Ravie Slave, aka Fugue Satori, aka Michelle Floyd, died this weekend in Seattle 2:30 AM Saturday. She turned 30 this year. She was a burning inferno of existence & she treated language & musical notes like her little bitches. She played, danced, sang & laughed & bitched up a storm & I loved her. I don’t understand.
I can hear her in my head. This is a typical conversation between myself & her, either on the phone or Facebook, but she’s part of God’s house band now, assuming she hasn’t insisted on braiding feathers into His beard, so she’s talking to me a little differently.
She starts: “DOOOOOOD. You were right. This is so brill.”
“Are you adjusted yet, short thang?”
“I’m twirling. Twirling twirling. I’ve already pissed off a few people w/ the twirling & whatnot, but I can’t HELP MYSELF. DO YOU HEAR ME I’M TWIRLING & I HAVE NO PAIN. Oh, & my mom is here. We had a talk. She’s sorry. We then twirled together. That’s how it is, yo.”
“Nobody in Heaven is pissed. You’re imagining things, dawg.”
“Homie, you don’t even know. You said I’d try the patience of a saint and I DID. I straight up tried their patience. I was all up in that. It was tits.”
“It’s Heaven, so they wanted you to think they were angry. You’re such an Aries.”
“Takes one to know one, bitch mama. Hey, you remember the story I wrote when I was 18? It was called…”
“…yes, yes, ‘Would Jesus Fuck You?’ And?”
“Dude. He totally would not.”
“I KNOW! I was 18. What do you want from me?”
“To know why you died. Why now? Why so soon?”
“Aww, Fire Mama, it’s not like that. You know that. You totes know that.”
“I know, Kitten.”
“Aww. So that one time when I went into your dream & beat you on the head?”
“Oy vey, yes.”
“Get a fucking helmet. It’s so easy now it’s like I’m ALL UP IN YOUR NEURONS TRIPPING THE LIGHT FANTASTIC WITH YOUR AMYGALA AND SHIT.”
“I won’t hit you this time. We’ll twirl.”
“That works for me, weirdo.”
I miss her.