On the 8-Ball

Illinois has cast me back eastward relatively unscathed, purged. The allergy imps in Illinois are vicious and relentless, heartless. And those mythical menses with their tinkerbell attitudes who traveled with me, after having teased me for weeks with harsh whispers, finally clubbed me after the longest prelude in history to an unkiss upon my inner belly. Minor obstacles, an elephant is in my favor.

On ground again after circling the port for a spell, I feel calmed. The bog I trod before the visit to the source has retreated peacefully. Naturally because I am human it will rise again. So it goes. For now, I have sunk the 8-ball in a rum of catharsis. My parents—what admirable people!—put me tiptoe on a welcome tightrope: They gift me boundless love and respect just for being. I aim to keep up my part adroitly.

And then nothing turned itself inside-out—I can’t soak in enough of this album today. It feels like a satisfying story of my life, each drop of sound a resonant narrative and outlook aroused warmly in me in feel and scope. I don’t know why or how. When I bought this album just after its release I didn’t want to ever stop it. I let the endless somnambulant pattern in the last track be in its endlessness. Weather casts a new spell.