The Soul's Ichor

what do you want out of life?

I think I'm actually pissed off enough to answer this question. None of my usual wishy-washy complacency and indifference. What do I want?

I want to live in a city where I have a favorite dive bar and a favorite dance club because there are enough to choose from. I want to work hard for things I find rewarding -- I want my theater to be tangible and I want people to see what I do and I want it to make them THINK. I want it to make them FEEL. I want them to hate me for it and still be unable to drag themselves away.

I want to be consumed and devoured by love that is seethed through teeth like rage.

I want people to be not afraid of being angry.

I want to publish my book, damn the consequences of all the secrets being leaked, and any lies I told exposed. I want people to know my name, but never know my face. I want it to stir up enough shit that they give me a second book deal, and I can go on another adventure -- I want to go on an adventure that ISN'T fueled by love or infatuation with a person. I want to decide where I'm going by what train leaves closest to the time I get up, or go to sleep.

I want to live in Casablanca with Jessie, and lie in fields outside the city and smoke and write poetry and not have to worry about whether or not we're going to make the rent this month. I want to live in Argentina with her, on the top floor in the middle of the city, with no air conditioning on the hot winter nights, I want to spit venomous lines at each other in our fury at no one and and everything.

I want to make music when I can with people who are dedicated enough to sit down and practice with me. Who will work out the lyrics with me.

I want to add fire to this dull gray world we're living in.

Most of all, I want to laugh in an evening gown on some rich pretentious asshole's yacht; I want them all the compliment me, and tell me how fabulous I am. And I want to be laughing because of how they'll never know, never realize how cruel I am, how I'm exposing their idiocy and hypocrisy in my work. I want to publish their stories with changed names, changed dates, some changed places, with just enough truth left for them to think maybe its about them, but not be sure enough to ask me or the other people involved in that particular tale.

Ahora es tiempo para todo el mundo comer mi justicio.

This shit has flatlined, the exclamation has been uttered. Fuck you, I'm not living for you anymore. I'm living for me. Fuck your cause. I don't give a good goddamn.