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: Balkan Fever-Dreaming, Moya
it is this simple: i will go to bulgaria and refuse to leave. i will hide in the mountains and woo the best goat herder who as it turns out also happens to possess a demonic ability to inflict such unbelievable devestation upon a woman that i am moved to acquire a firearm with the intent to drop in cold blood from now on any and all interference. my goat herder has a wonderfully sweet self-made spinster cousin who studies with brujas deeper in the wilderness and is also a master seamstress and i am to become her apprentice. she explains to me that my goat herder was mesmerised as a boy by the visceral experience of the plea so artfully communicated by the vocal stylings of the singer of "slow hand", and the subtle communion of shared wisdom implied by the quiet joining of additional voices in low harmony for the chorus. the mountains are riddled with hot springs, lovers and families idly pile stones while they soak and over the years these have formed sudsy grey-green frost coloured pools of slow-moving bliss where the boiling hot spring trickles into the chilly stream.
i think i've had some variation of this wildly self-indulgent fantasy on every continent; someplace in the australian bush or tasmanian jungle, patagonia, chukchi, tatarstan (yea baby!), senegal, zanzibar, wyoming, pitcairn island, etc. the most vivid aspects of the dreams are always the beautiful and amazing garments and furnishings and nets and such i learn to make from what exists around me and how much of that material i never realised existed around me, and of course the music the three of us make, surfaces pressed together bound wide, cords drawn of selves so tight and we are collapsing the air. it cannot be conveyed in words, cannot give audience, cannot be shared.
then great treks the longest slowest routes to the village, unsharing pace, eating alone from our solitary pockets at whim, practicing and practicing the world's only song, sudden naps, fussless sleeping or staring skyward, or thoughtlessly bouncing restless legs back up practicing and practicing increasing isolation hardening our little pipes of flesh and bone and spit radiant singular come the stars alone burning strong, invigorated and so alive in solitude to see and smell and taste and touch anything and everything, come into the village the stars stride alone and strong and ravishing and devoured blinkless instantly by a monstrous booming soaring howling organ riot ten thousand practiced polished sexy fucking vigorous pipes strong.
all the audience our sweet little alpine stream-slit valley can bear and then some, it is the best time in the world as we blow tourist fucking beans left and right and dance away a little of the stoop from an asphalt cooper's back and the pollen rubbing blood raw from a substitute teacher's sad sleepy eyes and for a while even an unsettlingly incongruous despair takes a break from the shadows of a beaming medical student finally understanding how easily forgotten freedom returns one to their senses, and it doesn't matter what happened on the first long walk they ever took because we were fucking amazing, we take the short way back home to the goats more longly with our common pace, my restless legs dragging me off the huddle noisily or aching grumpily under the auspices of the will to linger in sweetness. so that is the trek to the village i wrote home about, figuring sooper-frooty tolkienesquethnography will sound perfectly sensible to my western homies. i'm analysing the downshifted intimacies reconnecting Us to the roots of our rich traditions, yea. bacon with cheese over easy or wraparound with greasegun set on stun? omfd clementine you've got to let me know.
i don't write about the gun, the second gun, the crossbow i bought for my seamstress, the pistol for mi pistolero. one night he slipped it into bed with us, i couldn't believe it, lost humour forgot to appreciate the wild wind and froze. i was incapable of fear in that context, i mean we'd done way crazier shit with scars to prove it. but every hair on my body twisted itself stiff, it was almost agony reminding myself over and over that i know what i know and what i know is not changing in a meaningful way tonight. did i? i caught myself looking at the clock to check my subjectivity, there could not be too slow slow, something was incorrect. our awesomest village festival raked it in so obscenely no amount of gluttony put a dent in the winter, nothing like this had ever happened before. news of climate change getting serious any moment. but now it is spring out here where spring means business. o and nothing was wrong, my goat herder knew it was a dicey move for a swarthy rake to spring on a teeny western mind, everything had come so easy it seemed ludicrous we could derail so stupidly. what it came down to was i had no business combining gun possession with fruity ideation me shootem tax collector like listen last person to leave the west leave ruby ridge with it.
the magic had finally died, i lived in a smoky chilly damp stone hovel in west bumfuck nowhere with two ordinary humans and too many cats & dogs and three rotten teeth and ten extra years on my face and a bleach job that totally screamed communist bloc. i ached all over and i wanted a fucking... i couldn't actually place the food item, probably some sort of astronaut food. mi pistolero worked so fucking hard he probably wouldn't see 60. his cousin i couldn't tell, she probably already had cancer from sleeping by the coal pit, i probably had it for that matter. we were all dying way too fast. slow hand had fallen asleep, slumping the barrell of the big honking death monkey tool up my seam where it was probably keeping nice and warm. i was cold, but i thought about this. we were so fucking dirty, literally and figuratively.
he wasn't a backwoods bulgarian goat herder anymore, i wasn't.. whatever the fuck i was. stubbornly opposed to definition. how did i wind up with these two, out of the whole world, how did i end up here? my heart felt like screaming. it was incredible. i bounced the impulse to wake him up and revel in the freedom to beg beg beg for annnnnything... and stared up at the scary grubbiness of the ceiling with my eyes leaking their crazy brains out and some roaring burning churning agony of sweetness without release boiled in my chest as i spun slowly, flooding the room all up and down the electromagnetic spectrum. i was orgasming my eyes out, for real, eyeballs floating in the two gushing pools of warm saline cum flooding my eye sockets. no sobs, no gasps, no chokes, no cries, no pain, reflexes that save your life on a daily bases are on vacation or passed out or gently paralysed or something. it's how you cry in outer space.
especially humbling is the trip we three take along a path of tiny tiny differential grains stretched and kneaded in centuries-old, never-changing, ever-changing sonic evocation of the will of three small beings perfecting the terrible art of untangling and rethreading fragile lattices, existence. once we found ourselves twitching through a nervous workday rendered in brittle silouhette of a dutch marsh* too shallow for feet or flight. it became undismissably neccessary to compose and work into the dynamic segmentation paintpots of our linear referencing libretto a sober and deliberate thanks to the singular creature unto whose safekeeping we surrendered memory, our individual beings and desires, for the crotch-grab new-age frivolosity to venture deeper into our emergent child and its its hybrid surreality.
that was what the student did not do, exercise simple organs of perception, being, thinking, wanting, existing, experiencing. we ran the organs through the wringer and pulled them like taffy. i had a stray contempt toward the simpering tone endemic to thereveda, it dribbled all over everything the student seemed to think to say. it was utterly alien, or it was utterly incorrect. the student was not an alien, the student was incorrect. but back to the grain, the granular, the evolving a capella every day as we work or when it is so moonless we cover the fire and shush all the lamps so that we are so blind we can only trust memory to tell us we are all three still there as we have heard no footfalls, sometimes i sway a little so the shifting pressure of my feet against the ground re-orients my sense of direction, of up and down.
* in "lux dysthymia" there is a hudson valley painting described/explained? by one visitor in its particular booth to an unidentified other (also in booth i believe, narrator somewhat "mira, mira" toward them wrt the dimension-blistering painting looming right there beside them before momentum drains from narrator, sinking, coming to rest; an open-eyed, fully conscious oblivion for eternity.)
it is this simple: i will go to bulgaria and refuse to leave. i will hide in the mountains and woo the best goat herder who as it turns out also happens to possess a demonic ability to inflict such unbelievable devestation upon a woman that i am moved to acquire a firearm with the intent to drop in cold blood from now on any and all interference. my goat herder has a wonderfully sweet self-made spinster cousin who studies with brujas deeper in the wilderness and is also a master seamstress and i am to become her apprentice. she explains to me that my goat herder was mesmerised as a boy by the visceral experience of the plea so artfully communicated by the vocal stylings of the singer of "slow hand", and the subtle communion of shared wisdom implied by the quiet joining of additional voices in low harmony for the chorus. the mountains are riddled with hot springs, lovers and families idly pile stones while they soak and over the years these have formed sudsy grey-green frost coloured pools of slow-moving bliss where the boiling hot spring trickles into the chilly stream.
i think i've had some variation of this wildly self-indulgent fantasy on every continent; someplace in the australian bush or tasmanian jungle, patagonia, chukchi, tatarstan (yea baby!), senegal, zanzibar, wyoming, pitcairn island, etc. the most vivid aspects of the dreams are always the beautiful and amazing garments and furnishings and nets and such i learn to make from what exists around me and how much of that material i never realised existed around me, and of course the music the three of us make, surfaces pressed together bound wide, cords drawn of selves so tight and we are collapsing the air. it cannot be conveyed in words, cannot give audience, cannot be shared.
then great treks the longest slowest routes to the village, unsharing pace, eating alone from our solitary pockets at whim, practicing and practicing the world's only song, sudden naps, fussless sleeping or staring skyward, or thoughtlessly bouncing restless legs back up practicing and practicing increasing isolation hardening our little pipes of flesh and bone and spit radiant singular come the stars alone burning strong, invigorated and so alive in solitude to see and smell and taste and touch anything and everything, come into the village the stars stride alone and strong and ravishing and devoured blinkless instantly by a monstrous booming soaring howling organ riot ten thousand practiced polished sexy fucking vigorous pipes strong.
all the audience our sweet little alpine stream-slit valley can bear and then some, it is the best time in the world as we blow tourist fucking beans left and right and dance away a little of the stoop from an asphalt cooper's back and the pollen rubbing blood raw from a substitute teacher's sad sleepy eyes and for a while even an unsettlingly incongruous despair takes a break from the shadows of a beaming medical student finally understanding how easily forgotten freedom returns one to their senses, and it doesn't matter what happened on the first long walk they ever took because we were fucking amazing, we take the short way back home to the goats more longly with our common pace, my restless legs dragging me off the huddle noisily or aching grumpily under the auspices of the will to linger in sweetness. so that is the trek to the village i wrote home about, figuring sooper-frooty tolkienesquethnography will sound perfectly sensible to my western homies. i'm analysing the downshifted intimacies reconnecting Us to the roots of our rich traditions, yea. bacon with cheese over easy or wraparound with greasegun set on stun? omfd clementine you've got to let me know.
i don't write about the gun, the second gun, the crossbow i bought for my seamstress, the pistol for mi pistolero. one night he slipped it into bed with us, i couldn't believe it, lost humour forgot to appreciate the wild wind and froze. i was incapable of fear in that context, i mean we'd done way crazier shit with scars to prove it. but every hair on my body twisted itself stiff, it was almost agony reminding myself over and over that i know what i know and what i know is not changing in a meaningful way tonight. did i? i caught myself looking at the clock to check my subjectivity, there could not be too slow slow, something was incorrect. our awesomest village festival raked it in so obscenely no amount of gluttony put a dent in the winter, nothing like this had ever happened before. news of climate change getting serious any moment. but now it is spring out here where spring means business. o and nothing was wrong, my goat herder knew it was a dicey move for a swarthy rake to spring on a teeny western mind, everything had come so easy it seemed ludicrous we could derail so stupidly. what it came down to was i had no business combining gun possession with fruity ideation me shootem tax collector like listen last person to leave the west leave ruby ridge with it.
the magic had finally died, i lived in a smoky chilly damp stone hovel in west bumfuck nowhere with two ordinary humans and too many cats & dogs and three rotten teeth and ten extra years on my face and a bleach job that totally screamed communist bloc. i ached all over and i wanted a fucking... i couldn't actually place the food item, probably some sort of astronaut food. mi pistolero worked so fucking hard he probably wouldn't see 60. his cousin i couldn't tell, she probably already had cancer from sleeping by the coal pit, i probably had it for that matter. we were all dying way too fast. slow hand had fallen asleep, slumping the barrell of the big honking death monkey tool up my seam where it was probably keeping nice and warm. i was cold, but i thought about this. we were so fucking dirty, literally and figuratively.
he wasn't a backwoods bulgarian goat herder anymore, i wasn't.. whatever the fuck i was. stubbornly opposed to definition. how did i wind up with these two, out of the whole world, how did i end up here? my heart felt like screaming. it was incredible. i bounced the impulse to wake him up and revel in the freedom to beg beg beg for annnnnything... and stared up at the scary grubbiness of the ceiling with my eyes leaking their crazy brains out and some roaring burning churning agony of sweetness without release boiled in my chest as i spun slowly, flooding the room all up and down the electromagnetic spectrum. i was orgasming my eyes out, for real, eyeballs floating in the two gushing pools of warm saline cum flooding my eye sockets. no sobs, no gasps, no chokes, no cries, no pain, reflexes that save your life on a daily bases are on vacation or passed out or gently paralysed or something. it's how you cry in outer space.
especially humbling is the trip we three take along a path of tiny tiny differential grains stretched and kneaded in centuries-old, never-changing, ever-changing sonic evocation of the will of three small beings perfecting the terrible art of untangling and rethreading fragile lattices, existence. once we found ourselves twitching through a nervous workday rendered in brittle silouhette of a dutch marsh* too shallow for feet or flight. it became undismissably neccessary to compose and work into the dynamic segmentation paintpots of our linear referencing libretto a sober and deliberate thanks to the singular creature unto whose safekeeping we surrendered memory, our individual beings and desires, for the crotch-grab new-age frivolosity to venture deeper into our emergent child and its its hybrid surreality.
that was what the student did not do, exercise simple organs of perception, being, thinking, wanting, existing, experiencing. we ran the organs through the wringer and pulled them like taffy. i had a stray contempt toward the simpering tone endemic to thereveda, it dribbled all over everything the student seemed to think to say. it was utterly alien, or it was utterly incorrect. the student was not an alien, the student was incorrect. but back to the grain, the granular, the evolving a capella every day as we work or when it is so moonless we cover the fire and shush all the lamps so that we are so blind we can only trust memory to tell us we are all three still there as we have heard no footfalls, sometimes i sway a little so the shifting pressure of my feet against the ground re-orients my sense of direction, of up and down.
* in "lux dysthymia" there is a hudson valley painting described/explained? by one visitor in its particular booth to an unidentified other (also in booth i believe, narrator somewhat "mira, mira" toward them wrt the dimension-blistering painting looming right there beside them before momentum drains from narrator, sinking, coming to rest; an open-eyed, fully conscious oblivion for eternity.)
