I am sitting here listening to The Brian Jonestown Massacre. The song is "Take It From The Man", which is from the album of the same name. It is the sixth of January, and that can only mean one thing: Happy Birthday, you Crazy Diamond! Seriously, Happy Birthday, Syd. Or Roger. You decide, because it's your very special day! And I feel that it's strangely appropriate that I should be listening to this particular song while typing out my Arial Narrow 9 celebration of you...it's as though my cd player knew all to well the significance of this date. It was probably about when I started this thing, but I'll reward myself and say it was really more like . You understand. Not everyone can have their very special day all to themselves, not even Wild Wolf. So it's only natural that I should find myself listening to, what else, "Number 1 Hit Jam". It's bad, you know. It just feels good...you, you, you, yeah, you.
This beautiful boy. What can I say about him that says anything at all? And now "Salaam". That's good. A nice eastern-western jam accompanied by a face that just burns you out. Eyes. Oh, mother. Just picture the sun rising up behind the horizon at daybreak, when it begins to peek over the edge of the earth, the light reaching out, the darkness illuminated, mist like diamonds and everything is blue and green and gold and dear god something so deeply terrifying you want to hide your face because it's looking at you. "The Green Boy", anyone? Body? Well, that's the ocean, isn't it? It's a summer beach, fine yellow grains, nice warm breeze, Coke ice-cold to luke-warm in minutes, fun in a striped cabana smooth fish man swimming kicking deep to the bottom with the blind guys and the weirdness yeah! I feel like I've left something out. Hm.
This is "America". This isn't a joke. I mean every word. If it seems silly or stupid, well, that's how I feel about him. That's the kind of man he was. Or at least, that's how I see him. Wrong or right, it's all beautiful, all of it. Very good and very, very bad. But good.
I don't believe in absolute darkness. Alternately, I don't believe in absolute light, and I tend to think that's it's much easier to dim the light than to maintain it. It's hard. Syd, for me, represents that struggle, among other things. And I don't mean light and dark as good and bad, although certainly that can be a part of it. Life was hard for him, but I think he was happier in his later years, I do. A lot of people go on about how he really died in the sixties or some such crap, and I mean, come on. He's not a corpse, he's (scratch that) a corpse. Or rather, ash. In Syd's defense, I know plenty of people who are deader than him...and most of them are alive and bitching.
Oh, hey, it's Robyn. "High On Yourself", oh, man, this one's for you, little boy. My Man Syd has special significance for me, for reasons I won't go into here and now. It wouldn't be appropriate.
For all of his flaws, he was that thing which is the most contradictory and destructive and wonderful of all things. That thing that mocks nature with its very existance. That thing that hates itself. That thing that really makes no sense at all, but where would you be without it?
Bruce gasped as he awoke, jolted by the frozen air prickling his skin. Or maybe the dream. Nightmare. The drapes were swaying. He was glad it was a down feather pillow. Comfort. Red digits were something like three, and it was still COLD. Goddamn window, goddamn seasons changing...
Get up. Come on. Just get up. Jesus.
Up. Close. Down. Away.
No sleep. Of course. Not now that you've gotten up and moved around, closing a window, getting back into bed, oh, you're completely energized, you're jacked, you're electricity, baby, and you're psyched and ready to seize the day! Come on, you don't need sleep. You can sleep when you're dead, you can sleep when you're six feet under, aw, seriously, you NEED to get UP.
I saw you today. Down on the street. You didn't see me, and if you did you gave no indication. I saw you pause in front of a shop, peering in, pressing your nose to the glass, cupping your hands around your face to keep out the sun. Just rows of shoes. What were you looking for? Why weren't you at the old candy shop, or the cigarette depot, or the tailor's on the corner? Of course, I followed you. Every move. Watching. Waiting for the sign. The call to mayhem. Shaking the hair from your eyes, I catch the death shining, and I move. You're in my vision. I wander from you for a moment and wonder if you're really there at all. Being in your presence is like raising the dead. The ghost inside just pushes you through the substance of the living, just lingering long enough to ground you. I don't know, I guess I was feeling metaphysical. Probably exhausted. Right on the edge of it. There's never time for sleep. Or dreams, thank god. Something I don't need. So what do you need? You round a corner, and I'm there, I'm ahead of you. High above you. You're small from up here, and I can see the wind rushing through you, cool and heavy, crashing you. I thought too much that day. Too much like something good. My unconscious was running like anything. But I never lost you. Not once. My sight was always clear. You were always wrong. That was right. Crossing the street without looking, grinning like a wild thing, you're close. You know. But what? I knew I couldn't lose you. I had to keep up. I had to find your joy. Where are you going? To kill, to steal, to laugh high like you're in love, something? Or did I miss you? Am I dragging behind? Show me your eyes. Look at me and I'll find you. You're in the park, in the grass, something green. Meeting someone. Vandalism. Potential victims. Terror. I waited for you. You found what you were looking for. Sat in the park, laid down, spread your arms wide. The green and the gold glowing on your skin, eyes closed and you smiling like this was it. Everything. Your happiness. One day. And I lost you.
OM NOM NOM J0K3R OK I'M DONE WITH THAT SHIT I FUCKING SWEAR EXCEPT THAT I'M NOT NO REALLY THOUGH
One hundred seventy-one days. Just under six months. Six months. Six months. SIX MOTHER-FUCKING-MONTHS NHAAA
That's the sound Frankenstein's monster makes when he's HONGRY.
AND I AM HONGRY. Like David Bowie, I have teh hungre, and like Petre Mruhpy, I've got the fear of fear. FEAR OF ALL FEARS. Or something. Also, much like Robyn Hitchcock, I'm feeling young and dignified. But other than that, I just feel like shit. David Caruso once told me that a man is like-a the moon, he is invincible when he is white and full. What David didn't know was that "people" with hell-hair don't really count as people, much less men, and that what he had told me was viciously retarded, so I kicked his stupid bobble-head off, right the fuck off. He's a good guy. Anyway, I'm feeling a litle bit Welsh, which probably means I gotta sing, but it could also mean that Al Jolson is back in town. But really, when was that ever front-page news? My point is, "The Dark Knight" isn't coming out for another one hundred seventy-one days, which is also about six months, which is also nearly half a year, which is also just a really fucking long time. So yeah, I'm excited. The Joker has brought the party to my pants since I was like, five. I mean, that's normal, right?
So, it seems that there is to be yet another delay for the release of the latest installment to Giles Thomas Frederick O'Connor's Badgers In Revolt series. According to the BBC's official website, www.bbc.co.uk/ the release date for the long-awaited tenth book has been set for around mid-January, although the exact date was not provided. It's ridiculous, I know. But perhaps it's all for the better. In the meantime, we can all still enjoy the magic and wonder created by this modern literary genius by simply reading his previous works. And like many other Gileophiles, I plan to read all nine. Cheers.
And for those of you who don't know, the titles from Badgers In Revolt so far:
Badger In His Natural Habitat Badger: A Life In Crime The Sinking Badger Hate, Evil, Dreams, And Other Badgers Badgers Of Passion The Great Fire That Lost The Badger His Home Too Many Badgers For The Counting The Badgerly Matron Badger, Badger, I Know Where You Come From And I Know What You Want With Me
I think if I had to choose a favorite it would be The Great Fire...; it just has something, you know?
I was there when you struggled. I saw you struggle. I thought you were dying. It was difficult, watching you, if you were dying, but you fought it like you fight everything. Your eyes in your head just jumped, but they weren't crying. Dry like me. I felt warm, hot, hot like I was a furnace, there was a furnace in my belly with heat spreading everywhere, just like you. Your clothes were black when you wore them, but you were almost naked. My eyes were on you. My eyes covered you. You were so small then, like a frown, like I was small, I was small before like you. My hearts beat like something out of my body and I could smell you. Skin was nice. I remembered when it was warm like me on me on you. You were slow and bleeding, wet when I touched you. Different. It was good. And then you were just sleeping.
12:42 am: ginger snaps
I'm hungry. I'm eating a ginger snap. It's slightly spicy. It could be the ginger. I like blondes. No, I don't really. Actually, sometimes I do. But I like brunettes more. Usually. I also like black hair. Do you like ginger snaps? I need to go to the lavatory. But I won't go until I eat three ginger snaps. I'm eating the third now. And then someone was like, what? You did what? And I said, yeah. That's right. But you know, time is like that thing with the...it's like, a clock. In space. And time. I love doing things like this. Typing whatever comes into my head. Are you hungry, too?
Man, I've got to learn how to write. Wtf. I love Doctor Who. I love slash fanfiction. I love Doctor Who slash fanfiction, or rather, I would love it if someone would actually write what I want to read. People just don't seem to like my pairings like I like them. I will say, though, that there is good DW fic floating around, some of it really fine. Take vandonovan for instance. I don't even know where to begin. The author's pairing of choice, I think, is Two/Jamie, and what a lovely pairing it is, one of my personal favorites. The characterization is fantastic, very accurate, which is quite a feat in any fandom, let alone DW. In short, underated Two and his beautiful boy deserve a little sunshine, and vandonovan lets the little darlings out to play and grope each other as much as they like (not as if they don't already). And so, vandonovan, wherever you are...I salute you.