Guest blogger! "Creature of the motherfuckin' night" by The Artist Futurely Known As Scitari

I am a creature of the motherfuckin' night. Come fly with me for a
weekend and I'll take you from nirvana to Narnia and back again. My
playground is the places your mommy told you never to go. From urban
deserts of condemned warehouses and decrepit carnicerias springs the
nightlife you dream about, the dream life you can step into.

On warm and windy fall nights, the air fills with electricity. The
wind whispers to you, stirring soul, suggesting that the city
breathes. I found its lungs. Wash off the shallow dirt, peel back the
celebrity skin, pluck past the thick veins of traffic and crawl
through the constrictive social muscles.* On a street so abandoned it
is void of trash and bums, the space between the new warehouses on the
left and the old on the right is filled only with the orange-purple
street light and a distant hum. I look up the street, I look down.
There is light and laughter pouring out of a single open door. While I
intended that last description literally, I am pleased with its
metaphorical power. Inside, friendly faces smile, bathed in red and
pink and yellow light. There is disproportionate amount of women
wearing catsuits this evening. A fervent blues band wails away, led
by a short, mod-clad Japanese man, featuring Captain Morgan on the
synth. We plod up an ancient staircase approaching a gallery and I
flashback to several months ago when this same space was bathed in
blue light and filled with writhing ravers. Ascending to art, I am
pleasantly surprised, as usual. The faces of my fellow patrons snap
into recognition: I know him; I recognize her; oh hello love, how have
you been! This industrial abyss fosters and feeds the love and
creativity of this community, perhaps the urban equivalent of our
primordial playa.

I spent that night, as I am spending many more, flitting between
forgotten brick oases and nondescript storefront portals- rabbit holes
and wardrobes. Each externally desolate and internally, home. I am
submerged in the underground Angeles bloodstream, learning its flow
and suckling its spiritual nourishment.


* I'll constrict your social muscle, baby.
_________

It starts as a normal night in a club: I arrived too early,
cologne-drenched men asked my name, I simultaneously gagged on and
celebrated the bartender's generosity with bitter well vodka. But
this is no ordinary scene. There were fifteen fellow patrons in the
red-glowing cavern and I knew someone, someone I admired for her
independence and absolutely fucking contagious spirit. She hugged me
hello and hugged my friend nice to meet you. We didn't make small
talk- we talked about real things. My companion stared, befuddled by
the embrace of a stranger. "Oh shit, I have to dance to this" and
bounce bounce, she was gone, a solo pillar of soul swaying in the
middle of a floor for fifty.

Live vocals and guitar melt through wires and cords and illuminated,
silver-bound fruit. Bodies fill the room as the bpm slowly increases.
My foot starts to tap, the last of my drink chills my throat, my ass
starts to shake on my stool. Pop! the music had penetrated. I am
lured into the vibrating arms of the speakers, to the fluid spaces
between babes with pink mohawks and software engineers wearing shorts.
And black socks. And white sneakers. I'm wearing black socks… on my
arms… which are making hindi swirls around my head. Djs evolve from
tattoos to green fedoras to um, that hood that Death wears. The music
ebbs to a near halt, then rises slowly taking my emotions on its
thumping roller coaster. Just when you think that, just when you're at
the edge, it takes you higher. The fucking Dj grins in delight, he
knows you wanted it. Then he unleashes the drop upon you, the
sustained audio-orgasm filled with glee and energy. I jump, sweat from
my hair line splashes. Gepetto on the tables swings his free hand over
his earphoned head, manipulating the crowd like a master puppeteer,
strings of soul connect his groove to the limbs of enthralled dancers.
I'm powerless in his scratching hands, having reached the state of
clarity that only hours booty-rockin' breaks bring me. Recently, I
spent two days at a Buddhist monastery in a Japanese holy land. Every
time we meditated, clearing my mind only filled it with luscious
pornography. But make my body shake with bass dirty, bass gritty, bass
wompy- and it's the only time my stewing mind is clear. It slows down,
purifying to slutty wompy bass and the occasional lick of sampled
lyrics. It feels like the deep bass notes of the universe are being
blasted upon (unleashed from?) my soul, it makes me smile and sweat
and my ass gyrate near the floor. Each inhuman lyric repeats
occasionally, with long strands of undulating non-music noise between.
Each repetition of words sends me further into nothingness. Om
shanti, meditating deeper with each evolution. Om shanti, body and
bliss alone. Om shanti, womp.