August 2011
9 posts
“‘We had quickly discovered our common love of the instrument,’ Miles recalled, ‘and discussed the widespread contempt in which ukulele players are held—traceable, we concluded, to the uke’s all-but-exclusive employment as a producer of chords—single, timeless events apprehended all at once instead of serially. Notes of a linear melody, up and down a staff, being a record of pitch versus time, to play a melody is to introduce the element of time, and hence of mortality. Our perceived reluctance to leave the timelessness of the struck chord has earned ukulele players our reputation as feckless, clownlike children who will not grow up.’”
—Thomas Pynchon, Against The Day
I would like someone to write me a love song that rhymes “baby” with “trajectory”.
“I obey the body’s loudest voices without question, which tends to involve a certain amount of explicit heedlessness toward the quietest voices.”
—Joanna Newsom
A few days ago, some people between two to three feet high travelled through my room in an escape from the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Alas! Quite a number turned to look behind them, as expressly forbidden by God, and promptly turned into pillars of clothes. And that, friends, is why my room looks like this.
It was there for a moment, I’d swear it: a perfect face formed for less than a second by the vegetables in my soup. An unrepeatable event, a slip of the tongue, a too obvious message from the guardians of metaphor.
It’s only defense mechanisms that have us seeing faces in facelessness.
Soup is soup is soup.
