Wednesday, 1 July 2009

Nescesarry meanderings for an age-old acquaintance....

Dearest Wud,

A midweek holiday has allowed me to be both stupidly drunk and beautifully high, simultaneously, at this point in the ambient early evening period of what was meant to be just another grimy Wednesday working for The Man. Thus, it came as quite a shock to be given the day off, fully paid and at very late notice, in order that the office be fumigated after a seeming infestation of wild guinea fowl. Game birds, nonetheless, and worth a tidy fortune if caught live and hand delivered to the nearest high-class butchery. However, the mere thought of stomping down Sauchiehall Street with a screaming black bag trailing behind me, a terrified family of wild birds thrashing around on the wet tarmac, fills me with the grating fear that someone may actually notice this attempted manoeuvre, mid-heist, before challenging me verbally. Of course, it would take someone with a keen sense of concentration and an uncommonly good knowledge of the sounds and noises most closley associated with guinea fowl in order to make such a devestating connection, but these bastards DO exist. Believe me.

Anyway, I’m shooting off on tangents here about things I hadn’t previously even considered putting to paper, so I will try to get straight to the point. Ah, the point. The glistening apex at the very tip of a custom-made steel lance, forged from fresh Hawaii magma flows and the cool blood of rare Marine Iguanas. Jesus. Wild and unnatural skewed tangents. Get it together. Is it possible to overdose on Afghani hasish and Red Bull? Christ. Composure is the key here. Walk the line. Deep breaths....

Ah, back on track. I today received your correspondence, and have listened to the enclosed compiltion album; the reminiscently entitled “Destroying the Lizard - Revisited”. I would like to suggest, at this point, that the very first time you hear a song you love, a shudder reverberates along ones spinal cord and it feels as if you’ve known it all your life - because music is so deeply entrenched in the soul, and the soul, as any experienced voyager will recollect, is eternal.... And there are a number of such infinite-sounds on this album. I don't think that such heady levels of praise are conjured up all too often in the world we now find ourselves in, even from this natural born optimist, so accept it like a hungry merekat would a fat young ant larvae.

I’m genuinely struggling to focus on the screen now and my neck seems to spasming gently, almost hypnotically in its convulsions, like the blurred on-set of a mild and pleasurable stroke. This may be serious.

On that potentially brutal note, I’ll leave you with the following short passage which successfully portrays my general thoughts toward the album in six words:

Jefferson Airplane. Today. Blew my mind.

And below, laid-out with almost military precision, a fine selection of phrases which convey more of a story, in six well placed words, than most world-class novelists could manage in a War & Peace-esque epic:

- Yesterday always comes too soon
- For sale: baby shoes, never worn *

Adios for now Scud-Rug,


* Hemmingway said the one about the shoes. I don’t want to take undeserved credit, and I always feel referencing ones work does wonders for the academic glue of the piece as a whole. By the way, I don’t think the baby died. I prefer to think the parents merely made a fuck-up in their shoe size expectations. Nothing darker than a simple miscalculation.

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