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A memory of days in the wild
I was startled by the sound when i first heard it, something new, an addition to this place where i dwell now, far from my home and then, later, the next day perhaps i was startled once more and jerked my head trying to find its source, wondering what it was as i slowly began to feel that i had heard it before, a faint memory rising to the surface, as if i had heard it once, out in the wild, a long time ago. what did it mean, this ghostly noise, was it the same then as now? i did not recall, and then i forgot, my mind coming back to the present until i kept hearing it again, some time later. it krept among the sounds i knew so well, the sounds i was accustomed with: the noises of my peers, their chittering and chanting, the flapping of their wings, the sound of them gliding through the air. and then suddenly there’s that sound again, i turn my head whenever i hear it, but yet i can never make out the source. perhaps the sounds are only in my head, a memory of days in the wild, a trick of the mind, or my mind failing as i’m growing older, as every moment moves me further from the memory of that sound. there it is again. after a while the sound became ominous and i began to cower whenever i heard it and so did some of the others, but not all of them, only us older ones, not the younger ones. i think it was the younger ones at least.
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Texture maps & actions
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A bag of pasta
there’s a bag of pasta in the fridge i’ve eaten everything else all there is now is this bag of pasta i check the date it’s a bit past but not too long i’m confident it’s still good so i open the bag it’s plastic a thick clear layer in which the pasta slides around if i move the bag or else it just sits there and degrades day by day very slowly because my fridge is so cold but now it’s on the kitchen board i cut open the bag the metal scissors slice through the membrane of thick shiny plastic transparent but shiny and shiny too are the pieces of pasta as i slide them on a plate now the plastic bag is empty or not quite it’s greasy and oily pasta residue sticks to its insides if i squeeze it or bend it i can see the slither of oil across the inner surface of the pastic bag i stick my finger into it it feels cold and slick the greasy substance rubs off on my finger i put more fingers inside and now they are weirdly slimy lubricated by the pasta oil and grease my fingers now smell faintly of olives or whatever they use probably not olives but cheap sunflower oil anyway it’s a strange smell and i’m unsure if i should taste it but then i lick carefully on my pasta grease stained fingers and it tastes indistinct faintly plasticky and oily but at least not stale i imagine it to be the taste of low tier olives low tier but still olives and now i feel remorse for having tasted my fingers because now my tongue feels coated in pasta oil and plastic why do i keep making these bad choices now i turn to the pasta on the plate and i pick one up it feels cold and soft and sticky i squeeze it but not too hard just so i can feel the texture of the filling through the pasta the filling is lumpy small ground bits of what exactly i’m not sure i wasn’t paying attention i was just hungry or curious perhaps more curious than hungry wondering how the pasta would feel traveling from my mouth passing through my throat down into my stomach or else if eating the contents of this bag would somehow make me feel any different than before i cut open the bag and now i squeeze the pasta again and i try to peel it open to see inside it and figure out its content or flavour these terms used synonymously as if they were the same thing and one thing would not taste very different in various stages of degradation or ripeness i wonder if these are synonyms as well as my finger probes the cold and wet texture inside the pasta it is something minced a substance ground beyond cohesion as if approaching atom level as if taste would apply to solid food and flavour to its components and the contents of this bag are all shrinking components at this stage they are a red and pink substance perhaps this is meat and there is something white it glistens i assume this is fat that i feel under the pressure of my fingers it smells weird and metallic and i wonder if i should taste it as well but instead i stick my finger into the open piece of pasta with slow unwavering force until it bursts the back of the pasta and its filling spills out and saps down the soggy bits of wheat dough that formerly contained it
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Few gifs have shaped the fate of a whole civilization more decisively than this, although it had to be discarded before the new era could begin
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To explain it, or to in any way connect it
on the face of this earth my role is merely
as experiencer, writer, with a need and
my experience. I want to tell you what I hear.Wiggles his ears to music. The experience.
If it were, we could concern ourselves with sound
exclusion of all else that musicians might
realize. We listen partly with our memories,
to clash and sing with the patterns already.
We listen somewhat with our bodies, responding
to the nervous energy and emotional
release; we listen mostly with our souls,
a sort of magical matrix that, passing over,
can bring us together, can make us
whole. A piece of music that happens to a
timpani will seldom tell the
critic if there can be such notes.To you, probably as many times
each time, it will be
the music of subways.
No attempt is.
The listener is.
Integrate this.It’s exciting
playing this record
spun. Playing it for
playing it for yourself
or it may be more like
life goes on below. It is made
helpless by an exciting
development in the
head. What is and isn’t.
Whatever it is you’re
of motion, and are left
only certain knowledge,
beginning to end.This could be true:
that it is so
past experience.
Origins,
then
key to. -
Amorbach, California
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Rei Ayanami running with toast in her mouth daily
