WEARY GO ROUND

Pursue music to the gates of heaven. Avoid the other place. Lacquer the handrails and apply pine tar. A swoon to okay anesthesia, a kind that might be allowed in the future. Still hospice envy. Johnny seeding powder, ceding power, but allowed to write. Fingersnapping utopias. The Performing Abortionists, getting rolling, recording, a trial-and-error process, editing, making a product with purpose and polish, to have.

The future is weird, it makes my joints weak, but not as weak as they were last week. The future takes with one hand and gives with the other. Smell and consciousness in fingernails after death. It's not all for nothing, just mostly for nothing. But it's that lil’ bit that means everything, or mainly feels like everything, like enough, like burnt almonds when you've burned out and there's nothing more to say. There was nothing more to say last week, but we got through another interval, where we're saying things again, sweet nothings. There's still more things to click, parts in the ass-end of inventories that didn't make any sense, that didn't fit with any other parts, but it seems there's little surprises, of random clicks and pops, that are the good kind of clicks and pops, even in a post-rock glitch-hop trajectory. If that's where this road leads, let's take it.

Or what are you doing there, are you forging an off-ramp, a path into the woods? Okay, I'll come along and check it out, humour you, try not to make fun, try not to be paranoid that you're making fun of me. The fun can pretty easily drain out of things if you think about them too much. Remember when math was fun? Remember when numbers were munchable? We used to treat numbers like munchkins and coded colour-kins, and mile long pianos in vast dark auditoriums, and aloof nothing-somethings. I'll come along and admire this attempt at a path, and sleep under the canopy, and remember when I felt closer to sacredity, and be the worst camper you ever met, which I still think is an exaggeration, but I'll allow for the possibility that the microfibers are creeping into me subtly, entwining with sinews, and I'm becoming cancer's symbiot.

There's still many possibilities in un-mined melodies that are archived by this lover of information, even as that double-bladed knife leaves me bleeding. Then there's kitchen knives, which I could love on another path. Could get into the preparation of food. But no, never, the culinary four stars aren't my rock stars, it makes me sick, that system, I breathe more naturally in other, equally toxic systems of glut and glamour.

I like how Windows, even Windows XP, remembers what order you left each individual subdirectory in, with the columns, column lengths, and sortings, so each one can be customized on the fly in an evolving system of progressively tighter aesthetic order.