Porous

What a terribly rainy forecast for three hundred days to come. I suppose it isn’t necessarily terrible. Whatever the case I’m approaching it like a true Aries warrior, packing comically gloomy heat and music. This morning I drove to work soundtracked by the recent deluxe issue of The Cure’s Pornography, time-traveling back to high school days closed up in my bedroom and making angsty collages.

When I reached my office I immediately filled it with Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s lift yr. skinny fists like antennas to heaven! I volunteered to review this album when I wrote music reviews for a weekly nightlife paper, but when I went to it my brain became a bowl of soup having been thrown at a wall. Lentil soup, beet soup, no matter. Words would not coalesce. My thoughts became a tsunami, and I fought it the wrong way. Always I beat myself into writing on assignment. Cold November, I listened to the dark, epic thing on repeat until I myself became dark and epic. The abyss, I jumped into, masochistically.

Once a minute I stepped out on the porch for frosty reprieve in a cigarette. At last I began countering the emperor with a Zombies album I’d checked out of the library, playing one and then the other, back and forth for days of smoke. That’s when I fell in love with zombie vocals. I swooned over every one of them. They were my springtime. They were my respite in fantasy in light of a broken and faithless black-lung heart, chaotic head.

Rain, rain, and loss that simultaneously is not lost, both encapsulated and redistributed, both then and now, November giving way to spring and the reverse, and to vectoring out and upward. What a forecast for days to come.