Saturday, May 15, 2004
Dear Chunk Fuckler,
A screaming trombone woke me from a dream about being in a bad 1950s guitar pop quartet this morning. Never in my life had a I been more relieved--the thought of such preposterously swiffed hair on my own head is too much to bear (what with my premature baldness and its accompanying set of neuroses). The trombone was a new acquisition of my wife's; in recent weeks she has taken to collecting musical instruments. All of them. For a symphony, she says, (that she has written? that she will write? the work of some long-dead composer? and will this event occur in our house? [there seems to be an awful lot of practicing taking place here]; all these are questions she never answers, murdering any further conversation with what I knew was intended to be a haughty swing of the head but in execution resembled a Tourettic twitch).
I've lapsed into a sort of wandering stupor that continues to float slowly even when I sit down. Attempts at contemplation of this woozy drift lead only to a sort of circular swirling of vertical and horizontal, a kaleidoscoping of perspective that often results in my falling unsteadily from whatever surface I happen to be seated upon. My ears somehow clog. Far, far away in the deep wet hollows of my brain a tiny noise, the high voice of my grandmother, bravely holding a steady syllable against a swarming rack of phased distortion: 'eeeeeeeeeee'
Neither synthetic nor organic remedies seem to be of any use. Please consult those with pharmaceutical and/or shamanical expertise.
I hope you are doing well.
Overly Intellectual and Rather Masturbatory Literary Reference,
Shlip Lackley
A screaming trombone woke me from a dream about being in a bad 1950s guitar pop quartet this morning. Never in my life had a I been more relieved--the thought of such preposterously swiffed hair on my own head is too much to bear (what with my premature baldness and its accompanying set of neuroses). The trombone was a new acquisition of my wife's; in recent weeks she has taken to collecting musical instruments. All of them. For a symphony, she says, (that she has written? that she will write? the work of some long-dead composer? and will this event occur in our house? [there seems to be an awful lot of practicing taking place here]; all these are questions she never answers, murdering any further conversation with what I knew was intended to be a haughty swing of the head but in execution resembled a Tourettic twitch).
I've lapsed into a sort of wandering stupor that continues to float slowly even when I sit down. Attempts at contemplation of this woozy drift lead only to a sort of circular swirling of vertical and horizontal, a kaleidoscoping of perspective that often results in my falling unsteadily from whatever surface I happen to be seated upon. My ears somehow clog. Far, far away in the deep wet hollows of my brain a tiny noise, the high voice of my grandmother, bravely holding a steady syllable against a swarming rack of phased distortion: 'eeeeeeeeeee'
Neither synthetic nor organic remedies seem to be of any use. Please consult those with pharmaceutical and/or shamanical expertise.
I hope you are doing well.
Overly Intellectual and Rather Masturbatory Literary Reference,
Shlip Lackley
