For the Birds // Limb Dreams feat. Lark Porcenat
Can’t wait to get back and work on music with everything at my disposal, all I have right now is my laptop and a midi pad for the road
Here are a few photos I took for a friend’s music project awhile back. I keep going through old photos tonight, so naturally I feel nostalgic about a lot of things. I think I was bolder back then, interacting with people and such. I wonder what the years are doing to me. I think I had only met with him a couple times in a group setting before we walked around the city alone together with balloons that we drew faces on. Neon green and black. I really loved this wall and kept it in the back of my mind for reasons like this. It’s still there. I used to talk with him after he moved but we lost touch. The last things I remember talking about were apples. Up until that point he was the only person I had talked to that was both fond of metal and Madonna.
I think it’s that time of night for over analyzation. I am thinking about bathroom culture, I was just in there and I started laughing at the thought of it. For example, I let my dogs out in the morning. They are quite satisfied being outdoors, and to top it off, they don’t care if people are watching.
I find myself in a room half filled with tiled things. Not a big room but, an enclosed space. Private. There is this glassy shiny structure, one that draws attention. One that is cold to the touch, occasionally causing a shock in the morning if your senses are elsewhere. Water swirls around like a whirl pool. It spins another direction on the bottom side of the world. There are underground snakes that carry this water to a vat. Some man in a baseball cap comes with a truck occasionally in my back yard.
Anyways, next to that porcelain sculpture is this white powdery roll, with a tube in the middle for spinning. It is made out of the bodies of trees. The wood is mashed to a pulp then bleached white. It’s kind of odd to think of where people place this substance. Certainly no one thinks about that when they go outside and touch a tree in the woods, the kinds that surround my dogs in the morning.
Bristles in cups. Minty things in tubes. The ritual of wetting the toothbrush. Although maybe that’s not everyone. Scraping these bristles back and forth inside your mouth on these protrusions hanging upside down and right side up like a fence. Untangling strands of dead protein that hang off of your head with some mini-club looking object, it also has bristles but bigger. Fussing with these strands, sculpting them into different shapes on that part that separates your skull from open air…I think they call that a scalp. Using a gun that shoots hot air out to lessen the moisture if needed.
Jumping into a small curtained room within this room, scrubbing this machine held together by calcium, tendons, and a flexible bag. Staring down the drain, seeing some of those dead strands huddled in the holes. Clearing them out, throwing them in a rectangular bin that is emptied and taken to the cemetery of all things consumed.
Maybe we make things too difficult.
