Tuesday, October 1, 2013

a single watery line down into the base of the picture





Was it a dream? It was an image of sorts, and it must've presented itself, and prevented itself, in first notice, as some version of a dream, but, the heavy metal arm of the enormous record player was being fought over by two imps who, were sometimes four imps, and at other times, six imps, and their 'war of history' made a horrible screeching racket as the head and tip of the needle were unceremoniously raked and scratched across the surface of time, the record, as it was called. The main chassis of the record-player evidently was perfectly square, and was hewn from a wood I was not yet familiar with, something you might call 'flag maple', for every surface seemed to have captured some sense of flowing banderole. The unit sat on a marble base which excruciatingly extended down, the surfaces forming one smooth plane, as if stone had modulated into wood in a creaseless, seamless, singularity. There were only two buttons visible on the unit, and they were on the marble base; two brass masks with glowing inset eyes and mouths, one laughing, the other crying, the classical binary of tragedic consciousness. They were both depressed, as if it took both being pressed in to work, and also as if, there were no external means for turning the machine off once the record was spinning. And while you thought at times, the sound of the imps' warrings was starting to make a rhythm, or a lyrical motif, in fact, the closer you listened, the more profoundly the composition became a decomposition of any known structure or form, a digressing, punctuated by lyrical rents, that were only lyrical by virtue of their terrible violence which because of the construction of your nervous system became exquisitely beautiful, and yet, terrible, by some unknown method, as you knew there must be some awful meaning attached as the needle traversed the grooves of good sense, or whatever sense they had, that an imp was in command, was the demon dancing armed, and the single diamond point of its subject. And there you stood in a body of stone, with those wet human eyes, and imagine your surprise when they rotated you away from the terrible ritual one day to see the sky, between the columns of the porticoe, which like black metal piano instestines were music engines, blasting flames like nerves which blossomed in black flowers of smoke, and the sound was like a gritting of teeth extended, like twin snake-skeletons of onyx whose vertebral keys were catches which crossed, and which extracted percussive force as they traversed one another, and that sound was your neck, which housed only a single watery line down, into the base of the picture.