287 days.
Yesterday the largest solar flare since I began writing in 2003 exploded from the surface of the sun. An X5 from AR1429. It blanketed the Earth with solar radiation. Tonight, the Full Moon rises as Spring temperatures settle upon the land.
Between this cosmic chaos is my person. Guided for years down the lunar path by Diana, fueled by the solar self inside my father's son. On the day of birth belonging to my own personal Kali, an ex from my previous life.
I felt confidence, pure undiluted self-worth, the other night and embraced the power that comes with it. The next night I went out for drinks with a fellow agent, I mean writer, and laughed myself to sleep drunk on mirth and merriment, actual human connection. Also isolation.
Last night I dropped by Union Pool to see Dead Stars rock out on stage. Johnny, a contact from Botanica, a bar I often used as a safe house while battling the final chapters of my first book, played bass and exploded with vibrant energy as the radiation engaged the entropy all around us.
I kept to myself, now sporting a pustule upon my face, obviously some karmic punishment for the aforementioned confidence, sticking to the side, sipping my cheap whiskey. I tried not to care but the structure was shaken.
Tonight I buy some extra strength Clearasil and transport seventeen year old me into my body as I rock out to Scott Klopfenstein, formerly of Reel Big Fish, a band I came into the city as a suburban teenager to dance my ass off to at Irving Plaza. I introduce myself and let him know that songs he wrote went on every mix cd for every girl I ever loved.
The atmosphere weeps gently as I climb into bed, silk Snoopy pajamas on, the BQE rumbling by, my roommate desecrating a 20 year old Dominican girl with condoms I provided. The mushrooms take effect and I collapse inside myself.
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