Synaesthetic Monk's Blues

Phantasmagoria, magic lantern shows, spectacles without substance. They achieved complete sensory experiences through noise, incense, lightening, water. There may be a time when we'll attend Weather Theaters to recall the sensation of rain.

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Location: Ithaca, New York, United States

The main thing a musician would like to do, is to give a picture to the listener of the many wonderful things he knows of and senses in the universe... I'm using the insides of sounds to move around in a very subtle way which, I think, ends up being inevitable. I feel it's the only solution to that particular problem that I presented myself.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

sometimes I get struck by the absurdity of it all, and can't help but just put on Ahmad Jamal and busy myself with crafting a spliff. it helps that some people dig that - take Naeem for instance. I cornered him last week, after Election Day, and told him of how the scene during Obama's acceptance speech echoed Leni Riefenstahl's visual treatment of the 6th Naziparteit Congress at Nuremberg, 1934. I asked him for a quotation on the new President of the US. He smiled cheekily replying, "he's just the war criminal elect". In the same breath, he told me to acquire a Joe Farrell album with Herbie Hancock and Steve Gadd. Funky shaet ja?

With all the shit that I have to do, and everything's that going on in my life, I still get a kick out of seeing my investments in boredom hold their market value. Maybe the absurd tends towards beauty? I certainly can see it - whether I choose to embrace it or not is a different matter altogether of course.

And now I have a deadline coming up after which I'm expected to sell-out and reintegrate and reconcile to that which has been, and to the that which is yet to be. Time has never been on my side anyway. To what effect can I meaningfully communicate to you anonymous reader, the absurd paradoxes of life?

Saturday morning, and pink boners, and rubber duckies in her bathtub, and Alice on ganja. does that strike you as beautiful? sublime? It strikes me as fairly absurd man - I should have been writing a knowledge base in Prolog to compute John's ideal woman (who is supposed to be blonde, blue-eyed, tall and slender, so I'm thinking maybe John is really Joseph Goebbels). But hey, I gotta get my share of erotica for the day y'know? In the quiet words of the Virgin Mary (thanks Bricktop), I had to come again.

Last evening I resisted the urge to go out and indulge in the mindless absurdity of a rainy Saturday evening, and decided to kick it for most of the time. But as I sat there listening to Joe Pass, an absurd nostalgia took over. I remembered a song that my mother sings once in a while (I wish she would sing more often, and get back into a disciplined study of North Indian classical music, but she has an equally absurd family to deal with). An old song yes called Ajeeb Dastan Hain Yeh, from a 1960's Bollywood movie titled Dil Apna Aur Preet Parai (I have no idea what that means btw). I realized that I had never heard the original song ever, just my mother sing it at get-together's at my house while I'd be forced to accompany her on guitar (and how I hated doing that, it was some crappy hindi song after all). And yet last evening I got completely immersed in making a jazz arrangement on guitar for that song. Shit turned out to be way harder than I thought - what with trying to take incorporate both the melody and the chordal movements in one voice.

How fucking absurd is that eh? Or maybe my memory is treacherous. My experiences all tainted by an overarching lust for forgotten power and unattainable dreams. Hey, I still dig it though, I wouldn't have it any other way y'know? I can only deal with caricatures of people now, most of them. It's impossible to know them anymore otherwise. I mean if we can't really communicate honestly anymore can we? I mean we should be fucking each other instead or playing music together, or cooking in order to that. The few who escape that, I will soon leave, maybe forever. Or maybe I'll convince them to join me in forming a traveling entourage of folk musicians and circus freaks and run away to Andulasia or Morocco. Probably not, my main man JD will probably send snipers to hunt my ass down and set me up to become an investment funds manager or analyst. Fuck!

Someday I'll recapture my sanity or what little I had to begin with, and write a book, and it will be much better than this shit that I've got going on here I can tell you that. My agent introduced me to my publisher the other night while I was dreaming, and prefaced it saying that he was a real hip cat, he works for some militant Islamic organization now. This is what he had to say:

Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk? His whole abdomen would move up and down you dig farting out the words. It was unlike anything I ever heard.

This ass talk had sort of a gut frequency. It hit you right down there like you gotta go. You know when the old colon gives you the elbow and it feels sorta cold inside, and you know all you have to do is turn loose? Well this talking hit you right down there, a bubbly, thick stagnant sound, a sound you could smell.

This man worked for a carnival you dig, and to start with it was like a novelty ventriliquist act. Real funny, too, at first. He had a number he called “The Better ‘Ole” that was a scream, I tell you. I forget most of it but it was clever. Like, “Oh I say, are you still down there, old thing?”

“Nah I had to go relieve myself.”

After a while the ass start talking on its own. He would go in without anything prepared and his ass would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time.

Then it developed sort of teeth-like little raspy in-curving hooks and started eating. He thought this was cute at first and built an act around it, but the asshole would eat its way through his pants and start talking on the street, shouting out it wanted equal rights. It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags nobody loved it and it wanted to be kissed same as any other mouth. Finally it talked all the time day and night, you could hear him for blocks screaming at it to shut up, and beating it with his fist, and sticking candles up it, but nothing did any good and the asshole said to him: “It’s you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we dont need you around here any more. I can talk and eat and shit.”

After that he began waking up in the morning with a transparent jelly like a tadpole’s tail all over his mouth. This jelly was what the scientists call un-D.T., Undifferentiated Tissue, which can grow into any kind of flesh on the human body. He would tear it off his mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands like burning gasoline jelly and grow there, grow anywhere on him a glob of it fell. So finally his mouth sealed over, and the whole head would have have amputated spontaneously except for the eyes you dig. That's one thing the asshole couldn’t do was see. It needed the eyes. But nerve connections were blocked and infiltrated and atrophied so the brain couldn’t give orders any more. It was trapped in the skull, sealed off. For a while you could see the silent, helpless suffering of the brain behind the eyes, then finally the brain must have died, because the eyes went out, and there was no more feeling in them than a crab’s eyes on the end of a stalk
Shit, can I trust this dude to market my book? You tell me.