the building the shape of a bonfire

Hydroplaned on the 520 but didn’t lose my cool. Thought about the boundary between myself and the black, cold Lake Washington, and how the company van would break through it like a kid kicking over a sand castle, if I slid out. But no. Kept my cool, tapped the breaks, flirted with the disaster of breaking, of stopping suddenly, without warning, letting the drivers behind me fly through windshields into the back among the boxes of stuff, of books and t-shirts I have to deliver between stores, the magic inner workings of an overnight guarantee, no one ever thinks about me. I am known as the night-man, the night guy, and I accept the cloak of dark skies, the end of sunlight as we know it, I accept the Imperial Stout and the Nabokov. Both a cartoonized outline of St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow, Russia. You know Red Square, UW students. There is one here but no colorful candy-toned spires up at the tops of roofs in swirls of bright, contrasting colors, adorned the roofs, tear shaped, chess-piece shaped, you know, you’ve seen them, you’ve google searched Russia and found them, it happened to be an irony to pick out this Ninkasi beer for an evening of unwinding and the design to be the same as Nabokov’s English-written autobiography Speak, Memory. Cheap class offered teaches a class on Ada, also. Might just sign up for a lesson on outcast fiction. A library schooling of earthquake prevention, when books fall off their shelves, shedding dust and crushing into dust on the granite floors, the polished floors, the libraries with the earthquakes with the stacks toppling like cities collapsing, really though, cities created by someone, who painstaked, labored, sweated, in a small study, in a different library, with the threat of erosion all around, eroding of coastlines of thought of ideas that never latched on because their execution was too standard, subpar, underneath, and the creation of a community sounded a bit better than just creating some loops and throwing them online to the delirium of other painstaked, sweating musicians and writers and painters and outcasts and the isolated Icelandic artists that see the aurora but freeze their spit mid air.

from Speak, Memory
“At times, however, my photisms take on a rather soothing flou quality, and then I see – projected, as it were, upon the inside of the eyelid – grey figures walking between beehives, or small black parrots gradually vanishing among mountain snows, or a mauve remoteness melting beyond moving masts.”

and then he goes on to describe synesthesia. in his case, the visualizing of certain phonemes, of small chunks of word sounds from his vast repertoire of known language. French, English, and Russian, namely. He compares his large alphabet with the colors he sees when he hears the individual sound… the English “a” has the tint of weathered wood, yet the French “a” evokes polished ebony.”

and from the beer label

“The ancient sumerians worshipped the beer they made and praised the goddess Ninkasi for the miracle of fermentation. Beer is a staple of civilization.”

listening to Icelandic isolation music.

my mind was full of jazz, windshield wipers on blast, sometimes hip/hop like El-P and Killer Mike or some sort of Flying Lotus remix. I played Kevin Devine & The Goddamn Band on mono yet this annoyed me because the studio trickery (the panning of one guitar part to the left and the other guitar part to the right) did not come through. For jazz I forget the names. Everyone in the room at the time of a jazz recording is chronicled by radio DJ’s by first and last name, nickname, and favorite hobby. I do love jazz. Absolutely. Improvised perfection, with some of Monk’s students carving their own paths and Billy Erskine back there on the drums, and a female bassist I’d never heard before, but tore it up, and terrific.

My mind was also full of the potential of recording any possible sound I desire, putting it to tempo (say Icelandic depression) and piecing together a track, a lesson, a piece of clay molded by me into incoherence by you and yet I say “this is a finished product.”

I will make strange, strange music. Can you see why?


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