Moist Alley
It smelled stale. It was for sure damp. The old bricks leaked and almost sweated from the sheer mist of it all. It was almost as if the bricks were living and breathing organisms. Like sea cucumbers or an obtusely variant species of urchin. Smells were abundant! Full or vibrancy and effervescence! How both amusing and inviting, but also somewhat off putting. It is certainly an alley of pungent proportions.
It was in its nature. The opposing forces of moistness and the allure of pleasant vibrations shed a new light on mourned existence. Alas, Moist Alley was a place of true mystery and prone to a great deal of nose snubbing skepticism. A skepticism almost academic. A skepticism that resembled the relationship of varnish to paint. It could be said that it wasn’t for everyone or that it was for everyone that didn’t think it was for anyone. A conundrum of great complexity. The mere mention of Moist Alley was enough to have hominids recoil and divide amongst different patterned schools of thought. Personal preferences matched with a subtle and visceral candid veracity. A writhing if you will, of the body and through the various sanitized senses. For the people it attracted, a new adventure awaited right underneath their withering probosces.
The dampness was one thing. It is something to be experienced. No words in mind have come to fruition to try to articulate the sheer magnitude of the dampness. A dampness of great verisimilitude. I have heard that the ratio of the dampness to moistness has been pretty even and that it fluctuated based upon the inherent political climate and humidity regulated by the nearest Chinese food establishment. The dampness almost created an ambiance of Film Noir like murky mystery. A romantic and almost dreary like existence comparable to the shed in E.T. One could say that the floor was wet, but it could also be seen as a mild damp or a mega moist. It gave you a feeling. A feeling as if you were barefoot even if you were wearing a contemporary piece of footwear. Plastic or suede variety. All types of laces.
It brought all of your senses to a wonderful buffet of delight. Every pore on your body was satiated with a type of amorphous bewilderment. A taste you could feel. A feel you could taste. An almost orgasmic dance of senses. It was a portal into the present. An experience into the delights of being human. Almost as if every cell in your body was at a strip mall day spa.
It was a spot of reflection and motivation. A place to escape, but also to venture inward without abandon. A caressing of transcendence paired with a fine glass of acceptance. One step into the alley, you get a little dizzy. One must embrace it. Let it into the meat space of yourself. Like a simmering. The outward moistness is a reflection of the your own inner moistness or dampness. Your ratio of what you reflect is heavily dependent on the moistness that you project.
Are you down with the dampness? The gravy like moistness that oozes through your very being. The lubricated ephemera of modern life. A trip to Moist Alley can be taken anywhere in a sense. Much like a meditation or a malleable type of mantra. You can certainly visit the actual geographical location of Moist Alley, but Moist Alley certainly exists in all of us. Accessible at any moment and every moment. A pleasant gravy float awaits your creamy consciousness. At first Moist Alley seems so daunting, like trying to jump into a close to freezing body of water. It’s like a band aid. One must rip it right off. One must jump into the pool without thinking about it. Without trying conceptualize, intellectualize or methodically try to take what it means apart. When you try to understand Moist Alley, it becomes more and more displeasing to your taste buds. Like a slightly rotting peach in the middle of a summer afternoon. That moist peach pining away. Inviting insects from all around to imbibe.
One must accept this Moist Alley. Without abandon. With the enthusiasm of a young and slightly curious child person. It is the melding of the experience and the experience(r). The cremation of the line between what is and what should be. The dualistic nature of circumstance in concert with the uncertainty of chaos. It seems freeing. Not a freeing that you think. Not a freeing from pain or pleasure, but more of an entrancement of whatever comes. Moist Alley welcomes the vast spectrum of all emotions, feelings and vibrations. It lets them permeate the damp bricks and the slightly soggy bread crumbs. It lets aggression and aggravation slide into the crevices of its own amorphous and impermeable being. The impregnation of energy. The composting of carnal delights and morbid sights. The transmogrification of order and chaos. A balance of pudding like substances.
Are you ready?
Are you ready for the moistness?
Can one ever be truly ready for Moist Alley?
Ready or not.
The Moistness Awaits!
DG
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