‘Round Midnight (27. I Eat, therefore I am Meat.)

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Three nights with CST+, and White Chocolate should be a let-down.

Never.

It’s the hottest funk band I’ve ever heard. The best part is that it’s low stress for me. I play. I boogie. I have some fun. The three A’s bop at my feet.

Hot cubed.

Although I’m a founding member, I’ve always let Benita run the group. Now my days in it are numbered. Two months on tour. Two weeks each at Newport and Montreux with another month in Europe. One week on The Late Show. Six in DeRon’s band, not to mention two weeks recording CST in NYC, another two with DeRon, and two with Gus, back in Chicago.

That’s seven months on the road.

Five months left over for Jimmy (and my sanity). Stacey’s good, but she doesn’t draw like me. Vic and Pete are really her band – they’re hot, and then there’s O’Leary. It doesn’t matter who is behind him. People will want to hear him. He’s not a leader, but he is freakin’ magic, as long as the drinking stays under control.

Jimmy says I’m welcome forever. Whenever I’m in town.

Akira will travel with me part of the time. Asami may follow outside of the opera and symphony seasons. Aoki plays less, but they have a string quartet tour, too. Not the best way to nurture relationships.

What relationships?

The love quartet.

Oh, that. Yes.

As devoted to Asami as I am, and the other two, I’m not “in love.” Asami knows it, and that’s all that matters. She and Akira and take out their pent up sexuality on each other. That leaves Aoki and me to figure something out and commiserate. For what it’s worth, I think Aoki might be crushing on Etienne, who no longer crushes on me.

I think he’s afraid of me.

Besides, I don’t do relationships with band members. Tease, yes, but nothing romantic. That was the secret that kept our group together with O’Leary. The Zip episode was long before CST, and Yorick never happened.

I miss him.

Yorick phoned after masses this morning. He’s busy and hasn’t touched his bass. Asami phoned Gino’s East for after the gig, feeding my addiction to pepperoni pizza – trying to keep me from drifting away in a light breeze. She’s sleeping on my couch now. I’m staring at the ceiling again. Too much floating around in my head right now.

I will miss the red catsuit and the wig. I will miss Asami’s warm body next to me, just being there, not doing anything. I wish she would come in, but she won’t, and I won’t get her hopes up. Is it hers that I will miss or just anyone’s?

Hers.

Yes. Hers. She inspires me. I’m feeling suddenly raw now. Uncooked.

Raw meat.

Planet Ezzie (30. The Ticking Clock)

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I swam in the middle my sea today. I wanted to see what it was like. It was still fresh water then, but now I see that I have made it a salt water ocean. I have personally provided the salt. You would have thought that my sweat would be insignificant in an ocean, but I’m not human. It started as a green-tinged soup and cleared as I swam. I watched it happen. The salt had a way of purifying it, killing certain organisms, fertilizing others. That must be what happened in my moon pool.

I almost said lunar there, but that refers to Earth’s crazy dead moon with a face on it. It’s interesting that there aren’t any craters here. It seems that this void is much cleaner. My dead moon is mostly solid rock. There is some erosion, small rocks and fissures, from the heat of the sun and lack of atmosphere.

Oh yes. I went there. I don’t need to breath, and I’m immune to solar radiation. I’m a spirit, remember?

I am NOT human. NOT, NOT, NOT. That realization brings with it a certain amount of sadness and perhaps a little anger. I liked being human, being fallible. Can I be wrong? I don’t know. There is no one to judge me here, perhaps anywhere. Mistakes aren’t the same as being wrong. I’m still new at this. I will forever be new at it.

It is raining somewhere.

On that fateful night when I lost my humanity. I brought the rain, the lightning, the thunder. I did it. I can do it again. I’m doing it now. It is raining outside, I think. Yes. It is. I just looked. I can tell these thoughts horrify Tommy. I don’t think in all his lives that he has ever seen me like this. He fears his vulnerability. He fears my fear. I could do something that destroys him. I could pop this orb that he lives in. Don’t doubt me Thomas. I won’t intentionally do something to hurt you. Of course, intentionally is the operative word.

I’m procrastinating.

I’m almost through my first week of being undead. I feel more alive than I ever have. I am the source of life itself. I have only another week before Beatrice returns to the orchestra. She’ll slowly destroy it, by enslaving all the men, and deluding all the women. It won’t stop with the orchestra. Then there will be the audience, and it will spread like a pandemic.

That’s why I’ve come back today. I need to find some weakness in her armor. She would notice if I tried to squeeze back into her … MY … body. The henna, it seems it was only a temporary fix, an impediment.

Intuition tells me that I must become me again: crazy Ezzie, obsessive, sex-obsessed, off the wall, accident-prone, accidental mystic. I can’t see how I can do that without my flawed body. Were the brown hair and eyes, flat chest, and the inability to ever gain weight a sort of flaw? My spirit-body in Orbville is a little fuller. It’s the perfect version of me. I’m not going to name it Orbville. I’ll leave that for its eventual inhabitants.

I’m different now.

I know too much. I’ve figured out too much about my role in the universe, or universes, actually. I know there are more than two. I’m sure I have made an endless number of mistakes, and each world edifies the next. One learns by making mistakes, and I’ve made many.

I’ve popped some of the previous orbs. Forgive me.

I’m the only one who can travel between orbs. Tommy and Thaddeus can’t follow me. They exist only in Earth’s universe. The orbs are inside of my consciousness. I dare not count them. I dare not visit. Do I exist in them? Maybe God is dead for them, or Goddess, or Gaia.

Do I exist within another being?

Beatrice is just another spirit, but not like me. She is a prisoner like the others. I created her. I could kill her, but not without consequences.

I could kill my body before she procreates. That is the last resort for fixing the situation.

If I allow her to procreate? Pop. That is the humane solution.

The clock is ticking.

My ashen heart

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Boiling, toiling
the world spins with want,
dissatisfaction.

Carnal fire within consumes
all rational thought
becoming need.

Where is the soul that quenches,
the burning flesh transformed
to the pure spiritual?

My marrow smolders black,
blood scalding hope,
desire drenched by desertion.

Absence darkens love,
obscures the craving,
of my ashen heart.