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Mumbled answers---crooked periodic tables---lucid dreams--Black Tea-The Messenger.
It's barely enough to write words to transcend the material, and all the tedium it doesn't deserve. Yesterday I saw, heard Erykah Badu say how making music, and even singing it, is selfish. And then what disturbance must bear the irritation of writing about a techno record? Few. It could be a signal so suppressed by the weight of a hand as to seem unfathomable, without being able to disappear. Thus, my stubborn tedium sublimates into the light sound of an important name, in a collage, in a letter, in a speech. Circles, ellipses, sinuous waves, were not enough to shake my detachment, yet first the color, then the warmth, and the taste of the broth at dinner evoke them.
This cosmonaut, Luke Slater, coming from who knows which interzone, has navigated enough to want to communicate something. This something can be written about, it can be danced to. Symbols can be transformed into curves that extend into the minds of human beings like us, and beyond them, on a sheet if you like. Only techno, only 20 (or just over) miserable years of history, beyond all time, all space. Enjoy Listening.
Now the hand releases the grip. The signal becomes something new, it amplifies, it grows.
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