Episode Details

“Secret Passages”

I couldn't wipe the image of Joel out of my head; I had been cisited in my dreams by just about everyone I had been writing about of course, lately—though I hadn't particularly been writing about anyone or anything at all, at least enough that it would believe me to coincide with any of my dreams—but it was rarest of all to have a dream about Joel, and even though I had spent hours consciously and unconsciously listening to his music, he would rarely show up in my dreams at all—perhaps because I did my best not to pay him, his career, or his presence at all too much attention; I kept myself from really exploring his celebrity persona as much as I had allowed myself to with anyone else; indeed, Joel to me has become just such as a shadow figure, his deadmau5 my imaginary friend, and after what had happened with Sonny, and nearly again with Dillon, I obstinately shielded myself from Joel, whoever he was or might have been besides deadmau5, who had been one of the masters in my choice of study anyway, for years now— I did as little research on the actual man a human and humanely possible, often skirting around the minicule details of whatever came forth in the crevices of something I needed to know; how a certain sound was made, a plug in I might have been able to get my hands on- or even, hardware I might one day be able to afford. I had become ibsessed with synthesizers, knowing that to achieve the sound I wanted, I would have to spend time in a room much like Joel's studio—a place, of course, I never had envisioned my actual self in, but had projected to build a world where someday I might even have a studio of my own. Still, here I was, sexually charged after two days off with a sedentary roommate—which meant I had been unable to forge any kind of sexual release for just about 38 hours, a dangerous mark for the beast like Goddess who felt trapped inside me; it had been years since my last actual sexual experience—and even longer since the last satisfactory one—and now, just a week into my 30th year the raging hormones found their way into a painful and prudent sexual energy in all sorts of ways—from the attention I attracted at the gym—unwanted attention at best—but still attention that made its way into building up into a painful wedge inside my body that no amount of lifting, crunches, or machine could seem to penetrate—the frustration typically settling into some other confusing form of emotion, a sexual tension that I knew only the touch and shape of a man could take from me.

I knew immediately that it was the Eye of Desire that looked at Joel—and though my dream the night before hadn't been sexual at all—which I at least remembered, frustrated by being unable to remember anything about the dream at all besides Joel, particularly his face—and upon waking, it couldn't shake the thought on him from my mind. I knew undoubtedly that my cellibacy was to blame for the onslaught of fantastical creations my mind would bring about in the form of fantasy for Sonny, Dillon, or Joel respectively—and though I found myself quite captivated and attracted to Joel, it was by complete accident that I had found myself to be so. It was all Beyond out of my control, anyway, but I found myself excruciatingly angry to have been allowed by some cosmic wave to become so attracted to these men—this figures, musical icons, celebrities—the legends of a culture I felt so strongly attached to and apart of, made out to be Godlike creatures — and they were. Whatever threshold they had crossed to ascend into the upper realms and into an entirely seperate dimension from my own, I realized I, too, wanted to cross—and perhaps it wasn't just the fame supposed riches (as by now I knew that one's status did not always reflect financial health or stability—that bankruotcy was in fact a thing, and that everything, especially in the world of wealth, is not always as it seems), or celebrity status of these fig