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i never worshipped at the throne of Zimmy, nor idolized the man... sometimes the bile and the vitriol and the ravaged sinuses of his singing even attacked my ears. but that song, that whole "to be on your own-with n0 directi0n h0me-a complete unknown" sure gets to the point. who hasn't felt like a rollingstone? just like i wrote to a friend, it's quantum leap into autumn time. inching to the lower forties. toes sensing that familiar icy bite to sock feet. goddamit. ...like i don't expect things to come to an end. warmth in the house and without. talk of severing health care plans and car insurance, who gets the cat... mummifying leaves and birds of all descriptions migrating; it's all the same. so, i had to toast endings with a Guinness, recalling how much i lustily adore the flavour of coffee and burnt malt, and the look of inverted magma while it settles in a pint glass before calming into a dense, yeasty froth. like it's alive. ok, so there's some things about changes that smooth the transition. like driving with the top down under an unfiltered sun, dismantled door panels doing a plastic-wrapped shimmy in the turbulence... shabby, but in motion. with a voice. settling onto the couch as Henry&June&Anais insinuated and eviscerated and copulated while distorted electronic songs carried on the breeze from the park in the distance. no direction. not yet. |
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