I said I wouldn't sleep. Rae woke me up at 4am. And after an endless goodbye and shutting the door behind him, I never bothered to go back to sleep. In the past 5 hours, I have drawn a picture of a naked girl in stripes, two entries in my gayass notebook, read dozens of Bukowski's poems and a chapter or two from his books, listened to Bach, Tsjaikovski, Debussy, and my favorite as of lately, Vivaldi.
If I were to play an instrument and play well, I mean excellent, (aside from the obvious choice of the bass or guitar in general) then I would choose the violin. Vivaldi reminded me of those days when I used to look at Tyler's violin in awe and desperate aspiration. I wanted to place it under my chin and close my eyes and set it on fire. Or set the room on fire. Or set a building on fire. Or my friends. Or everyone around me. I just wanted to play as if nothing else ever mattered to me. Some great violinists have had their hands around my throat, wrung me silly, and gripped at me like I was supposed to be constricted that way. Then other times violinists just kick me around and I take it like a dog because what else can I do when I hear that much in music? Sometimes violinists run beside me around the neighborhood. Sometimes violinists summons all the hair in my body to rise and make me shudder. I feel it down my spine sometimes, trickling. For what it has done to me, all I wanted was to reciprocate the same effect on someone else. I wanted to have that much power over someone else, too. It is insane how envious I have been of violinists. And the most insane part was ignoring my own insanity and while bathing in my own pool of envy. For years till on, I just listen, admire, and nothing more. It's just like me to be this way. To ignore all the fires inside me. This is why I never bothered picking up the bass either. Or why I never bothered making something of myself as a writer. Or why I never said the things I wanted to say. Why I never did the things I wanted to do. I'm just a slack. Just a spectator slack. I'm sad and pathetic and stuff.
If I were to play an instrument and play well, I mean excellent, (aside from the obvious choice of the bass or guitar in general) then I would choose the violin. Vivaldi reminded me of those days when I used to look at Tyler's violin in awe and desperate aspiration. I wanted to place it under my chin and close my eyes and set it on fire. Or set the room on fire. Or set a building on fire. Or my friends. Or everyone around me. I just wanted to play as if nothing else ever mattered to me. Some great violinists have had their hands around my throat, wrung me silly, and gripped at me like I was supposed to be constricted that way. Then other times violinists just kick me around and I take it like a dog because what else can I do when I hear that much in music? Sometimes violinists run beside me around the neighborhood. Sometimes violinists summons all the hair in my body to rise and make me shudder. I feel it down my spine sometimes, trickling. For what it has done to me, all I wanted was to reciprocate the same effect on someone else. I wanted to have that much power over someone else, too. It is insane how envious I have been of violinists. And the most insane part was ignoring my own insanity and while bathing in my own pool of envy. For years till on, I just listen, admire, and nothing more. It's just like me to be this way. To ignore all the fires inside me. This is why I never bothered picking up the bass either. Or why I never bothered making something of myself as a writer. Or why I never said the things I wanted to say. Why I never did the things I wanted to do. I'm just a slack. Just a spectator slack. I'm sad and pathetic and stuff.
