been working my way through this mussy sprawl of a disc. countering weary trudge through the long swamp of illness i’m already bored by, and the mundane hallucination of sobriety.
cramps, bones, membranes, brittle as all fuck and eased by time split between torpor and perambulation.
and so i dreamt, and walked, and sometimes both, with this noise as drifting (in all senses of the word) companion. and things wormed and warped until words formed, between states, about places i’ve not been and might have heard (while at places i can’t quite hear) and i’m liking this and it’s times and spaces but nothing feels quite real…
so it goes. i’m bleeding, sounds bleeding, in / out. an ill-fitting mingling. a misunderstood transfiguration, transubstantiation, transcendence that comes stumbling to life. a huffing pneuma, all pleasingly eurhythmic.
a fever dream that starts with the call of the crows down a dog-shitted alley…
then pastoral scrape / clatter / squelch that builds and disassembles like a ritual gone wrong. a pseudo-lucid sine wave ley line, breadcrumb-trailed from yorkshire to glasgow.
the streets are gluey with blizzard (and the air full of swallows). feels like a gate’s been opened, a torii to some… other. hands fisting pockets, hunched, swallowed by this swole of animal chitter, machine clamour, flesh on wire.
i still feel the comforting wombstomp and wooly crunch of shoes on path through the lurch of drone. the noise goes, the feet go, the head goes from one place to another and everywhere inbetween.
it sets a meandering pace over a short expanse. a fastidious thirty minutes to the second that sits well on repeat. maybe it’ll flit with satori, who gives a fuck if it doesn’t. if there’s a concept there’s no need for one. if there’s a story it don’t matter. these things circle, forever. it’s cold as i step outside again.
spring coming early…