Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
“[…] every now and again the query haunts me: Are there here and there sequestered places which some curious creatures still frequent, whom once on a time anybody could see and speak to as they went about on their daily occasions, whereas now only at rare intervals in a series of years does one cross their paths and become aware of them; and perhaps this is just as well for the peace of mind of simple people” – From the collection Casting The Runes, "A Vignette" by M.R. James,
Monday, April 11, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Tropical Trash - Docetic Necro [2011]
Download: Tropical Trash - Docetic Necro [CDR #2 2011]
1. Cerebral Audit
2. Divine Spark/No Enemy
3. More Ice
4. Junk Index
5. Code To Get Out Of The Grocery Store
6. Juice Aisle
7. Black Ark
15:34
Thanks to everyone who came out to the show last night, the love was flowing and it was/is most definitely appreciated!
R.I.P. Vaderbomb - IT'S TIME is some of the most bitchin' punk shit I've heard in a while. Much love to Chubbs!
[EDIT 4-9-2011]
Tropical Trash - Cerebral Audit [Docetic Necro CD-R #2 2011] by Loin Seepage
Monday, January 17, 2011
Charles Wright
Stone Canyon Nocturne
Ancient of Days, old friend, no one believes you’ll come back.
No one believes in his own life anymore.
The moon, like a dead heart, cold and unstartable, hangs by a thread
At the earth’s edge,
Unfaithful at last, splotching the ferns and the pink shrubs.
In the other world, children undo the knots in their tally strings.
They sing songs, and their fingers blear.
And here, where the swan hums in his socket, where bloodroot
And belladonna insist on our comforting,
Where the fox in the canyon wall empties our hands, ecstatic for more,
Like a bead of clear oil the Healer revolves through the night wind,
Part eye, part tear, unwilling to recognize us.
Ancient of Days, old friend, no one believes you’ll come back.
No one believes in his own life anymore.
The moon, like a dead heart, cold and unstartable, hangs by a thread
At the earth’s edge,
Unfaithful at last, splotching the ferns and the pink shrubs.
In the other world, children undo the knots in their tally strings.
They sing songs, and their fingers blear.
And here, where the swan hums in his socket, where bloodroot
And belladonna insist on our comforting,
Where the fox in the canyon wall empties our hands, ecstatic for more,
Like a bead of clear oil the Healer revolves through the night wind,
Part eye, part tear, unwilling to recognize us.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Pärson Sound 3 LP Box Set
This has been killing me ever since I got it in the mail a few days ago. Well worth the 60 bone price tag, and I'm not one of those VINYL NO MATTER WHAT IT TAKES types. I love records but mostly I want to hear them, not be fiscally threatened by new Robert Wyatt reissues (which are, incidentally, excellently done). If you've heard Trad, Gras, och Stenar then you have a basic idea of what to expect - long-ish, tasteful workouts that make you think: early spring early evening laying out in the grass don't have to work tomorrow no bills no bullshit enjoying being alive. Pretty great. This is just like that but stranger, and a little more threatening. Pretty great. I think the CD set is already out of print, and I'm sure the LP set is on its way also (1000 total pressed).
Here's Julian Cope tingling over it.
A whiff:
George William Russell
DAWN
Still as the holy of holies breathes the vast,
Within its crystal depths the stars grow dim;
Fire on the altar of the hills at last
Burns on the shadowy rim.
Moment that holds all moments; white upon
The verge it trembles; then like mists of flowers
Break from the fairy fountain of the dawn
The hues of many hours.
Thrown downward from that high companionship
Of dreaming inmost heart with inmost heart,
Into the common daily ways I slip
My fire from theirs apart.
Still as the holy of holies breathes the vast,
Within its crystal depths the stars grow dim;
Fire on the altar of the hills at last
Burns on the shadowy rim.
Moment that holds all moments; white upon
The verge it trembles; then like mists of flowers
Break from the fairy fountain of the dawn
The hues of many hours.
Thrown downward from that high companionship
Of dreaming inmost heart with inmost heart,
Into the common daily ways I slip
My fire from theirs apart.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
