Saturday November 11, 2017

Society wants to know why it ought to keep me alive. Where lies my offering of beauty, joy, or wisdom? What do I bequeath to that which made me? “Gimme a break,” I reply, “I’m working on it.” Give the rest of your soul, murmurs a frequency, you are of the Jedi. So begins my dialogue with a new batch of cassettes from Seagrave, each tape featuring artwork by Greek artist George Tourlas.

Why is time for contemplation a thing we must earn with the sacrifice, the burnt offering unto Moloch, of untold labor-hours across an ever dwindling lifetime? The self wishes to throw a fit. Gather your things, friends. It’s time we allow ourselves to take a hike. All went according to plan as I listened and allowed others to listen to Wayne Koestenbaum stir up embers of trans-cognitive inner speech. Such poise. Chatty allusions. Torrents of unexplained wallpaper of consciousness. Wayne, his polyester shirt an explosion of psychedelic flowers, delivers with great confidence his performance of self. He moves incrementally through words. Easy to love, difficult to theorize. Exegesis, or the Judaic practice of commentary, is a practice of love that can destroy the way logic rivets. Toward the idea we express wonder, he reads, even as we move to dismiss it. Ethnographic self-investigation of desire. Dinner followed in what looked like a room from the Overlook Hotel. My dream-song for the evening, the song I would have played at the dinner had I scored it (and in a sense I do play it, just in retrospect) is “Up on the Sun” by Meat Puppets. Dreams they keep us free. At some point, though, we’ll need to pay our respects to Tonto’s Expanding Head Band. Inner-space movie soundtracks from a consciousness still in its youth. Wayne sometimes warmed himself by donning over his polyester shirt an ancient red zippered hoodie. A female friend spoke of a practice of her family’s when she was young called “contact improv.” The table replied as if by ideomotor response, diners all sharing happy tales from childhood. There was a time, I told them, imprinted now in my earliest memories, when my parents and I would dance together with great abandon to my first two favorite records, the soundtracks to Annie and The Rose. The dinner ended with large slices of chocolate cake, after which point we who were in attendance took leave of one another, exchanging fond goodbyes.

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