scratchings

a strange day, this sixth of the sixth moon. the last few weeks have been dominated by music. two formations: barhof; earbleeder. long wanderings of the city taking cellphone shots by the hundred. on a sunday morning, extreme noise in a studio / okonomiyaki and beer and fish&chips and tales of witches demons and bats with two irishmen and a yank / extreme noise in a studio. on the next, 17th century gaelic music / experimental wadaiko minimalist jazz / contemporary koto pop / death-/core-/power-/thrash-metal with three japanese ladies an elderly 2nd-world war veteran and a bunch o scrubs. and the house cd was ‘prayers on fire’. kathy's kisses!



and someone finally recognized my tshirt.



the ‘deranged nightmare’ i mentioned to paul; scribbled sometime in the early morning:

talking to my father. hearing music – islamic chanting like i heard that day in malaysia, words with meaning, profound, divine, like angels, sounding like angels.

i explain, but he doesn’t hear the music – again and again – finally I imitate the sound and he listens. somehow my father is hillel slovak.

he says they are the voices of WAR. this word vibrates with epic, universe-spanning demonic undertones. his eyes are concerned. “be quiet.” he tells me. “cover your mouth.”

he is holding a silver teaspoon and places it over his mouth, the bowl facing outwards. he opens his mouth, and there is a sun inside. a golden sun, divine. the spoon is like a lens and the light flares as it passes through it. the light bathes me and rends me and opens me to be seen. it burns me. agony. like a tight fist of fire clenching the muscles. he looks into me and nods, saddened.

i open my mouth. there is another sun within me, blood-crimson. it burns him. he accepts it.

and to he i and to i he.