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Though it used to be a lot more "provincial" than now, the narrow focus of small-town/country living is lacking an inquisitive palate, a certain degree of open-mindedness, and the supply of German fuel injection parts. Without local sources, and a great deal of enthusiasm, It seemed a better idea to rubbish any dreams of making any constructive motions at home, drop the top (fancy that) and make for a more urban hunting ground for the magic wand to wave over the Volvo's circulatory maladies. When your inspiration is for shite, make for the lights of town. Simply put. Only, the bigger warehouses let me down. So did the record stores, on my sub-safari to find the remixed copy of Iggy & The St00ges' Raw P0wer. One of my first albums, ever, that I knew had to sound better in the hands of a bass-friendly producer. The original, weenie-fied by Ziggy. I need to hear some fierce energy. Maybe it'll beget some. No Sale. Thank god for greasy barbecue joints, for their curative powers on the gut, if not the soul. It's like I'm on another Sherlockesque slide into the doldrums... nothing burns on the inside, so escape seems the easier solution. Though I don't medicate with seven-percent. Even a good beer buzz seems pointless, solo. So, as soon as we rolled back up the drive, I was horizontal. Consciousness merely an unwelcome intrusion. The are physical prices to pay. Especially when you drape your legs, crooked at the knees over the mattress, arms thrown straight over your head. Forty-five minutes later, you will not be able to summon enough muscle tone in your abdomen to get up. I'm no feline. In the land of Every-Day-Is-Like-Sunday, the silence is deafening. No outward signs of life. Probably, what prompted me to watch Fr0m Hell. And there was Depp administering personal medication. Amidst buckets of historically-slathered cinema blood, and treachery. Well enough, in virtual supply. Onward, born-again Chr1stian soldier. Shock, and Yawn. |
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