Coming home this evening, I looked to the north. The clouds were an astounding mix of lavender and grey surrounding the thrust of the tower of the cement factory, so stark, etched against the evening. Slightly west, still cloudy, the sky shone white hot against the grey, none of the reds of sunset here, just light. Hot white light to burn the eyes and soul in a body.
The day has been long. Productive but numbing in its infinite shifts and stumbles. Two auditions, one a talent I want to hire; the other someone so filled with her own brilliance she cannot perform; hadn't even the nous to correct herself with an "I'm sorry, I'll read that again" when fracturing a sentence beyond understanding. I have three more applications in: two men and one more woman but I'll deal with them on Monday.
Next week is already full. Interviews for Monday /Tuesday/ Wednesday afternoons. People calling and asking to be part of my show. And in between I need to pull a hundred songs and watch at least two films to do the reviews. And I need to record and produce another six hurricane hints. The show for tomorrow night is ready. Running order set, the features all pulled together and edited. Ahead of the game.
The new announcer will go solo tomorrow - without me there to hold her hand. I will be asleep. Dreaming sultry dreams of treasures deeply buried in my subconscious waiting to be routed into day. Or not dreaming at all. Tossing in a tangle of overheated sheets and pale green mesh that clings to sweat damp limbs like ivy, like fresh mown grass. The night is still, is hot and even moving just my fingers here, sweat pearls and slicks me down with salt, shorn hair doing its utmost to tendril on my nape. Perhaps I should let it grow and curl itself about and see just how draining total silver will be against my skin. I'll think on it - at least two weeks before I will feel the urge to rake it back down to my skull again.
I thirst. And hate the bland non-taste of water in my mouth. I yearn for spice, for tang and texture, not just thirst but hunger a need almost, for...what? I ate a meal, adequate if uninspired, drank tea, drank water, ate some cheese and still I feel an empty wantingness within. Or would that be a wanting emptiness? Semantics breed a world of trouble for us, words misused, misunderstood, destroy the world piecemeal. They could be the cement that makes us strong, cohesive, clinging one unto the other cleaving close, comfort in our grasp at last. Poor humans. Let's look north and see the clouds. There is such beauty in their grey-tinged lavender. I can almost smell its clean perfume.
This is to all those who think stripping is "demeaning to women."
So last night me and my crew landed in an ah *cough* Gentleman's Club *cough* and were enjoyin' the scenery and a couple o' brew.
Now one of my curious crew members asked one of the ladies how she was doin' tonight (money-wise). She replied $700 so far, pretty much an average night.
Later on we were standin' outside talkin' with one of the bouncers who informed us that these ladies can bring in upwards of $4000 in one night... thats a 5 to 6 hour shift people!
Now I get a flashback of my summer job back in the day. I got payed maybe $100 a day (that's 12 hours btw) for sucking blackwater (a very nice term for something that isn't nice) outta' boats. You tell me which job is demeaning.
Bottom line is:
- These girls are payed damn good money.
- They are treated with respect in the clubs.
- Just like any other dance, stripping is an art form that is becoming popular even in the world of fitness.
Sounds demeaning to me...
- Damage
I met this girl here that I really do care for. The problem with that is I have no ideal if see feels the same for me.I have not heard from her in days.I do not know maybe it is just me but I have no ideal on what I have to do.She may just be out of town or just avoiding me. I do not know she had said things to me that made me think that she cared also but I just wish I had a clue.I just do not know her profile from here is gone and I can't help but to feel sad why do people have to avoid why not just tell the truth. I just think it is unfair that people are that way and leave other people to just sit around and wonder if they sould feel the way they do
Este es un Aviso Importante a la gente del sudamericano que puede haber tenido o haber conocido [a Amigos, Familys o Parientes] en el Accidente de Aire muy triste todays en Brasil, de parte de mí y muchas personas de la Nueva Zelanda i y enviamos nuestro Condulences profundo a esta nación para su triste perdido en este frecuencia heriffic y tragedia.. Día Muy Triste. Condulence a toda Sudamérica.
Night’s Dark Caress
© 2007 All Rights Reserved
CreativeVibes
As I lay here waiting in the open, lying in earth mothers arms
I see it, feel it, smell it, sense it coming to engulf me in its dark mystery
I spread my arms, my legs to feel it completely through out me
Darkness, electric with sparks upon the deep black
I am not afraid of the deep dark, not me, not here, or anywhere
I am at peace here, tranquil in the warm, whispering, teasing breeze
Alert to all that can be fully sensed, felt, heard fully
Comforted, safe, yet feeling fully alive right to my soul
As in the arms of a long time lover, gently, passionately loving
And like a great lover that fully satisfies, I try to hold darkness
Fully knowing it must leave for my lover, Light
Dark’s mystery will return to me always, to caress, to hold, always
The day started with pain. A deep twisting cramp that doubled back upon itself, once, twice, again and left me to practise what I occasionally preach: don't fight the pain, just feel it. Surrender to it and embrace it, make it mine all mine to cherish and release. Five minutes this time. Not bad.
The pain is gone so now I get to look at why my body put me on the rack. What have I left undone, unattended? What thoughts have twisted in my head, not been untangled? What anger have I felt? What loss? What helplessness? Where have I criticised myself for being human? What resentment have I shouldered? And once I find the epicenter of this upheaval, how to I return to balance? Put it right?
I think the seed was planted while I watched the new announcer, listened to the wooden stumbling delivery and sought for words to say it gently, explain the things that I breathe: smile while you are talking, just tell a friend the information...tact is not my strong point though I have learned to bridle my tongue.
The seed was watered speaking to the sales team. Explaining how we can encourage and persuade our sponsors to put their names in places they would not normally consider. Greeted by blank looks and the oh so hated phrase "they always do it this way". When I did active sales my greatest joy was finding ways to fill my clients' needs in ways that expanded their application...and gave them more than they expected for the same money so they always came back to me the next time and I was able to enjoy more than just the hunt and the kill of closing I had creation as dessert.
The seed was fed and nourished later because i did not eat on time, locked into editing and writing, a small dark world that can become so airless, listening to one phrase back and forth...do I cut or do I keep it? can I edit in a breath here to smooth the flow, do I pervert the meaning if I remove this word that sounds like a strangled cat, the aftermath of my subject's coughing?
The seed burst into planthhood when I failed to take the time for me, the cushion where I sit and stare at nothing, seeing the world of my day parade through the halls of thought and decision. Instead I plunged into another pool and nearly drowned in echoes from the past dressing up in today's blue jeans.
Then this morning, as the tide of sleep swept out, the seed flowered into vivid scarlet streaks of pain. Even benign self-neglect carries an accounting. I will do better today.
a love song? Tell the secrets of the Universe in one fast chorus? What is it we seek so desperately that time cannot move quickly enough to fill our souls with food? Why is today the day we must have it all and more? Stuffing great chunks of life down fledgling throats tasting none of it along the way.
Buy silicone at thirteen, face lift at thirty, each man, each woman, flavour of the week discarded after just one bite like mangoes in the wake of monkeys. Where are we rushing to so quickly we can't take the time to meet, to get acquainted, take it slow and sensual milking each moment of all its promise? I know of only one eternal destination, the grave and worms - without cremation. All so eager to meet the everlasting dark we brush past day, past life, past people not even a good morning in the rushing; building in three years what used to take a lifetime to regret, full load of baggage and lost hope.
I shall not sing a love song, I shall cast my bread and sit and wait because I have found the fish always eat it.
Time is silent. Eons pass. Mind and matter come together and explode.
The Middle East, Greece, China. The founding and development of philosophy, art, law, religion, medicine, science and agriculture. The power of the collective--of society--takes hold around much of the world. The Shang and Zhou dynasties. The Roman Empire. Confucius. Democracy in Athens; military might in Sparta. The written, sacred story spins the wheel of history. Hippocrates, Democritus, Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. Buddhism, Hindu scripture. New powers, new struggles. Prolemaic cosmology, Galenic medicine. Then finally, at every level, conflict, war, then decadence and military excess. The bubble closes. The collapse of empire begins.
Again, a kind of silence descends. A great period of gestation. A harsh conformity to religious hierarchy weighs on the individual spirit. Turning and turning, time slows down. As consciousness dims, the memory of ancient civilizations drift into oblivion. With little sense of opportunity, life becomes a circle, repetition built upon repetition. Then, with all possibilities forgotten, a match strikes. A glow appears, dim at first. From the darkness, we step out into the Renaissance. Whoosh!
In a single year, the great modern physicist Galileo Galilei dies; the great modern physicist Isaac Newton is born.
"Enlightenment" has erupted, a celebration of possibilities, of building a towering utopia in which some people would be free from the punishing forces of nature and superstition.
Revolutions shake western Europe and America. The sheer force of the acceleration strips the moment of its vestiges of tradition, its shackles to "progress". Science is infused with adventure. Franklin's lightning rod, Whitney's cotton gin, Stephenson's locomotive, Morse's telegraph, Gatling's machine gun, Edison's light bulb, Bell's telephone, Benz's automobile, etc. A sudden shift in art and literature follows, a growing unease that the world is built of chaos. Gauss's non-Euclidean geometry threatens the unity of math and science; Stravinsky's "Rite Of Spring" prompts riots; Einstein crushes time and space; Joyce drags the novel into the river of consciousness. New freedoms are demanded, and reaped. And on July 20th, 1969, the old God Apollo is transformed into a modern back-slapping "good ol' boy" as Neil Armstrong takes one small step on the moon and nearly trips...
Where does the breakdown begin? Atomic bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Twenty some million dead in Europe after a democratically elected regime embarks upon a so called racial Crusade? "Ethnic cleansing"? In some forgotten moment, modernism withers. Another new era of recognition begins, a celebration of hybrids and pluralities, of ambiguity and doubt, of fragmentation and irony, of meaning in multiple meanings; of "Big Brother Speak". With a now familiar suddenness, society embraces the many parallel worlds through which reality forms and is experienced. There's a man behind the curtain and pulls the strings of the puppets and he wears no clothes. The lies are bigger each day and they are many: truth is not truth, but power. Instability is opportunity, time is ether, objectivity is subjectivity, knowledge is being, essence is existence, reality is story, stories are language, language is a game. Science is ideology, ego is DNA, humanity is flesh, flesh is nature, nature is technology, technology is us. We are machines. Futurism as an art movement may be "out of fashion" but it's ideas and symbols flourish... The dream dies, but the dreamer awakens into the nightmare world of the philosophies behind Futurism that once held so much promise ever speeding into the colourful future that now dimly appears as a mass graveyard....
No mail yet. No one interesting within 100 miles of me. The last thing that could have saved this site for me would have been some awesome forums!
They're not. It's all s*xual innuendo (bad, gross, raunchy innuendo at that!) and "Would you sleep with/kiss/make out with/drug/beat/maul the person above you?".
Sooo...I don't think I'll be sticking around here. I'm not into the bar scene, but I think I'll have much better luck there.
Granted, I haven't been here long, but...not impressed with the selection of males on here.
I did a search for guys within 50 miles of me, good span of ages, and got six pages of results. In those six pages I didn't find a single guy that interested me enough to write.
I hate to say I'm being too picky, because my requirements aren't many:
1. Have a picture. You can look like a space mutant, I just want to know that up front.
2. Be able to form a sentence.
3. Show a little originality!
The only thing I can think to do is resign myself to the possibility of a longer distance deal, and search farther out. I really don't know.