writing this by the barely-there light at the clyde. everything sprayed a weak piss sodium yellow. the lost hum of distant traffic noise and wanton nocturnals wanders through, washed out, muted. the smoke of night and my arhythmic skritchskratch of pencil on paper and nothing else but this aural sprawl, the linger of pills, the pre-storm heat, arranging lines between lines. feels kinda right, but nothing tangible…
forget all this.
sketching brittle dry twig reverie and luminous folksong, carbon black rubbings of sacraments for water and beasts and becomings and it wheezes itself awake.
consider this saga an opening – physical, metaphysical, metaphorical – strings and wood and electricity playing with history and present and future coz there’s NO time (no TIME?), despite the inexorable creep of night.
it knots and unknots, tightens and loosens, rattles and spills like marbles down stairs and glides like an (other)worldly shark, asynchronous yet still bloody here. and then i remember how those fuckers on occasion end up in this ugly river and somehow the accidental and imperfect fit together and shit that shouldn’t make sense suddenly does.
and through the chaos and teetering and almost falling apart, beauty bleeds through. and i shrug off the introversion of now, crawl through the inner / inward symbols and sigils that can’t or won’t be unlocked, and over some expansive transcendent topography song gathers in and far beyond skull.
it’s not about me. it’s not about place. this noise is everything but. rhythm eddies, slow and sullen. notes pile up, gush, ecstatic, skirl. almost precise. almost loose. strings lap and play, strings carry and courie in, strings dizzy and gather and conspire.
and eventually the thing sings.
we’re walking, the line between parallel and one, and it’s dark as i head home but goddamn there’s light, encompassing.