The Power Of Blue

I used to drink, but now I dunk. I used to go south, but now I go sideways. I used to go west, but now I go backwards in time, leaving a trail of pillow ticking. And a panoramic view of Fluxus. Which is a city in postulation somewhere north of Tewkesbury. My relationship to sound has always been like this. Wary of increments but always exploring new territory. I wish you could see my alfalfa. The other chords in the exposition are momentarily gongs. I have much nobler intentions than falling chronologically into mud and lubricious correspondence, but I’ve grown marginal over the years, like most of us, and sit back in the armchair dreaming of Persepolis, and all the fanfare surrounding movement, and rhythm, and evolved into Fred Astaire. There are wounds that embrace you from within like mechanical knots. Things that cannot be undone. They can be seduced into quiet submission occasionally, either with drugs and alcohol, or dancing like Mick Jagger in front of a crowd, jabbing at the air with your hands, strutting back and forth in a syncopation of odd wiggles and spins. So I guess that would be called dance, though most of the time I’m not up for it, it just seems silly. I lean into the dignity of age. But there’s no dignity in age. It’s an armchair with a rip and a spring poking into your back. And sometimes the knots come undone on their own, and there’s nothing at the end of the rope but you. I know, that sounds a little sinister, but hanging from a rope is not what I had in mind. I was thinking more along the lines of parable, moral truths packed in verse. Ivy on a castle wall. The fragrance of hemp in the fields of Donegal. There's a dimension of emotional convection that thickens into language and then expands into meaning. Lift it as a gross dusty problem. Or a pot of gold. Your call. But don’t drop it. It might come in handy later, as something to talk about over dinner in a fancy restaurant, musing on how good it feels that the traffic going by in no way pertains to you. All you need to do is keep tabs of the tab. A glass of Godspeed at Sushi Nakazawa is $16.00. A bottle of Hokkaido Saké is $175.00. This isn’t Sushi Nakazawa. But it could be. All it takes is a little tweaking, a little innovation, and a Schnitzel Sandwich. People will sometimes tell you that one day the pendulum will swing back and life will be an enterprise detached from commerce and soothed by random breezes under purple skies and fanciful structures. But it never seems to get there. What we have instead is this. A batch of words, a daub of blue, and a cry of adoration breaking the skin of the sky. For what? Everything. For who? Everyone. No one. The person looking out from inside you. And the power to ignore it.