Slip slip slippin'

Alas a distant malaise has come over me today, my day off. I say distant because it is hard to perceive, like looking through the back end of binoculars, and hard to punctuate and hard to locate. I feel it humming away spinning inside of me like a dark crystal of spinning energy and blue whorls and wisps, heart shaped, pulmonary, veined and arteried. Perhaps because snow falls from artery clouds today.

I've waited so long for this white ground and flakey footprints and brown sludge streams coupling and running along the gutters in fine swishing fastness. Unfortunately, my ass has planted itself, literally, down on my couch (pale eggshell colored ass-roots twine down in between couch cushions and grasp quarters, bread twisty-ties, indiscernible red plastic pieces, dog hair, human skulls, fingernails, toenails, skyscrapers, buttons, hopes, dreams, knock-knock jokes, actual shit, coffee grounds, fake rubber vomit, female condoms, scurvy, and other such effluvium). I cannot get up from this dark prison set aside for me by myself.

Wait a minute. Yes I can.

Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth - Straighten it Out

Pinch

What are these empty fields of sound that stretch off into the distance as if they were spitting into the eye of the horizon, speckled with tiny tumbling bushes that are prickly to the touch but soft puffs of incognizible motion to the distance? What is this screaming sky that is coming down out of the blue and whites and passing in black spots on the ground?

I have seen the globe so far past my eyes perception, far beyond my presence. I have seen so much farther than any details in the crunching soot at my feet or the air dripping with dryness clenching at my throat and I have taken too much time drifting away from myself through this tiny bright window that I now type through at to you. There are pictures here. and sounds.

and off farther away I see the distant tables, thats mesa to you sir, and they sound like strangling bending air that squelches between beats like jelly mushing out from the inside of a bad sandwich. and I hear notes and sounds that tumble down cogs and cogs of a machine.

It is a contraption in the desert, a turned vehicle that flipped somehow, perhaps in the wind, perhaps in the somnambulance of an over-imbibed driver, perhaps placed here by a divine hand that rained them down and only the rest were crushed into sand under the weight of time and this one retained its shape and creaking guitar parts and rusted liver-spotted, pimpled rust.

listen -> Can - Pinch

Where I've been

"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in"
I shuffle into the back of the blogosphere, collar up as if splayed across a neighborhood watch sign, and sit down. Wooden foldout screeching a protest and shifting slightly to the right as I sit on empty air and crash to the floor causing a disturbance that draws no eyes from the empty room.

"Maybe you should've written or something before taking off."

"Are you mad?" I ask

"Not really, I've dealt with abandonment in the past." cleaning a mug.

I don't really want to talk about it. This is too hard so I'm going to take it easy, maybe kick my feet up. You see: I've been breathing the salty sea air on whaling missions and traveling across the globe in hot air balloons. and if I haven't been doing that then I certainly have been treking, somnambulant, across the vast landscapes of music and writing. Consuming. Consuming more than one might ever have thought possible. You, blog, are my bucket. It's about time to purge myself of this, this, this what?

This great corpulence. My belly has grown and I have popped through to the other side of my taste like pushing a finger through an opaque plastic trashbag. I find myself gravitating to the thick sounds of Jazz and funk and hip-hop and Kraut more than I find myself gravitating to the corpuscles of indie-pop that so many blogs have smitten themselves with, like licking the barnacles on the bottom of a ship. Why? Why?

It boggles me to jumbles.

I will share with you.

Pharoah Sanders - The Creator Has A Master Plan