G’s Favorite Inventions

“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 figures which had persuaded the fickle and fragile sexual beast from its chambers— the the remarkable and distinguished amount of intelligence it takes to create such that I found as masterpieces of art, and even—encapsulated pieces of history, coded and decoded extra terrestrial knowledge of space, time, and conciousness—folded neatly into the precise and profound heartbeats, breaks, and melodies I found as guiding light. Joel was different—and though his deadmau5 had found it's way into my concious bbeing perhaps even just before Skrillex, it would be a long time before I actually paid it any attention or gave it any depth—now, fast forward some 15 years and every little thing I had taken in of the man had started to unravel in my mind and make sense, only met with the frustration of my aging and own sexuality rapidly re-emerging— I found it irritating to be so deeply attracted to someone whose music I had grown an attachment to; it was his body type that played on inclinations I had kept since my youth and had yet to be shaken; I had always preferred slim and sleek, perhaps because I had always been quite the opposite—however, now—having shaped my body body into a delicate and veluptous very womanly figure—but there were greater questions lurking in my psyche—what made up this triple-threat of figures, none of whom I would have been drawn to or found considerately attractive, let alone even been made aware of—if it weren't for music. I had discovered upon leaving my marriage—no matter how fragile and broken my mind might have been—that my sapiosexuality, as I would learn later it was called, had become the driving force in what dominated what I was attracted to—-and though I had left my marriage beaten, battered, and subconsciously or even quite actively, just needing to be plunged with the biggest possible dick I could find, I settled somewhere between the alluring call of “The Saviour's Syndrome”, a case of what may have been open-ended Stockholm, and of course— my aversion to anything black or brown, which I blamed predominately on my own pseudo-scientific theory of “Genetic Attraction”, a theory which focuses on the concious and subconscious sexual attraction which acts as a resistance to pass on certain genetic traits or the effect of such traits—being attracted to one thing or another, an evolutionary phenomenon within our species which progresses our evolution by varying gene pools into post-raciality; Personally speaking, my own resistance to pass on skin that would be considered “too dark” to be considered ideal, and although the standards of beauty by the media's eye had given us all the illusion of change and inclusivity—I found that even so, the darkest skinned girls were always in the back—even in media that was black-owned and black-operated—the colorism within the black community making their blatent preference of “light skins” so apparent that to be so sexually attracted to another dark-skinned person for be became impossible—and as my sexuality continued to bloom Ali bf side my biological function to successfully procreate and give birth to offspring which would excel and surpass the greatest of achievements, perhaps it was this Genetic Attraxtion which created this conundrum of circumstance that I now found myself in; having left a marriage because I had to, and wanting nothing more than to be remarried—having my unchangably crucial run-in with Sonny/Skrillex at the peak of its breaking point, still in the fragile enough state of mind that though I had finally fallen out of love with Jon, who aroused me not only with the sweet softness of his voice, his dark and broken heart, his long hair, dreamy brown eyes, and sleek, skinny frame—his sweet kisses, bold gestures, and striking charisma— his teaching spirit, clever inventions, and bizzare kinks and fetish es, all of which had decimated and bedazzled me into a frazzled heap of unrequited love and desire that would last years, finally culminating in a suicide attempt—of course, not because of him, really, just a lack of love itself, the menacing and manipulation, mind games and psychological torture which had resulted from my final withdraw from my marriage—an attempt to move acros town and split custody 50/50, or rather 60/40–and my ex's insecurity and small pride creating the barrier bwreeen one timeline and another, the obstacle course for which I would have to maneuver to break myself free from whatever loveless curse it was—and of course, just two weeks later—entering what I would one day consider to be called the realm of the dead, where I met Sonny, and his Skrillex began to fall away into pieces at the foundation—with Love at the helm, and the rest of the story to be unfolded with time. I had never cared much for deadmau5, and only considered myself a fan after learning to mix house music, which everyone seemed to be making, and though I had always really wanted to make dubstep, even engineering my own drama and tastes into a sub genre, “Surfatep”, which Would Merge the beloved sounds of the classic and surf rock that I found myself drawn to from an early age— with the grunge and dubstep that I would later find to pique my interest via Rusko, and later even Skrillex, as I became emerged into the rave culture and dance music—in those days, the only “black girl” to be seen for miles anywhere amongst the often exclusive crowds of the DJ world, which I nearly as quickly excited as I had entered, disregarding my own tastes for those of my ex's, whom I had met at age 19, and still over 300 or so pounds, malleable, not quite changing my own taste to fit his, but putting my preferences aside—EDM became my guilty pleasure, something I would listen to alone, or with friends. Now, as I sidelined nearly anything I was interested in at all to offset my google algorithm from eating me alive, I tried to wrap my mind around Google never listing either Skrillex, Dillon, or Joel under the “Influenced By” column, curiosities in my mind boggling my very inquisitive senses, that seemed to create quite the uncomfortable itch —as perhaps was any of thier music was programmed to do; hypnotize me—the opposite sex— into wanting and needing sex with them—‘need' being an exaggerative term for the inibility I found to become attracted to or settle for anything “less”, Sonny having set the bar high, but by now having noticed that it wasn't just status, fame, wealth, materials, or even the ability to create music that I loved—the attraction respectively to any man had to have had something to do with the vibration, which of course translated indefinitely into the music they created—but the incredible circumstance was this; that either way, I found myself to be genetically attracted to their bodies, and not just thier minds—realizing that I often wished for them as peasants such as I—a complete impossibility, as the energies which they had embodied were inevitably destined for all of the attention, fame, wealth, and status that each of them had garnered—today, it was Joel that created the blossoming atrocity in my depths that rendered me illusive to the world, an almost useless center of energy which at the very least has pursued es me into breaking the cyclical patterns that had been trapping me in circles since arriving at the Raddison, another establishment which had left me fighting with empathy, and though it had in itself presented a massive opportunity for recovery, i had still becomes ravaged with a mild depression, struggling with time management and of course, bad finances. It had been weeks now that I struggled to find the focus and energy I knew was needed to thrive—it was hours away to any reputable gym, and though I fixated on training early enough in the day to be able to do whatever I wanted or needed with the rest of it, I never had the energy to be up and out by 5 AM as I wanted; in fact, it seemed no matter what i did, I was being drained of my energy—as If like gasoline my power was being siphoned with a hose; I searched everywhere for motivation, to no avail. Suddenly I was back online; I had perceptively re-attached my belied that “gym every day” and “gym every other day” were entirely two different worlds, and so had pressed myself to find somewhere to go urgently, as the Sun was already beginning to set on another new York day, once which I hadn't even seen—it had been a tubulent night before, full of dreams I couldn't decipher, awakened by the high pitch ringing of an off kilter fire alarm, and awoken from a deep sleep even through the sanctity of my earbuds by my roommate taking on the phone—something I often let slide, but this morning had awoke with a fiends anger; she had disrupted my peaceful rest too much entirely with her blatent laziness, and this morning inwas indeed miserably irritable. I hated being back online, but I was looking for something, it seemed—I didn't know why. Usually, the odd remix, a free sound pack, or even an automated email from Dillon Francis's marketing team, which nonetheless would usually put a smile on my face—but today, it was at least a laugh, if even from my very own self that prompted me to do something I would have never normally even done—open an email from LinkedIn, which I hated almost as much as any other social media— maybe even more—but the opening lines of a post by Insomniac, which had been lingering on the forefront of my mind for annundertermined amount of time, however long enough for it to be a spectacle; the Insomniac Logo itself at times standing out to me more so than just fade into the background of my mind, the ink on my upper wrist for some reason a sacred marker I would most the time forget was there, but lately handy quite been able to. “A message from the founder…” blah blah blah—something about Pasquale Rotella, who I had become moderately obsessed with, or at least intrigued by, after a final lesson in frequenting the front row of any MainStage had resulted in seeing one another almost eye to eye, had I not just purchased a pair of beautifully rhinestone embellished hombre-tinted sunglasses, to replace the ones I had originally worn to go with my outfit, that has broken just moments before—glasses I had worn to hide the monsterous streams of crocodile tears fitting for the swamplike backdrop of the strange and unamusing EDC Orlando, at which I worked quite dillegently and desperately to lay get the beginning of The Festival Project—which had, admittedly after the latest run-in with Sonny/Skrillex, taken a formidable hault, if not entire backseat, as my emotions and spirituality collided into the smoldering dumpster fire of obsirdity and confusion, which I at least hoped Skrillex would find to appease his Quest. I giggled, as I had always found Pasquale to be hilarious—some sort of keeper of secrets, the ringmaster of the world's circus — a gatekeeper to the great unknown: a time traveler of remarkable wit—I scoffed at having to enter a password, and enter a security code: I hated being back online, but here had given myself purpose; hopefully the passage would inspire something greater than just to middle my insecurities frittering away my day writing about the music producers I had dreamed up—a posthumous and unforgiving Hell in which the only thing I craved were men I couldn't touch—a wasteland of invariable differences, influenced and inapired by life itself and yet underhandedly taught the mastery of such by those of which I fawned for; Here I was, chasing my fleeting dream like a kite in the sky, perhaps even with Rotella himself at the spindle. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.