Sunday Morning Smidgen Reprise

I think it's a double post kind of day. The weather has remained persistently beautiful but I've only been out in it to run errands. When I was in the sun I did walk leisurely, though. I've been listening to a lot of music today, in an attempt to start accumulating some smooth, retro-psych jams to play in the desert. Last year I'd gotten a head start and spent the year collecting groovy tunes to dazzle the cochlea with, but this year I'm scrambling to scour all streaming services for songs that fit the bill. It's hard work and requires constant attention. The reward is that I'm discovering tons of new music. And also that I'll have some sweet songs to wrap around the rosy, sunburnt ears of any desert travelers who'll hear me. There is so much music in the world. So much. More than anyone could ever listen to in a lifetime. Listening to even a fraction of it would be a respectable feat. I've always envied those who possess an extensive knowledge of music, those who've dedicated themselves to cataloguing the world's sound as it evolves and changes over time and place. It speaks from the soul of people, and because we only exist at a fixed point in time, it would follow that music is a true reflection of our pained temporality. If you need a reminder of this, just listen to any music from the 80's. All of our hopes and dreams and fears and frustrations seep out into song. It's odd how music can be simultaneously so personal and impersonal.

I came across my third Sunday Morning song while I was in the laundromat. The last choice I need to make today is what to have for dinner. I'm tempted to cook but I should have prepared for this earlier. So instead I'll force myself out into the world and stuff my face full of something that I'll shit out soon after. Next time you hear someone say that humans just turn everything to shit, remember, they're right. What part of our lives is spent squeezing things out of our bodies; piss, shit, cum, puss, sweat, tears, heat. Perhaps that's what's distinct about music. It's something we can squeeze out and preserve exactly as it was. It is as close to imperishable as any human art could be. Music dies when it is forgotten. But then, doesn't everything?

The hairs in my beard smell vaguely of garlic, which is strange, because I haven't eaten garlic today. How long does garlic stay in your system do you think? It was Friday when I last had some.

I started this post with more steam but it has since dissipated. The music calls. I thought I could juggle both, but that's proving too much.

Adieu.