There is a sense of clarity about the world this morning, My Darlings. It's as if somewhere, something in the ether shot through, composed, and cleared up - above all that mess, above all that shit that's hanging over me, LOOMING over me like overgrown trees covering one of those old, Roman roads.

In the end last night, I ended up having dinner in the Gulfstream (I have the G150). 'Cause that's what you do when you have a fuckin' Gulfstream, you know? You eat in it, you sleep in it, you fuck in it, you hide out in it with all the drink and the drugs or the plain-ol'-oatmeal you need; it becomes as much your cocoon from the rest of the world on the ground as it is in the air. Something in there is protecting you, some kind of first-class, multi-million dollar aura for which you have to work your pretty little ass off to acquire and maintain.

Nights on the G150 have been known to comfort me like this - known, at least to me. I can sit there on the couch in just my favorite lemon panties, and do something to clear my head or my soul; I can paint, or compose, or just plain sit there and bawl my pretty-little-fuckin' eyes out to just myself as the ice-cooler whirls its suffocated little hum-hum-HUM in the background. I don't need the messy relationships which everyone wants to write about so much, the is-she-is-she-not phallic glance of the tabloid cameras as their big, ugly, cock-eyes peer into your soul and every time, take just a lil' more outta ya.

I had a conversation with this DJ I know. I like DJ's - they're not musicians, but they're sure creative. Maybe more pragmatic, 'cause they're just mixing, and not getting into the emotional heat of creating. He's a good DJ, anyway, a firstclassfuckinACT, right here under the palms in L.A. He knows how to make you move on the dancefloor, and for that, I often give him the benefit of the doubt about making my goddamn soul MOVE. (MOVE, MOVE LIKE THE WIND/I'M JUST SITTING HERE IN MY LEMON PANTIES AND MY GLASS OF LR, IN MY FUCKIN' G150, ya' know?) He told me that for great performance, a great hibernation was often necessary; a great sheltering from the rest of the world.

Because performance is soul-fuckin'-bearing crap, it's the fuckin' ether, and you have to worship at it's little baby altar, okay? It's for posts like this one that I love sharing this blog with you ...

I love You All, Really ...

Your Anonymous Celebrity 'x'

Comments

[ur new reader]

have fun :)