Rubbishing

I think I'm on the brink of doing something terrible, or something wonderful. The last time I had this feeling it was mitigated by funk. Everything was planned out, the timing exact and the precision Oramorph® overdose would take effect at around 61.8% of the way into the Chemical Brothers' performance, the golden ratio. Theoretically they would play something like 'Hey Boy, Hey Girl' around that time and my existence would graze the void gracefully, the ultimate flatline experience that I may or may not return from. Hurtling towards a soul implosion with a potentially orgasmic rebound back to the vacuum of life, warm synthetic stratosphere of the Chems to soften the initial re-entry. I had always been fascinated by the way the duo could be so aesthetically evasive and vapidly delicious; furthermore Tom Rowlands eternally captivated me and in some counselling it transpired that part of me actually wanted to be part of him. Even before the presentation of that truth I had purchased a pair of yellow tinted glasses like his and felt spiritual when listening to Exit Planet Dust, and thinking about Him.
Major Lazer were on first and while I didn't care for them much, I made my way to the stage in order to catch the last ten minutes of their set, solely for the reason of getting the Oramorph® timing right. Then for the first time ever I heard 'Hold Tight' by Change, and it was physically impossible not to dance. That was in the soul and funk tent at the festival and from that moment onward I completely forgot about the planned experience of caressing my apogee, in fact I dropped most of the tablets while moving my body to that fucking tune. I must have requested it five or six times, and the DJ only complied as I kept everyone else dancing. Perhaps my spirituality is fickle, and these sort of things seem to recur every four years, but I've not even worn the yellow tinted glasses since the festival ended.

festival funk drug-craze DJ-culture festivus

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