So how’s it going?
I mean this series, for you.
I’ve done three weeks’ worth, now, and they’re each more connected to the next than I’d originally anticipated.
Seems like it’ll be a bit more novelesque, or a serial story like Dickens used to do.
The beauty of this format is that you folks can weigh in immediately on what you like or don’t.
Of course, I can’t make any promises ’cause changes might not happen. Change will — change is inevitable. The evolution of this format is one of the things I’m most excited to observe even as I participate.
So what I’m getting at is if you like these stories, or don’t, or only kinda do like some of ’em sometimes, then let me know! All I can do is respond to the chems in my brain and the words of others — be they typed or audible. Maybe there’s a third option, too. Felt?
Great, deep, sonorous bass opens the tune, and clicking soon crawls in alongside. Before we know it, long, vibrant vocals moan. A strangely mechanical voice, with echoing reverb, asks us what we would do if the plastic all melted. There’s a pervading dissonance, and the bouncy, robotic bass accentuates it. The clear, light percussion contrasts the deep bass.
The sudden injection of the chorus – a single line asking the titular question – soon gives way to another verse; the reverb builds, slightly, and the portent of decay in the lyrics builds alongside.
Then, chaos. The bass picks up a 2/4 beat (?) and someone screams. We hear the mangled recollections of a thousand hippies with thousand-yard stares: “I think I’m gonna die,” revolving on a Leslie speaker. The guitar is angular and dissonant, long, sharp tones needling us. Who are the brain police suddenly interjects again, and before we can begin to answer the question, the moaning continues, and we’re back again at the start.
“What would you do if the people you knew / were the plastic that melted and the chromium too?”
Thumping percussion and a babbling kazoo are our only answer. The bass modulates and wobbles as the manic sounds throb and fade, throb and fade.
what could be a greater contradiction
the first of December and he’s in his Christmas sweater
yesterday, rain, today, strong sun
tomorrow, who can say, save those who stay informed
on running loops with tiny changes
plusses minused, damaged brainses
who’s to choose the loose exchanges?
Furious clacking fills her brain as she searches and reads, searches and reads; the clack is her fingers on the keys; the clack is the grinding gears that press ever forward in their stationary domain.