| labriit |
[Jan. 18th, 2022|11:02 am] |
Doing a gig in the local arts centre, I was beating something out in 4/4 time with this chick on guitar. It was trance like, and to the uninitiated quite boring, and there on the wall, or on the drum skin, or on a surface that had meaning to all concerned each beat opened a crack that spread beat by beat by beat into the continent of America. You could, in some way dive into the map there. Take a look at some of the tropical, exotic fruits grown by the locals in the spaces between the cities.
I realised afterwards lying in someone's arms that I was not homosexual in the same way that I was able to get my wallet back from some seedy type who had half-inched it at the cafe (I had left it by the till). I mean it is an analogy.
The guys who ran the gigs were punks in their sixties now probably, who were obsessed with urges. There was a bog in their office (I mean in the room of their office) where you could do a shit while you were drinking. Still, they were still mesmerised by the shamanic power of what had called them and was still in this dreamworld making manifest in the gig posters, feedback that could waft you out of grammar, and… I more or less tried to describe this to someone who was there, a mason now sitting on millions and driving hours each week through the childhood countryside to look after parents aged and suffering form strokes. “I get that” he said in English middle-aged managerial style. You get it, do you? That we are going to die and all that we decried subsumed will rise up outside our 4 walls full of appliances in maybe a mist or possibly a night crazed with stars, or snow dashed forest and ripped maps and hearts till you can’t describe it and thusly it disappears.
Ludzu: https://prolapse2.bandcamp.com/album/backsaturday-4 |
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