mad swan disease
"Jesus God!" as the old-lady laundry attendant used to holler when people soiled their sheets. Could you blame her?
A busy two weeks, editing all day, restless legs after restless legs and now alcoholic insomniacs. Refer the man to the elephant polo team if he presents with an abundance of nocturnal arousals; refer him to a keen producer if he presents with an abundance of nocturnal emissions.
For skies of weeks a song laces through my head: "Swans (Life After Death)," the first track on the Islands’ Return to the Sea. Goes like this: the song plays, I enjoy it, all nearly 8 minutes of it, then patches of the song recur in my noggin for the next five-plus days. I listen again. This album has me happy-eared.
A couple days ago, ’mid stalled traffic, I was caught ’mid song and dance to "Don’t Call Me Whitney, Bobby." Milk and bones, a bouncy melody, the "total void tells me stories"—one can hardly help but skip through the skeletal daisies with it.
One of my favorite things about being alive is witnessing people in their car, singing and dancing, totally unaware anyone is watching. What bliss those people must be in the midst of. I suck it up, o-mouthed and wide-eyed.
I hope that two days ago I caused at least one car-voyeur to bounce and bliss.
More later once all alcoholics are cured of insomnia and cows come to their home built up with skyscrapers. Or once day breaks.
A busy two weeks, editing all day, restless legs after restless legs and now alcoholic insomniacs. Refer the man to the elephant polo team if he presents with an abundance of nocturnal arousals; refer him to a keen producer if he presents with an abundance of nocturnal emissions.
For skies of weeks a song laces through my head: "Swans (Life After Death)," the first track on the Islands’ Return to the Sea. Goes like this: the song plays, I enjoy it, all nearly 8 minutes of it, then patches of the song recur in my noggin for the next five-plus days. I listen again. This album has me happy-eared.
A couple days ago, ’mid stalled traffic, I was caught ’mid song and dance to "Don’t Call Me Whitney, Bobby." Milk and bones, a bouncy melody, the "total void tells me stories"—one can hardly help but skip through the skeletal daisies with it.
One of my favorite things about being alive is witnessing people in their car, singing and dancing, totally unaware anyone is watching. What bliss those people must be in the midst of. I suck it up, o-mouthed and wide-eyed.
I hope that two days ago I caused at least one car-voyeur to bounce and bliss.
More later once all alcoholics are cured of insomnia and cows come to their home built up with skyscrapers. Or once day breaks.
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