Condensation inside the window.
The slow decline of bodies.
Perfume of decomposition
The carcass of a pigeon, caught in the branches of a tree overhanging the road, glimpsed from the car. A flash of momentary sculpture.
My mind has been on slow boil
I’ve been preparing for a short tour of the UK, presenting an album I wrote with my friend Joe, but mostly just finding new ways to burn the wick of time.
Watching videos of nothing much and keeping an ever mounting to-do list of important tasks.
A wall blazed in shades of red-faded-pink, orange, white, and if you stare long enough, a green undercoat peeks through in patches. Pockmarked with craters, lunar surface on an agar plate from where nails were ripped out with a claw hammer. I stare deep and kill time. A dubbed out record echoes in the speaker and pours into the room. Abrupt needle change to a Rhodes-led blues. A face in the wall asks me a question I don't quite catch. My coffee dregs evaporate.
Time bleeds out without any interference on my part.
I search through hard drives for old versions of our songs to maybe rip into constituent parts. Most projects have names that bear no relation to the final title. I estimate via text messages when we were working on certain pieces. Opening a project titled "jam 2" I find what later became Skeuomorphism. In other projects I find shockingly little to extract - for VHS Rose I manage to break it down into two parts - one essentially being the entire instrumental for the song, the other being a performance of me running lots of cat videos I ripped the audio from online and then played through weird echo and filter feedback chains.
Joe and I keep texting each other to not worry and that everything is going to be fun and fine and I truly think that will be the case but all the same I can read my own worry over text. These moments planned by us so long in advance. I worry about doing a show, about ensuring people come along. About them having a good time. About meeting my peers as I am on the road, about showing my best face. I worry over the time I've left ebb away. The hours slowheated by the sun and dispersing to mist.
Dark shapes looming in the fields as we drive to the airport
A glass longhouse built on the city outskirts, its older sibling slowly decaying and turning inwards on its own shadow. Ghost trails of passengers now gone, an endless stream of people no longer coursing through its channel, a river diverted, an empty creek remaining.
The movement of clouds over the runway.
Music wise been listening a lot to lately to the new Carrier album on Modern Love - Rhythm Immortal
Reading wise still making my way through 2666 and the collection of Clarice Lispector stories.