How many more?

This is another late request. This is the second in quick succession. And silhouettes around the companion frame. A frame of light blowing past your edges. The brain recedes. The brain explodes in light. Excruciation.

What are titles amongst friends? The sounds of the past. The hours at play. The soundtrack to a childhood. We all hear the slips and the mistakes. We never forget the soundtracks and the feelings that they convey and embody. they are the most powerful of them all. Before we had the moving images to replace their story telling every tune was a place and an emotion. Every ripple of sound was full of place, time, emotion, feeling, narrative. the most expressive of sounds is the one that emotes an event. The one that tells a story without words. The one that lets a specific configuration of vibrations ring out true and full… the personal, the political, the local, the national.

Worts and all. These nights used to be the special ones. Now we just recover from the week’s damage. Rename the week’s end… Repair and recovery.

The detune is the essence of it all. And we look down hallways known for life and wait for the constructed awkward to pass. This is not how it was meant to be but always known to be the case. Look into that mirror, knock the head back and gaze at the roof. Let’s go now. How many more times this will come and go and come and go. The rhythm of numbers and letters ring true with the rhythm of past vibrations. I can feel the feelings I had then. The rhythm with which the faders and the buttons coincided with the sounds pre-made and lined up. The plans and designs come best sometimes from the end of a finger. No preconceptions, no corrections. Just pure ideas and feeling. The emotions of that time and space. That place you were in when you made it. When you thought like that. When you were that person. Looking at the week like just another. Not looking at a deadline or long term goal. Just looking at the wall in front. The same mirror. The same roof. Thinking let’s stay here and get it right. Let’s never leave. Let’s get up to this and only this and focus and keep it that way for good.

This is how it should always be. This is how I am happy with it. This is how I want it to stay.

But it never will. feeling the flow and the rhythm will never stop but the time and place will grow and develop with the soul/. The body gets older. The body gets heavier. The bones slow down. The mind gets slower. The time and place, will, change. That is inevitable.

And breath. And do it all again.

Tracking Home

That liitle bit further in. Forget time. It evades you. Lost between six strings. Plucking through it. Bound in rhythm and sway and shuffle. This explodes. It rocks against one and another. The desk. The shake. The good the best. The fitting together. Just dont fight it. A good lead. Deep inside the black again. Deep inside the box. Everything is right where it shiuld be. 

Phased Signal

The jam was heavy. The words just sat inside rubbing the edges and creating dimples on the surface. 

Sometimes they would come up to breath in long arcing flows cutting through the light atmosphere before ploughing gently into the surface. Into nothing. 

The runs and configurations masterful and composed. Dancing in a gentle wave, undulating rhythms to and fro. The eye dragged here and that. 

Every so often a loud groan lost in the sound. A reaction to a killer bite or bend. The flicks at a rhythm that is hard to land on purpose. Lost in a barely bopping sea of brains. 

No doubt they dug it. How could you not? But the whispers engage on a subterranean level. Eyes get heavy. The beat gets in you. And the soul is rocked into a deep restfull phase. 

More of this.