That such genuine, soulful, heartfelt, boundary pushing music like this ever made it on tv seems like a foreign concept in this day and age. Way to go 1970!
Who now will stand before the legions of ruthless, toothless bad guys out there who seek to control the lives of us little people by wresting control of seedy smalltown dives from their legitimate owners and making them less enjoyable to patronize?
The Rock?
Don't make me laugh.
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Fame throwa pass out the gold, but it's raining non-stop digitized black and white on the security channel, which is all the more weird 'cause I can hear the water soft-tapping the trees in the back yard - leaf after leaf after leaf, and down to the ground, soaking all the forgotten pine needles, broken branches, etc. - something reminiscent of early-man pre-dawn strangely juxtaposed with the here and now of current technology. There's a tree just beside the pool wrapped with little white softglow christmas style lights. It stands festive melancholy overlooking the tables and chairs where people would be clamoring if it weren't four in the morning. These are the dead hours that go unnoticed, but I'm no stranger to haunting the nowhere spaces - always sulking listless through the nonexistent times.
There's a small portion in the back of my mind where all my thoughts of something long since lost have thought themselves out again and again on an endless loop until they eventually took the form of something like dark matter - they became entities unto themselves - they grew and grew to the point where my brain could no longer afford to sustain them - they caved in on themselves and left a void. I can't remember what their point was, but I know something's been bothering me - something keeps pushing me forward to some non-goal that I'm hard pressed to realize.
There's a song playing on an internet radio station. It's sad and going nowhere. It's acid jazz for lack of a better word. It's vibrating up from nothing, making no point whatsoever, yet it's saying everything I meant to say. There's a piano that keeps fading in and drifting out. It's telling the tale of motion. Someone is moving - their image is flickering on a wall slightly distorted by the curves and crevices of cold cement blocks - it's a movie that no one's watching. They're on a subway. They're on a bus. They're going through empty towns. They're going nowhere. It's a different day but they have no way of knowing. Yesterday looked just like today looked just like tomorrow looked just like next year and they've lost track well into death which gave way to birth which started the process of a string of days bleeding into each other on an infinite loop and it's hard to say who's talking about who at this point.
There's a person sitting in an empty room where candles flicker late into the night. They're watching the Movie That No One Watches. They're saying nothing. It's the Movie's Director. I take the seat beside them and smile. I'm tired and my eyes are burned out red. The Movie's slowing down until it becomes a collection of still images that imply the essence of everything. I feel like a cat curled up and sleepy. There's a brief flash on the screen and the action continues. The Director's gone. I'm watching the security channel again. The music's in sync with the wind making sleepy ripples across the pool's surface. There's the sparkle of lights reflected on the water. Today fades into tomorrow.
There are only so many relatively uninteresting ways you can say that you have nothing to say - mope and wander - fucking whine and blah - just blah in the most lost sense and late night doesn't seem to have the same thrill it once had (or perhaps never had). But you have to push and keep pushing in the face of emptiness 'cause adversity wasn't the right word at all - and words are just symbols that get forced to symbolize the most nowhere concepts - and here's a concept: destiny loves the carrot-rope game - everything has to be kept at arms length 'cause the length is where the lesson's learned, yet if I've learned anything distance means nothing quantum physically speaking, and all this talk is getting me nowhere which is apparently exactly where I'm supposed to be.
I'm not sleeping 'cause keeping the language off the streets is an all-night gig. It doesn't pay well, but the fans are alright. "Turn up the houselights - I have something important to say!", and then he says, "Eschelon yr dreams and they'll come true." (type slowly) But I'm typing so slow that I don't see the point - it feels like trying to read a road map by pressing your nose against the "you are here" sign - all the rest is blurred. And he speaks up once more to say, "Frozen images, respected few." (type slowly) And this all feels like it would make sense if I could step back and see the big picture, but I can only move forward at a human pace. (blind and guided) And the guide is being more obvious tonight - he's ditched his usual zen-prick silence - given up his usual no-response is the ultimate response trickery 'cause I'm cracking - I've nearly blown my cover. He's begun resorting to spy-like imagery - everything has a meaning so now I have to cling to every word that passes my ears or pops into my head. "Simply put, I want to grow old. Dying does not meet my expectations. Let's drink a toast to all those who arrived alive to tell about their struggles in hushed tones around the fire. It's late winter." And everyone sings in unison, "We are underused." I had a sense of that when I originally signed onto this job thirty something years ago, though it's taken Saturn's full orbit to really drive the point home.
I think it's the separation that bothers me most (even if it's only temporary.) Don't take this job if you're not cut out for seclusion. Nor should you take this job for the admiration it inevitably brings. Take it because you're in love with love. Take it because you realize everything's magic. That's why I did. Anyway, I've gotta go now. It's time to brighten the corners.
"Listen to me. I'm on the stereo."
I'm not sleeping 'cause keeping the language off the streets is an all-night gig. It doesn't pay well, but the fans are alright. "Turn up the houselights - I have something important to say!", and then he says, "Eschelon yr dreams and they'll come true." (type slowly) But I'm typing so slow that I don't see the point - it feels like trying to read a road map by pressing your nose against the "you are here" sign - all the rest is blurred. And he speaks up once more to say, "Frozen images, respected few." (type slowly) And this all feels like it would make sense if I could step back and see the big picture, but I can only move forward at a human pace. (blind and guided) And the guide is being more obvious tonight - he's ditched his usual zen-prick silence - given up his usual no-response is the ultimate response trickery 'cause I'm cracking - I've nearly blown my cover. He's begun resorting to spy-like imagery - everything has a meaning so now I have to cling to every word that passes my ears or pops into my head. "Simply put, I want to grow old. Dying does not meet my expectations. Let's drink a toast to all those who arrived alive to tell about their struggles in hushed tones around the fire. It's late winter." And everyone sings in unison, "We are underused." I had a sense of that when I originally signed onto this job thirty something years ago, though it's taken Saturn's full orbit to really drive the point home.
I think it's the separation that bothers me most (even if it's only temporary.) Don't take this job if you're not cut out for seclusion. Nor should you take this job for the admiration it inevitably brings. Take it because you're in love with love. Take it because you realize everything's magic. That's why I did. Anyway, I've gotta go now. It's time to brighten the corners.
"Listen to me. I'm on the stereo."
