I sat at the bottom of too many stairs in the 1960s. As a result, like many of us I no longer have any idea where I am. Instead I experience all the young Bob Dylan’s abiding sorrow at finding himself trapped in the body of a 69 year old Midlands bloke. The ghost of eccentricity howls in the bones of his fate. I did not exactly mean for that to happen. It’s not the end I would have wished, because back then he seemed so cruel & clever & vulnerable & I loved every complicated mouthful. Still, here we are. The two of us. Always waiting for her. Perhaps, in the end, Louise would have been the sound-money bet?
I love this.
Makes me wonder how 80s/90s Swans / Coil freaks will respond when they’re “69-year-old Midland blokes”.
The only way they will have wasted their lives is if they see it as an inevitable generational process, rather than a sudden personal perceptual disaster.
“If we go any faster there’ll be an astral disaster.” Perceptual risk was the medium in which to thrive, albeit often retained within the contours of the contemporary soft infrastructure (Es are good, but have you tried these …?) but most, I believe, balked at the brink of the type of catastrophe that takes people Out. Fortunately, the offer of disaster is always returning to make, for example, a Thin White Duke out of you (“one magical movement from Kether to Malkuth”). Naturally this is of no help nothing in plotting coordinates in the sea of time and space – even the choice of maps is off-putting, so that one is inclined to prefer to go for a stroll, feeling for directional cues like a delightfully dotty dowser.
(Or take the motor for a Petit dérive and generate dataset upon dataset of swell maps.)
Coincidentally (?) Bob Dylan is playing live nearby
“Little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously.”
You can’t say you weren’t warned, Mike: empty cages, laden donkeys, unclear noise at night. And she’s always somewhere else, anyway.
“The ghost of eccentricity howls in the bones of his fate.” A great play on my favourite Dylan line.