Saturday, February 1, 2014

Warpaint - "Feeling Alright"

This cold is dying slowly, a monster in one of those horror movies, a zombie or something, incapable, nearly incapable, of death. You have to keep shooting and shooting it, stabbing it with a wooden stake in some vital organ, push its body off a cliff, make its body blow up all over the place, and a hand, a lone hand will keep on crawling along past the bits of exploded body, still intent on its evil course. The evil of the world, despite all our work, our hard, hard work, at killing it, will always keep grasping along, that disembodied and bloodied hand crawling along the ground toward some weapon to hurt you, a thirst for violence, for wickedness, for evilness, that, no matter what you do, is impossible to stop.

Most of the major symptoms are gone. It's just these lingering ones, the kind of drippy nose, the kind of sore throat, this feeling of not exactly sick, but not exactly healthy either.

I slept in, feeling sick when I woke up. I took some pills to feel less so. I drank some tea and some coffee to feel another type of way. Enhanced emotional states chosen with ease. Pill of this, puff of this, drink of that. Modern medicine. The dream is alive as long as the right song is on and it is loud enough to make us forget.

My gas stove stopped working a couple of days ago - it clear that someone turned off the gas. My landlord came out to look at it today. He brought me down into the basement and showed me the gas meter to my apartment turned off and locked. He asked if I called the gas company to set it up. No, I said, I didn't know I needed to. I have lived here for a year and a half. I have thought the gas was included with my rent and it might very well be, but I have no clue where my lease is.

This is when he told me that then I never had gas.

What do you mean, I asked? I have lived for a year and a half and have had gas up until two days ago.

Nope, he said, not possible. You never turned it on.

I cook eggs on it every morning. What do you mean I didn't haven't gas? You're saying I didn't cook ever on my stove?

And he shrugged his shoulders seriously to indicate that this was very likely, that I never had gas in my apartment. He again said that I never had it if I never called. My head was about to explode at how unreal this man was being. I wasn't sure if he was fucking with me or what. I am pretty certain that he turned off the gas himself. I have no idea. Anyways, I am not calling Keyspan to try to get gas on for two months here just to end up having to pay some huge gas bill for the last year and a half. This is just more reason to order burritos I guess, though I was planning on cooking more in order to save as much money as possible for this move that I will need to do in two months. I have had it with these crazy landlords and would really love to once live in a building without them. Fingers crossed that my next apartment is one of them.

I saw the guy on 96th Street, got a blowjob. I went to the gym. I lifted weights and watched a muted television that played Mob Wives while the pop hits of the moment blared over speakers. I felt perfectly at home in the world, had found my place for a few moments. As I physically exerted myself each set, I was surrounded by presence, bythese beautiful women with their silent movie faces, always exaggerated expressions playing to the back of the house, the wide eyes at anger, the twitch back and forth at furiousness - usually their expressions on some anger-furious spectrum - none more so than Rene Graziano. She could easily be a telenovela star. As this plays, pop songs blast, songs meant for you to move your body to, to feel sexy to, confident to, to feel some reaction in your actual body. These combined pulled at me with as much force as the resistance of various weight machines. I felt exhausted but ready for more forms of exhaustions. I felt incredibly present, focused on this task, this music, thoughts of the past morning and my idiot landlord gone, thoughts of further worries also put off, thoughts of where I will move to, what ideas I should be thinking of for various ad campaign projects due soon - all of this gone for these moments. It's why I love going to the gym so much.

I went to the Strand, bought The Flame Throwers. A man, a fevered erotic dream of a man, a total babe, asked me if I wanted a bag when I was checking out. No, I said, unable to quit staring and staring hard at this beautiful man. I looked at his nametag - Jeremy. I looked at this face again, unable to step away from the desk, probably drooling. I finally quit being creepy and left the store. For a block, I dreamed about my future life with Jeremy, about going on a date with him, walking down the street with him, the two of us holding hands, our love for each other radiating outward, a glow around us. This dream lasted a block or so. Then there were thoughts about what to eat for dinner.

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