records from last year

'iconographical studies in a continuous present' or something. This was going to be a year-end kind of thing but it ran a bit late

[recordsfromlastyear]

<a href="http://highwolf.bandcamp.com/album/know-thyself" data-mce-href="http://highwolf.bandcamp.com/album/know-thyself">Know Thyself by High Wolf</a>

I’ve been meditating by this waterfall now for maybe 15yrs. Tourists in NASA t-shirts are walking past me. They’re talking, saying we are around 500 light-seconds from the sun. Clouds of insects are hovering around me and the nearby trees. I have a gold leaf sun carefully stuck onto my forehead. One of the tourists is tapping me on the shoulder and pointing at the roof, which looks like the nose of a rocket. I’m making calculations in my head, keeping the figures in mind. The public announcement system around here seems to be malfunctioning. The mayor’s voice is blowing through from hidden speakers. The tourists have formed a circle around me. I can’t stop nodding. A wind chime has started clattering. I’m floating 15cm off the ground.

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[The guy behind High Wolf had all his gear stolen a month or so ago so please do consider buying some mp3s, they're really good]

[recordsfromlastyear]

There’s a big fire with animal bones, some large bits of coral dried out. That’s a storm closing in. I’m carving something into the pub table. The TV cut out a few minutes ago but the shipping forecast is on on repeat. They’re bringing in firewood which is still alive and covered in leaves and moss. I’m wandering round on the village green, the sun’s starting to come out a bit. You’re taking off your overcoat. My chair’s legs are splintered from a cat scratching them. A few mushrooms have emerged from the moss. Someone’s turned up the shipping forecast, it repeats for the fifth or sixth time. I‘m at the top of the hill looking down. The pub is lit up by a single ray of light. The grandfather clock chimes for the hour, but it’s actually a bit later than that. A drunk’s trying to play the piano but it’s massively out of tune, the strings are rusty I think. He’s shut the lid over the keys and put his pint down onto it, it slides off and breaks over the carpet. I left my wallet on the bar. When I go to pick it up all my coins fall out. I receive a text message. The barkeep has left the tap on, the floor behind the bar is a few inches deep in lager. The chef throws a vat of soup through the front window and the cold starts coming in, the lights are sort of flickering. I’m scattering cutlery over the floor and packets of sauces. Now it’s dark inside I leave, the chalk man carved into the hillside is still clearly visible. People are turning their lights on in their living rooms but aren’t really closing their curtains. I can see people drinking tea and eating toast with jam. I’ve thrown my jacket onto a compost heap. There are a few wreaths on the war memorial, I’m picking one up and put it on. Every time I feel compelled to do this. I feel strangely aware of the stonework here. The electric is almost out, I need to buy more credit. Fog is starting to descend from the sea, the clock on the church’s shrouded a bit now. The door is warped and heavy but I can just about get it closed again after me.

[recordsfromlastyear]

It’s pretty dark, I’m pretending the motorway is space but more a black hole than anything. I’m not sure why we have to be driving. You’re busy drawing grids onto your face with eyeliner pencil. I’m drinking some gas station coffee with no sugar. Someone’s blacked out the distances on the road signs, and there’s no-one else really on the road. I can see a vague constellation made up of satellites. You tell me to stop tapping on the dashboard, the man on the travel news is just screaming now. I think there’s something caught in the car door. There aren’t any traffic lights at the crossroads so we’ll have to hope for the best. Motorbikes keep squealing past. We leave the engine running and stand around, we can see our breath. You’re wiping mud off the bottom of your trenchcoat. My hands are smeared with coal, and all I can taste is sulphur. You make a joke about ‘route 666’ but no-one laughs, someone else is just saying ‘kvltmische’ over and over. A man in a suit is methodically pointing at pedestrians, eliciting shouts of abuse. You’re beating the shit out of a cigarette machine. We’re dancing in a basement somewhere in the warehouse district, across the road someone’s blasting techno but all we can hear is the bass. The neon lights are unreadable, just straight lines at right angles. You’ve started swaying without moving your arms, eyes closed. We place our hands together and feel a deep buzzing. We’re watching streams of rear lights go past in the reflection of a shop window.  Between us I’m not really sure this is a good idea. You’ve emptied a pocketful of bolts into the gutter. You’re locking me into a small crate.

[recordsfromlastyear]

I’m drawing out elaborate patterns with a biro, a National Geographic -type documentary on in the background. I’m trying to find a 9V battery in a drawer full of ribbons. I’m strewing cut flowers all over the floor of the kitchen-dining room. I’m washing an animal skull clean while I cook rice with a little salt. I’m shouting at the children playing with the chickens. I’m setting up a tent next to the parked car, and lying on the long grass. I’m hiking up the mountain trail. The night sky now is especially clear. I’m imagining a traditional ceremony in the centre of a village, near a temple or ziggurat, me tracing a planet with rings into the dirt with a long stick, a few moons and a sun at the centre. I’m holding a big rock like a sun. I’m seeing my own face projected onto it. I’m dancing feverishly, whirling so my sarong fans out into a circle. I’ve painted my face with red clay. I’m playing some fingerstyle guitar before settling down for the night. This book about astral projection says to ‘focus your energy into a point some distance in front of your forehead’. There’s a whole group of us all standing in a circle chanting the solo from ‘Maggot Brain’. I’ve drunk so much coffee that my skin is humming with energy. I’m blinking slowly and deliberately. I’m putting all other things out of my mind.

[recordsfromlastyear]

I’m working out the details of having a glass mausoleum built. I’m eating some fruit loops. I’m wearing the glasses that came with the 3D TV in the crisp, clear morning. We could maybe play golf, walking straight through the sprinkler systems. I’m taking all my clothes off and putting them onto a saguaro. I’m driving on a very flat road past lots of gated communities, the windows down. There’s nobody walking. I’ve paid a skywriter to write my name, but I can only see other vapour trails, perfect white lines. I’m watching the DVD player in the headrest. I’m buying a Bud Light Lime from a gas station and drinking it. I’m hanging out outside a mall or stripmall. I’m burying my face in the leather seats. I’m putting on Diprobase for my eczema. A smooth jazz Sirius station is on, I switch it to the travel news. There’s a pile of escort call cards in the glove compartment that some bro left as a joke, and a cashmere scarf somewhere under the seat. I’m visualising a leopard-print VIP section. I gave you a giant piece of turquoise to wear. There are mountains, but only on the horizon. I’m wearing prayer flags as a head band.

[recordsfromlastyear]

The ocean is mostly still as I walk on its surface. The water’s soaking through the seams of my shoes. There’s mist coming off the water at points nearer the coastline, some cormorants overhead in a cross formation. A huge military boat is coming out of an outlet. I’m starting to run. The open water is less calm. I can’t see any shoals of fish underneath me, but my shoes are covered in barnacles. I’m reciting the last rites for men lost at sea. I empty my pockets. Somewhere in the mist a horn blows loudly for quite a long time. I can see what looks like fairly severe weather conditions closer to land. I’m curving my path to avoid an outcrop of rocks. When I lose sight of them I stop. I’m standing still and sinking at a steady rate, my jeans getting heavy.

[recordsfromlastyear]

We can see the cooling towers from the motorway, maybe a traffic jam on the M4. Something’s been spraypainted onto the side of a bridge, it says ‘short-circuit a CCTV camera’. There are lines of people crossing the road, climbing up the banks. We’ve pulled over for a bit and I’m balancing on the rail, doing a cartwheel along it. I want to sit on the cab of a lorry, the driver steadily speeding up. Maybe I should’ve gotten a train. Now we’re on a bridge over the grey mouth of a river, a few seagulls in formation below. I’m trying to send a message by tapping on the window. The car feels like it’s bouncing, but actually isn’t. I beat on the dashboard until the airbag pops and the LED digits are scrolling backwards. Something in the door is buzzing, going at this one exact rate. I’m now hovering somewhere above the sunroof. I’m seeing the dotted lines running off in grids, endless streetlamps turning on and off. We’re stopped in a multistorey car park and it’s quite windy. I’m sitting on top of the car now. The lift’s probably not working.

[recordsfromlastyear]

I’ve eaten quite a lot of mushrooms and I think they’re probably  going to kill me, I’m now brewing a mushroom tea in a  brown marbled teapot. At the top of the ridge someone's blasting Crazy Horse in a derelict meeting house. Standing in the ferns I’m taking a golden-yellow piss. I walk through the remains of a fire leaving thick resin on the soles of my feet. I’m smearing berries onto my arms and face. I’m trying really hard not to scratch my face. I come out onto a road and immediately cross over, back into woods. I’ve climbed a tree and am staying alert crouched in the crook of its branches, its bark is rough and there are sigils carved into it. Here’s the neck of a bottle, broken off. Everything is going wavy.

[recordsfromlastyear]

We’re carrying huge blocks of ice tied up with laptop cables. This is through tobacco fields, and some dude rancher in a mustang’s gunna drive by. It maybe wasn’t such a good plan to leave the nearest city, there’s so much light pollution at night. Back at the house I’m boiling vegetables with a little bit of honey. It stopped raining a while ago but the phone signal out here isn’t great. I wrote you a letter on torn-out bible pages and you read it a few times, I could see you reading it. Back into town, then. In a low voice, I tell the child in a photo to stop crying.