Sunday, October 19, 2014

Saturday, October 18, 2014

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Correspondence (4)


Let it be good to yourself

The exorcism  of Wu-tang  mountain    jam   jam jam jam    flow     elsewhere   woke up       in my   subtle   tokenism   with a casual  urge  to conquer  all sufferers    disguised as  ourselves

Masters  of running  clubs     nightclubs    private  temples      Booker Little  sound valves , apostles but

Nigga you still ain't mysterious      (I mean, abstract)     Massah  I mean    messiah   be mean to his own true style   just to get    a good trap   on the capital

So it was fun, to be in the future  

Inanimate dancer   some surly clouds  overhead like mammy robot arms /  O Oprah, what have you done

to the future,  what have you done to the suburbs     they're  underneath her  like   layer  cakes or tourists rubbing   a brass actor  buddha/ high speed dubbed to wu-tang   discussions  ,  what have you done    to the  rappers     distracted children    of  Japanese   immersion         gives    him the chills   when you     give  away   cars  


Ritual     In the keeping   of soul  in tact  there  are neurotic  repetitive   magics   that show up   as  disdain  for the outside   world      a hidden language   so busy it cannot communicate.  I think our double icons (devil/god/ cons)   are the purveyors  of that  speech     and their ritual   is to fall  victim  to  the  ambivalence  as proof   of the eternal  worthlessness   of  struggle.   Struggle   is just a mode of production    superior to carelessness   , inferior   to terror      maybe.    All is full of love this way, by a strange default we join under : transcendence.  The water of our tendencies.    And   the ritual  of checking  things   has its  own scene  in the  arkive.    To wake up craving images   above even oranges,   is   a large    hybrid    of  afterlife and unlearned righteousness.    It begins   feeling imperative  to   have   one  subject    to wake up  to (as)       and trust  it's  image in handcuffs   on the internet   /   to imagine Cornel West    has   a   personal    life   nothing  like the public   one   is crucial  to the survival  or ritual  
 in a land where the sun kills questions.  

Monday, October 13, 2014

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Correspondence (3)

Summary :   Love,  the most natural painkiller there is, love.  Monk quotes Burroughs to Nica , his extravagant confident,  and Nelly, his wife, in identical choked up letters toward the start of his so-called ending, trying to explain what premature retirement meant to him, that the public eye was a threat to the survival of love.  As suggested  earlier, the correspondence is vast.   The shadows take shape and we see the pianist taking notes on the shaping     

"Mind Rain 

Mind Rain 

Mind Rain 

Mind drain 

Mined drained

Mine. d   reign        ( too   easy      )    to easily   deranged   by  the mind     some hearts can be   ,

I believe  in  ( midlife  )    resurrection.  "      He   writes.       To the jazz industry in crisis

"I'm not as strange and mystical  as I seem   but  the  parody   pays  well       I like to sit around at home   and nurse   my dazes   until   they break    into   music while my son plays values on the drums Art Blakey gave him    

Don't wanna go out like those   beat  writers, getting  famous for things you're supposed to hide      futures we have yet to achieve   and untrue   love.  Wild motherfuckers  but temporary."     We find Theolonious was a lucid and most discerning   salesman     collapsing  aloof  into candor   and melody   into rumor,   using silence   the way a hype man uses  an  announcement        to  thrill   and bide.       

Highlights:   There are telegrams from Duke Ellington to Monk begging him to stop stealing his stuff. Jokingly, admiringly.    There's a collection of photos of hats from fashion magazines   with notes  for new compositions slashing through the photos, appearing as tempos appear. There are letters to his mother   thanking her for being so patient with him, recipes for lamb and chicken liver written  on club napkins, copyright forms for compositions that he never had the chance to transcribe, juice recipes Nelly suggested he try written in the margins of his dream diary  wherein he recounts  a recurring dream about being on stage mid concert and turning into a tiger in a cage made of tacky satin ribbons that he is meant to pave   with iron and will  until   he disappears    and wakes  up in the phrase   we sell the shadow to protect  the substance. 

We sell the shadow to support the substance