“The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery.” – Francis Bacon
Friends. Foes. Everyone in between. Welcome and salutations to another entry into the sick & twisted chronicles, celebrations, salacious travels, and secret adventures of a free-thinking, bohemian scoundrel (marooned in plastic-land) on the verge of a radical and stunning breakthrough. Indeed, to the meat.
Today, I scribe this from the dazzling white beaches of Aruba. The sun is high in the deep blue sky and a soft warm, southern breeze whispers softly through the vegetation. And next to me rests a sleeping vision of beauty. I met her last night in the hotel bar after we discovered each other admiring the same Basquiat painting. Her name is Ocean and she’s a design student from San Francisco. We had a few drinks, a few laughs, discussed politics, reality television, alternative music, the war, the U.S. economy, and then staggered to her room where a variety of sins were explored, examined, and exposed. If the Holy Roman Church were hip to our intimacies, I’m sure they would be aware of a few more we invented. But I digress.
Thanks to the recent activities of the California Supreme Court we plan to marry once we arrive back on the sweet shores of decadent L.A. It's going to be a grand ceremony, though private, filled with our closest friends and beloved family. A pagan priestess (of the ancient mystery schools) will perform the ceremony at sunset in the Temple of Kali in Malibu. The reception will last 14 hours and will be nothing short of pure Dionysian revelry! Ah, such a sweet vision is this! It's hard to calculate all the angles and edges and fully describe the beauty that surrounds me -- but I'll give it a shot! The sandy beach is blindingly white and sparkles like dazzling daytime fireflies crested in diamonds under the blazing eye of the mighty RA (er, sun). We are protected by a nesting of hanging nets beneath a Tunisian tent where we lounge on cushions and huge beach towels made of material so soft it could make an angel cry. My beloved paramour sleeps softly beside me. Her dreaming head is delicately covered by the softness of her long, brown locks. Her body is hard and bronzed by the sun. After a few sips of my sparkling water and OJ, I remember that my fingers are supposed to be tickling the keys of my laptop and not running down the length of her spine. (That’s where my lips belong).
Wait. Actually, none of this is true. This was just another trip into the many divergent realities that invade and infect my creative consciousness from time to time. Call it fun with imagination, call it Law of Attraction, call it hopes and dreams empowered by art that will someday manifest itself into being.
In truth, I write this from the sterile confines of a hospital bed. Forgive me if the content begins to get a little sloppy, but the painkillers are kicking in and my vision is starting to blur. Now, don’t worry, it’s nothing too serious — just a broken collarbone, shattered elbow, and badly burned left hip. Some of you may or may not know that I am an amateur rocket builder. I find the science of thermodynamics and aeronautics fascinating. Well, two nights ago I put the finishing touches on a rather secretive project I’ve been working on for the last five years. Without revealing too much, I can tell you that it’s sort of a personal flying vehicle that runs primarily on vegetable oil, solar circuitry, and bovine excrement. The initial test flights were successful and the level of excitement I felt was indescribably intense. I mean, we’re talking about revolutionizing travel for every single soul on the face of the planet here!
Well, I packed my assistant’s van with everything we would need and sped out to the desert. We arrived in the late afternoon, made camp, and set up our test sight. We slept hard and fast, elevated by the anxiety and excitement of the pending test flight, among the wild things that inhabit this strange wilderness. I woke in the early hours of dawn and began initial flight preparation. Everything seemed perfect and well planned. I stood on the makeshift launch pad, with this sleek contraption strapped on my back and around my waist, and gave the thumbs up. But someone on my team must’ve blended the fuel mixture improperly because once the ignition button was pressed, the damn thing exploded like a Tijuana firecracker. Part of the craft did launch and scream into the substratus. Unfortunately, it was the part that was attached to me.
So here I was, strapped to a flaming machine of molten metal, my face and neck splattered with burning bovine excrement, hurtling through the air at 900 miles-per-hour over the east California desert. It soared high and long and then sputtered and dropped. I came to a rather hard landing among a bushel of barbed vegetation and a huge cactus plant that ripped the shirt right off my back. As bad as I got it, I made out much better than my assistant who, because of his proximity to the exploding vegetable oil, will never have eyebrows or be able to grow a proper beard ever again.
Actually, this, too, is a deception. I’m just fine and was not involved in a small rocket explosion. To be clear, I am in Los Angeles, sitting at a restaurant called Lulu’s on Beverly Blvd, in the cold, sipping coffee and eating blueberries. The rain has stopped, but the clouds are still there, blocking out the solar god we all worship and love here in the City of Angles.
Well, they are closing now and the busboy is starting to crowd me with his stares to get up and leave so he can get the hell outta here. I forgot that this place closes at 4 p.m. Wait, no it doesn’t. They changed that policy and now are open for dinner. Then why the hell is this bastard mad-dogging me like I’m some kind of outlaw degenerate? Maybe he wouldn’t stare so much if he was busy counting his teeth on the floor. This chair I sit on is heavy enough and would cause quite a lot of damage to the side of a cranium or jaw line. Okay, well, he was actually just waiting to refill my coffee for me. I guess I shouldn’t be so defensive and aggressive. But, hell, it’s a dangerous city out here. It’s the kind of beautiful and seductive cesspool that swallows the meek, chews them to bits, and spits out the rest. Damn right. It will crunch your bones to jelly if you let it. This place is definitely not for the weak or uninspired. Some of my distant relatives that live in smaller places in and around this great nation like to rib me with their slight insults saying, “Oh, Otep, you’re so LA.” And I look back at them with a gleam in my eye, knowing with pride just what it takes to thrive and survive here, and say, “Thank you.”
“Are we the shepherd or the sheep? The Butcher or the Meat” — Yours Truly
But I digress. None of this really means anything and none of it matters in the grand cosmic scheme of it all. But, by now, this is what you should expect of this blog: my thoughts, my soul and opinions. Or maybe it isn’t. Tomorrow I might wake up with something else completely in mind.
But this, my friends, is the best part of the ride.
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