(stream of consciousness during Electric Ladyland II at Anthology)
4/8/12 6:50pm
Dear Anthology,
I hate your guts and all the surroundings. It would have been EXTREMELY helpful if the girl on the phone had said I can buy some tickets at the door, but not the ones I want and they will be much more expensive. Oh, and a warning that your staff is rude would have been helpful too.
I don’t understand why every time I come here “upstairs is closed.” Last time they told me I had been “upgraded” to the bar lounge. It’s not an upgrade. I Hate the bar. I can’t see, there’s a flashing tv, and it’s freezing.
The music is wonderful but I’m having a really hard time sitting here.
—
I LOVE the music. It breaks free the broken pieces of me.
Your music is the sound of feelings, the color of magenta bold. It braids my brain.
Open my mouth to breathe.
Juicy Fruit gum.
Bandaid for a Brain Bleed. There should be a song called that.
If I were defusing a bomb, I’d like to be listening to this. It snakes though my brain grabbing wisdom.
“Braised bacon” does NOT taste like bacon.
Is there such a thing as an electric banjo?
When the channel is open the feelings are mobile. They dance in the air.
Oh, such color.
When you play, the dots float in the air. You make the dots and they float and dance. And everyone’s dots are a different color, like neurons and atoms. Yours are purple. Mikan’s are yellow. They float upward and build on each other. Voices are twisting bending lines. Everything up in the air. It is an electric ballet.
When the green man sings I hear you play JP’s love. I don’t know why. It is a loving pain that spins to become free.
Brings a warm smile to me.
Shut up, people. Love is made here. The dots disappear.
Pink!
What is that sound? Like a thought bent by riding the train…
Fluid thoughts are much prettier than crooked ones. As actual bacon is better than braised. And jalapenos shouldn’t taste like pickles. Pickled or not.
It is the red dots that get in the way.
Like cat food for the soul.
The music of brown carpet & hugs.
Must dance.
(big smile) I want to be in the dots as they turn orange.
Breathe it in.
Shut up you pre-clappers…
Let the dots fall slowly.
New dots caused raindrops, clear the truth.
I hear the sound of a heartbeat when it cries. Alone.
The texture of the taste of dark red.
Memory full.
Sometimes it is beautiful. And it is nothing else.
(goosebumps)
Michael Londra. That’s what it is.
Too many dots. TOO MANY DOTS!
(whooooo…)
Hummingbird-like dragon makes magic cat food dots for dancer’s soul.
Yes, I like it.
I rock and hum so they don’t explode in me.
(hug from -. “Glad to see you out, smiling.” me too)
Hard to hear Jamie’s awesome solo. When the wall turned blue, the music got softer.
Drum solos always get me.
The dots are like bubbles but don’t fall and take longer to pop.
My cells jump inside me! Aaaaahhhh!
Space Mountain jumping music. :)
(my candle went out – smoke)
The pink is over my soul and the train sounds outside. I love trains.
Smile in the night.
The sound is shiny.
Thank you, God.
Need to bounce! Happy comes when the candle is out.
The music is in my face.
The music IS my face.
She begs to make the orange. (big smile)
Hey, now. Don’t drop the orange ball.
Thank you, Electric Ladyland. Thank you, Jamie.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2012
Writing Towards Happy 
