The last seven posts are the start of my new novel, Silver. A supernatural romance, the basic plot derives from Ligeia by Edgar Allan Poe. The underlying theme will be an homage to literature. The novel after that will be an homage to painting, completing my artistic series of novels.
The words illuminated in the ancient tome were obscure, heady, lost. In the deep gloom of my library, the page seemed to glow, as though a fire might suddenly erupt from within the thick paper. I began to intone the syllables represented, struggling with the pronunciation of unfamiliar expressions, striving to capture the feelings evoked by each demonic letter. A mist seemed to fill the open space surrounding my desk. I closed my eyes, swimming in the opiates of infectious dreaming. I would have her. I would bring her back to life.
I long ago lost count of the concerts I have attended. I am proud to have seen many of the best bands in the world, at the time, in my estimation, but a few truly define my joys. I sat on the lawn as Stevie Ray Vaughn played one summer night with only a few hundred others in attendance. I survived the savage push of the Ramone’s mosh pit on a rowdy Saturday night at Hammerjacks in Baltimore. I listened and watched in awe, mesmerized to the Cure’s Disintegration show, tripping balls. And that’s just the tip of my live music iceberg. The years keep rolling by.
I sat in the dark hall, head in my hands, despairing. A cold wind rustled the long drapes, leading the golden figures embroidered upon them in a sinister dance of death. My breath escaped painfully, broken by furious sobs of grief. As Silver lay dying, I thought I perceived a shadow, a glimmer, a floating red spot rising and drifting away. The journey would begin this very night. Time was of the essence. Silver would have to be found, again.
Silver left the dance floor in the flow of a transitioning crowd and mounted one of the four foot speakers flanking the DJ, her long legs doubly exposed under the all-too-short plaid skirt, a bright flash of white satin erupting in each sway of her lean hips. The music ascended to make the place throb and she danced, mesmerizing a growing throng of admirers, necks craned to capture each flashing glimpse of her undulating curves.
I’ve never been a good boy. It isn’t in my nature. I’m generally a generous person but that derives from my arrogance. I’m better than most so I need less than most. But I have no respect for authority and I like to stir up trouble. I believe in the sensible, the reasonable and the passionate. I enjoy my pleasures and I like to think, even about things that don’t really matter. I’m analytical and apathetic. I breathe poetry. I have sexual encounters that last for weeks, endlessly teasing, forever exciting.
A rough calculation tells me that I have engaged in more than 30,000 individual sessions of sex with another person or persons. There was a year, between my first and second marriages when I had none at all but that is the only break I’ve endured since I entered adulthood. Through all those episodes, there is very little I haven’t tried. Very little I haven’t enjoyed. Sex rocks.