpted his palm to the sole of her stiletto-abused foot, and took a ski-slope down a balmy calf, and conditioned her into labored breathing.
It seemed they were two of a kind, her angel ("I think of it as my mother, sometimes") spun religious ink across her abdomen, and he doused it in a strawberry field of kisses, ironing a hollow cheek into her womb, as she spiraled fingers through locked hair. Euro counterculture went lax into a mutual spell.
"Siete un tipo piacevole, Solomon..Posso ritenere il
vostro cuore asrisi a me.
"Ed il mio cuore si apre ad il vostro..
I feel like I've known you for a long time."
After they exhausted themselves and her skin left its first warm imprint in his lonely bed in ages, he slept well past 5:30 AM (where his internal alarm clock usually shrieked to wake him up) into early afternoon, nourishing insomnia with shuttered lids. If he knew that when Kate wedged her Gucci heel in his heart that he'd meet this after a few months of suffering than his nights of phone-pacing anxiety would've been so much easier.
Because all the suffering in the world was worth the most gorgeous fallen angel he'd ever seen-- that draped him in her wings and bred a breath of fresh amber air. Unlike any other woman ever had, she nutured him in one night more than they did in years.
Goodbye, American eyes.
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May 7th, 2004, 01:05 AM
#67
HB Forum Owner
Quinn Rosalin flung herself headfirst like a ragdoll onto his mattress. Her growing hair whiplashed with the spontaneous swandive into a Grecian whirlwind of white sheets, her mouth crookedly sawing into a plump grin at her best friend. Solomon stared at her, his jaw completely agape, struggling to unfurl a veiny tatooed forearm to trigger the lamp at his nightstand. He made no attempts at tugging the sheets to his stomach for the sake of censorship, but he did protectively cradle the sleeping Italian girl, cupping his hands over the multi-punctured ear shell exposed to the ceiling.
"Christ, Quinn.." he hissed in a Scorpio-seething tone. "Don't yew knock? She's sleeping."
"Oh man. She's hot." Quinn wedged her way up the covers. She smelled of alcohol, but Solomon was never one to complain. He loved his bite-sized alcoholic.
"Yeh well..her name's not Kate, she's not gonna shag yew."
"I didn't say she is! Is she easy like Kate?"
"Kate wasn't eas--she's not easy."
"Kate was. Are her tits real?" Miss Rosalin's hand was on the verge of extending to her shoulder to turn her over and find out.
"Yes, they're real."
"Good, cos Kate's weren't."
"Yes they were."
"Oh. Well, they looked fake.--Anyway, what's this doll's name?"
Regarding sleeping beauty with an almost dream-hazy sigh (she noticed this and snorted) he told her with a dim, ceramic flicker of his lavish lash. "Vera."
"She's hot."
"I know. ..Quinn?"
"Wot are yew doing?"
"I'm bored."
"It's three AM."
"That's never mattered before," she quipped, sticking out her liquor-tangy tongue.
"Well, go home, love."
"I don't want to."
"Yew can sleep on the couch."
"Floor?"
"Fine, floor."
Finally, she rolled off the bed, and she grinned contentedly as Solomon hiked naked into the hallway to retrieve her favorite blanket and pillow. "Here." As soon as the light was killed and he was settling back in beside her, giftwrapping the bony goddess in limbs, she inquired again.
"Sol?"
"Hn...?"
"Is she it?"
"Yeh."
"She looks like it. Even when sleeping."
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May 9th, 2004, 09:19 AM
#68
HB Forum Owner
Delirious morning journal ranting.
May 10th, 2004.
'Bliss' is the perfect word to describe this week, and every day and night in it. I wake up, she's in my arms, preferrably in the nude, she kisses me, she smiles at me (and she does have the most brilliantly lopsided, gorgeous smile) she makes me sketch her when she's asleep because she looks so many shades of perfect. Now, I know better to get ahead of myself. Just because this week has been great, just because she tempts and challenges me more than I can remember anyone else doing in years, that doesn't mean that it'll forever be that way. I've felt a brilliant love gone awry and sour in years' time.
Vera has the most seductive Italian accent, and I think she knows it too. When we're laying around, I'll tell her to talk to me in it, I don't care what she's saying. Some of the words are slightly familiar and easy to recognise considering I know French and Spanish, as well, and I can pick up on the general messages. They're all angelic and loving, and sometimes wickedly playful like we are. She's a mystery too. Although we both feel like we've known each other for years, we're still wary to talk about our pasts. I've heard fragments of her own, and to say the least, what I know is painful..evening imagining her in that sort of situation. I feel like I should've been there to protect her.
The thing is, I think she's semi-protective over me. Protective for a woman, that is. She feels the need to comfort me, to hold me close, and I'll bury my cheek against her womb, and feel at ease, like I just stepped on an earth spot of euphoria.
I've begun to bury everything else. My painting of Judas---I didn't sell, but rather, threw away just to seperate it from my life. Everything that used to belong to Kate in my drawers, tossed in a trashbag, and fed into the garbage. Kate. She's always been too good for me. Not to me. But for me. She's a posh, middle-class girl that wants the upper-class life, and I'm sure she'll marry someone so that she gets it. The picket fence, the children, the security. I'm not that kind of man. I'd be happy to do it all someday, but I'm young, I'm enjoying my youth, and I've never been rich. I'd never be able to buy her all the diamonds she wanted, she's hard to sate. I'll never get mad at Quinn or Christian for what they've done with her after Kate and I broke up the second time. I always suspected that her and Judas had something going on, but I've never voiced it. Maybe I'm just paranoid. I can't hold any grudges. I've never been one for material things. Personally, I think Kate and I were together because I wanted to fall in love, and she wanted to live wildly for a year and a half. I will never hate her, I will never dislike her, I'll always have a part of me that's madly in love with her, because she's a brilliant girl. She'll find a man someday that will give her everything she ever dreamed of, because I can't. She deserves it. I'd love to remain friends with her, but there are just some things that may be too painful to do. Not knowing such a beautiful person anymore is going to hurt, but it's best to part. Everything she bought me, everything I kept. It had to go to rid of her memories.
European women and American women are a lot different. European women are always wild, they're always crazy, but they're very maternal. American girls go through phases where they want to be crazy, they want to get high, they want to live on the edgier side, but then it all just comes crumbling and they stop. They want something else, something more. But European girls will always keep that light, but they'll also have your child and they'll nuture it with more love than anyone else could ever do. I'm not talking about my mother, but rather my experiences in London. All mothers would die for their children, but those mothers won't die inside and completely lose their shine and spirit.
I like how I can dance on the balcony with Vera with my pants barely buckled, and her floating in my t-shirt and nothing else. She's a sexual creature, she blows my mind, but she holds me really late at night. It's childish, I know. But I'm childish. If this turns out to be love, then good. Even if it doesn't, I think that Vera has taught me a valuable lesson. I think I know where I stand in this life, I know who I am. I need to stop chasing dreams, I need to skirt back into reality.
<font color="#060101" size="1">[ May 09, 2004 02:14 PM: Message edited by: electroshock ]</font>
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May 15th, 2004, 03:09 PM
#69
HB Forum Owner
"Hey, pretty gurl.." His snickers were crushed into her neck, as they stared the midnight in the face on his balcony. His jeans were unbuckled, and her lean curves were doused in one of his cotton t-shirts.
"Wot's your name? Want to go on a date sometime, maybe? To the movies, with me?"
"Maybe."
"But I hardly know you, and I don't think my parents would approve."
"I know your Mum and Dad wouldn't like me, but...we could have a really fun time, love. Mn..yew look fantastic in the moonlight."
"It's because you're naughty. You always know the right thing to say, do you know that..?"
"You're just as wicked as I am, pretty gurl. And..the things I say are just impulse, it's wot I'm thinking."
"Vera... are yew my gurl?"
"Am I your girl? Yeah, I'm your girl."
"Wicked."
<font color="#060101" size="1">[ May 26, 2004 01:35 AM: Message edited by: electroshock ]</font>
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May 26th, 2004, 04:34 AM
#70
HB Forum Owner
He woke up just a few hours after he fell asleep, and he was still drunk. His biological alarm clock was always ticking and as soon as five-thirty AM streamed through Jillian's posh venetian blinds, he staggered in a neutral-colored, striped t-shirt and paint-flecked jeans to her bathroom, and noted that he looked like a trainwreck in the mirror.
Last night he drank one Red Stripe, two vodka and tonics, and then six tequila shots in a feverish race. However, he couldn't even make it all the way home and he ended up crashing there. When she parted the door, both him and Marlowe (making human crutches out of one another) just about plunged headfirst into her carpet, and drooled on the fiber. That didn't make him any better than the three girls (one unconscious) he drove home just the night before.
Stepping in her tub, he triggered the scalding shower, and tried to clear the tipsy seesaw of his brain. Stepping back into his clothes, he passed by the Heroe's lead singer, her parchment-white skin interwined in wine-spill scarlet satin sheets. He remembered how comfortable those sheets were, like silk for the soul.
Vaguely remembering fractions of Marlowe, he didn't have the heart to wake him up, so he just left him asleep on her carpet, and strolled out to confront another summer day. He'd be waiting tables, and throwing a sopping wet rag over them afterwards -- until five o'clock when his shift ended. Ideas would be light-bulbing in his brain all throughout the day, as always.
<font color="#060101" size="1">[ May 26, 2004 01:41 AM: Message edited by: electroshock ]</font>
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