Besides everything. what really puts me in the mood is organizing my stuff. I’m a hoarder, especially of memories, which every so often I have what I call a ‘memory dumping’, garbage day for my neurotransmitters; they leave old memories by the curb and the blood of life washes them to the recycling center on Plaxar V or whatever planet they handle those sort of energetic redistributions; When cleaning out my boxes I counted seven highlighters; I haven’t used a highlighter in years but they come to me, deep in the night harboring wishes to be with their kind in an IKEA box; I oblige. But, as CEO and janitor of my production company I need to keep a skyline of papers from forming and different projects crossing paths where they shouldn’t. I just spent two hours getting hot and bothered with getting on top of my projects and now I’m hot and bothered or warm and slightly itchy. Making lists is also an aphrodisiac; I love lists. Ones with numbers are like pleasure cream.
It makes me think of another turn on and that’s riding my motorcycle when I had one in San Francisco years ago. I had a 1987 Honda Magna 700, a gorgeous and perfect bike and anyone who knows the city knows, living out at Ocean Beach, the fog was a staple about 80% of the time, this damp mist that I found soothing, like a winter sauna; and when on my bike heading home I would sometimes wind through Gold Gate Park and even though I had a full helmet the wind would whistle and the moisture would tap my neck in some kind of mystical Morse and by the time I got home I sometimes forgot whatever problem I’m sure I had and I had plenty the last couple of years there. I miss having that bike and have toyed with getting one out here in New York but the energy driving is like the difference between tantric sex and a one off in an alley somewhere drunk with a maiden of your liquor’s choice and some trash can lids; I don’t trust myself on a bike here as I tend to get drifty; that’s why, as much as I wanted to fly planes when I was a teenager, knew that one out of every three flights I’d forget to lower the landing gear because I was thinking about mint green cadillacs and if God got the idea for humans while driving around in one. BUt looking back, being on a motorcycle is like sex; you can’t replicate the feeling. Too many unused orgasms floating in the air; like highlighters I gather them in and let them loiter and hum around until they find someone to land.
One more turn on is wandering around Staples; buying office supplies makes me moon crazy. I must be part werewolf; but not the part that Taylor Lautner is;
12:30am, damn. Later than I’d like.
“The slowness of life thrilled Lona more than thrills. That’s when a touch became sacred, when moments toured her body like argyle, leaving a perfect exhaust of pleasure and joy falling on her flesh and fogging her bones until she felt warm, perfect and lit into the sky, tumbled to the earth, pulled back upward and then dumped into the soil, every thrust an awareness that promised that somewhere in flesh was the universe in a thimble.:
