Back to the Barge
May. 8th, 2008 09:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
esmio06I haven’t been to the barge since the first week we launched it. B has been running it and frankly our other place is my first love. B has done wonders with this place. I walk into the first level and Bob Marley was chanting to some Eurobass backed rhythm that blends with the chattering of the crowd flirting, ordering drinks and debating irrelevancies to form a hypnotic pattern of voice, bass and glass clanking. I can see why B loves this place so much.
Still probably about an hour before we sail and already the place was over half full. I should venture downstairs and check out the dance floor, but this dark corner is just too damn comfortable.
It isn’t long before my secluded corner is overrun by conversations between pseudo intellectuals too scared to actually ask their counter parts for what they really want and Bob Marley has been replaced by salt n Peppa. Guess its time to go downstairs.
The red glow from the river is the only light on the spiral staircase down. If we weren’t already in the abyss, I would be forced to draw that image.
My heart starts pounding as “I am The walrus” echoes in the voice of Morrissey is mixed in with Concrete Blonde’s “Boodletting.” I wonder who the DJ is.
Funny how, even down here where we know hell is real, the Goths still love everything dark and ominous. At least some things never change.
I pull out a Camel, fumble for my lighter and finally get it lit as I enter the room. Red light floods the room from the portholes as the smell of cloves stifles me. Guess some other things don’t change either. I never was sure why I have to have a cigarette lit when I enter a room, but damn the crackle of that cherry glowing brighter sure is comforting.
Even through the vibrations from the stacks of subwoofers placed all around the dance floor, I can feel he engines begin to spin up. The music, the dronings of the horny, the clanking of the glasses all fade to the background as my mind drifts decks below to the turning of the motors. All four engines spinning, creating their own rhythm that would even make dead Can Dance cry.
Then my concentration is shattered.
She bounced into the room, changing the rhythm of the music to her own beat. Every ye was steady pretending not to notice her, but she knew they were staring, lusting, envying. She lived for it. There is no doubt she owns this place. I may have the deed; B may take care of business; but she, whoever she is, owns this place…
Still probably about an hour before we sail and already the place was over half full. I should venture downstairs and check out the dance floor, but this dark corner is just too damn comfortable.
It isn’t long before my secluded corner is overrun by conversations between pseudo intellectuals too scared to actually ask their counter parts for what they really want and Bob Marley has been replaced by salt n Peppa. Guess its time to go downstairs.
The red glow from the river is the only light on the spiral staircase down. If we weren’t already in the abyss, I would be forced to draw that image.
My heart starts pounding as “I am The walrus” echoes in the voice of Morrissey is mixed in with Concrete Blonde’s “Boodletting.” I wonder who the DJ is.
Funny how, even down here where we know hell is real, the Goths still love everything dark and ominous. At least some things never change.
I pull out a Camel, fumble for my lighter and finally get it lit as I enter the room. Red light floods the room from the portholes as the smell of cloves stifles me. Guess some other things don’t change either. I never was sure why I have to have a cigarette lit when I enter a room, but damn the crackle of that cherry glowing brighter sure is comforting.
Even through the vibrations from the stacks of subwoofers placed all around the dance floor, I can feel he engines begin to spin up. The music, the dronings of the horny, the clanking of the glasses all fade to the background as my mind drifts decks below to the turning of the motors. All four engines spinning, creating their own rhythm that would even make dead Can Dance cry.
Then my concentration is shattered.
She bounced into the room, changing the rhythm of the music to her own beat. Every ye was steady pretending not to notice her, but she knew they were staring, lusting, envying. She lived for it. There is no doubt she owns this place. I may have the deed; B may take care of business; but she, whoever she is, owns this place…
