Tidal

What's that all balled up and thrown down the memory hole, anyway? Gotta be something we tried to remember, right? That's the point and all that. But balling up and chucking a memory into the memory hole is a sure way of misremembering.

It's like: I spent some time, some time ago, in a quiet, special part of the world. And I loved that place, that quiet, special place.

And I love it so much, I put it all down to memory. Every little thing about it. The nice familiar blue color of the sky when it was early in the afternoon. The loud sounds the trees made when they scraped against each other as they swayed because of being pushed and jostled by the wind. The old man's beard that dropped from limbs of big, tall, wet trees and slithered against my cheeks and naked backside. The way that everything, everything, everything smelled like Pepsi Cola gone flat.

Man that was a good time. You know?

So I put down all that stuff to memory. And then I stuffed it in my bag.

And it got all balled up, right? All wrinkled and balled up.

And I put it in the memory hole.

And fuck it if the Pepsi Cola didn't slither. And my backside wasn't afternoon blue. And the trees didn't smelled like scrapes of my old man's beard. And I didn't sway so much I got positively seasick.

I just don't know how that happened.

Or how it happened again, because here we are, looking at a balled up memory in the memory hole.

I'll have to check on it, and tell you what's in there. I'll get back to you when I do.

Maybe then I'll be able to blog properly.

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I really enjoyed tidal. Read it.

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The Ghost Train



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If a person ever puts a gun to me head and says, "Rap. Rap an entire song by a hip hop artist, start to finish, or I will kill you," I will be able to do this one:



I will live.

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I used to go see my friend Michael play shows in Seattle, and he played this song all the time. I don't think I ever get tired of hearing it.