Some Whole Wheat Words

And Other Up-Lift

Archive for July 2007

Friday

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Hey, let’s do a music post and talk halfway normal, for once!

I’ve got a few stories coming soon– three, actually. One, the weakest, is already written and in the process of being spit-shined. Two, a story featuring no genre fiction influence, is plotted. The third is doing the backstroke in my head.

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Today’s letter is B. B is for Buy Rekkids! B is also for…

Bad Brains – Banned In D.C.

I can’t pretend to be a hardcore kid all of a sudden, but I’m not lying when I say that when I listen to this, it feels like a giant glowing finger is scratching my brain.

Big Black – Kerosene

Sex and arson, together at last! Plus, it sounds like an anvil being thrown into a bag of angry tablesaws, and as a pseudo-factory-man, I can appreciate that.

Battles – Leyendecker

Okay, so Prog Rock and Math Rock get my combined vote for “Most Hateful Wanker Puke-Noise Of All Time,” but this album isn’t half bad. I still don’t really get why Pitchfork is jizzing all over them, but who understands what Pitchfork likes, anyway?

Barry Gray – Thunderbirds Are Go!

When I hear this, I expect something important to happen afterwards.

Black Grape – Reverend Black Grape

It hates religion and it’s groovy. Good enough for me.

Boris – Electric

I can imagine this working quite well somewhere like Dance Cave. I can also imagine these guys eating DFA 1979 with milk and half an orange as part of this complete breakfast.

Burial – Versus

Pregame pump-up music for depressed robot assassins. If all Dubstep sounded this good, my nickname at work wouldn’t be “Tin Ears.”

Written by wholewheatwords

July 20, 2007 at 5:14 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

The Benthic Life

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Abundant clarity, oh! I do not belong here. Stop looking at me like my head is on fire. From the flophouse on the corner today came a boy who smiled like a psychopath and lurched quickly along the sidewalk. I see him occasionally as he sits on the porch drinking pink lemonade and smoking cigarettes. Another face. So many faces.

I am a nihilist of scale. Pond scum feels true love for pond scum, but to what end? Better cyanobacteria adrift forever. Better never progressing beyond the Proterozoic, the Hadean. Perhaps cyanobacteria at any rate. Never free from chemicals, always under influence of dopamine and serotonin: Logic is flawed at the point of origination. Bury me in Challenger Deep. Let my back sink into diatomaceous ooze. Let the pressure crush my eyes like peeled grapes in a shop vise, let great forces of physical law chew and swallow my body.

I had a waking dream at work, about five days ago. I put down my sanding block and the room became very bright, the shape of an open doorway almost blinding me. Sepia replaced colour. The door opened, and the factory flooded with golden water. It engulfed my ankles, but I felt only a cool numbness. The sanding table floated away, and I walked toward the door, following the light. Then it was lunch time. I had two cottage cheese sandwiches on whole-grain bread, and a handful of cherries. After lunch I sanded some more. My socks were wet when I came home, so I washed them and hung them out to dry on the line.

A report from the field; today it tried to rain. Plants will grow. An extrapolation into the future, through windowpanes and ribcages when the lights fall finally, exhausted. Lemon jelly candies in the night, squarish, going off in ones and twos with a sigh.

“Sorry,” they’ll say as they dim and disappear. “Sorry, but we are all so very, very tired of looking at you.”

Written by wholewheatwords

July 14, 2007 at 8:39 pm

Posted in Uncategorized