gurgling cow nectar

milk. foam. shots. pitchers. sinks. citrus bread. hot water in a paper cup on a counter with steam billowing from its mouth like smog from a sick factory. ahem: I (nicolas hartzell of oh voices Fame) was steaming a small pitcher of gurgling cow-nectar (yes milk) for a balding man draped in veiny skin which stretched across and wrapped itself around the top of his body to complete the architectural ingredients of a head. He had a dry voice, reminding me of some rare desert wind, blowing from lips that shook like rattlesnakes. he was a walking desert, bereft of anything wet.. but before the foam could reach its ideal temp* this man waiting for his "tall cap" came to life... there were after all flowers hiding in his sand."uuhhhhmm, my dear you're a lovely one," he said. he seemed to be looking at my coworker. her pale, delicate arms appealed to his ...situation. what sort of strange magnet lied buried in his heart, shielding itself behind its only bait- an ugly old casket of a face- in order to attract a beautiful young girl? he knew his was a love that changed stomachs, not hearts. Yet he spoke. To me this meant that his objective was not contingent upon her compliance....he was not seeking approval from her. He was not petitioning for anything, and this made him incapable of shame. He was not asking, nor was he waiting. Her opinion of him did not come into the picture because he barely knew she had one. What? Because she was a woman? Because "all he wanted was sex", so instead of a person he saw a pair of talking tits? No. Because she was beauty, and his inner darkness could not be stirred by such a foreign whisk. There was nothing within him that could possibly hear her beauty, just as rocks do not have ears for Proust. Thus he had no shame to hide from her. One is incapable of feeling shame, envy or humiliation in the presence of something one doesn't see. And he, though all subscribers to penthouse would argue otherwise, did not see her. That may seem absurd on the surface, but think of it this way: do you feel envious of a rock, whose strength far surpasses you? No. But you may envy the strength of the character of a particular man. If you relate through envy you relate through a desire to appropriate, to mirror what you see. Through envy and appropriation you can become your ideal self, envy can be transformed into an inner guide which leads towards an ideal yet to be actualized. But to feel no shame when pure beauty gazes upon you, that is not the reward of a healthy ego, it is the sickness of a numb heart whose light lies buried like forgotten relatives scattered into a dozen graveyards. What marks the difference between an object you can relate to and one you cant is your capacity for inward appropriation. For example: You can pluck a rock from the ground and build yourself a bridge without ever feeling a drop of envy. Why? The rock is not a mirror for your potential. The man in the cafe was able to be bold in the face of beauty because he could not see it. Nothing in him was spoken to. If you do not envy beauty you are doomed. Stunted. For envy is like a sun whose beauty at times may burn, but ultimately it is it is the violent whip of this bright star that awakens out of its slumber: possibility. And that is what my music is born from, it is the reaction of one who sees, but does not embody beauty.

by Nicolas Hartzell