the fading.
how long does it take to fade? like fireworks descending over sleeping beauty’s castle; like ‘ i’ll take you in my two weak hands and throw you so high; watch you fall forever into the western sky ‘ ; like animals hot on the scent of a drug ; a bombsquad dispatched to the embassy ; the rolling after the lightning ; the tumbling after the cliff ; the flying, always flying ; it will fade, she said.
slaughter
slaughter begets slaughter. we kill to eat so we can eat to live. “and the following springs are silent of robin song.”
the recipe for manifest destiny: crush bones of animals of all kinds together into heaps of crazy powder, repurpose to feed and scatter back into the food chain. but — in the process — something goes — terribly — wrong. enter a new kind of killing; every single killing at once new and ageless. holes poke quickly into the brain. live cattle feed upon dead cattle. might the live cattle be feeding upon the crazy holes? not in texas, my god — there will be no bad cattle in texas. the live cattle will be be sent off to the slaughter. finally it is clear, cattle bred for slaughter finally merely bred for slaughter.
did i order this? darwin do you think i should understand? outside, the cycle of winter returns and i think of picking the dead flowers off the ground.
“stems may curve as flower seeks light.”
<moya watson> repurposed from watsonhouse
[1/18/2001 11:22:23 PM]
mark eitzel. on the one hand, the drum machine disturbed me. bryce mentioned something that helped me identify why it was disturbing. keep in mind, mind you, that bryce has played the placating dynamic in his family for years, or at least since his tumour, or at least since he was the last born, so that it’s hard to distinguish the situational from the permanent. but as if. mark eitzel is very fluid; that’s how i have known him and become attracted to his music — music that leanne doesn’t tolerate (anymore?) or care to indulge in with me. now, you can go somewhere alone — yeah — and you risk less the person next to you saying this is crap — but you also deny yourself the possibility of the connection: yeah! that is wild. look at that slide guitar; think about that piano. which brings me back to the drum machine — always back to the drum machine. i’d been wanting to play drums since i was five. in a much-later-learned bit of wisdom, the drums have proven way to loud to learn, at least here. which is what prevented me in the first place — at any rate– mark eitzel – a fluid singer. fluid sensitivity — pare it against the drum machine. at first, i thought, cool, groovy; at second, i thought; this doesn’t fit — it agitates me — fit a story between a beat — fit the fluid into the solid. distribute spontaneous creativity evenly between equal measures… doesn’t fly. at THIRD, however —- the tension. the tension was interesting.
bryce kept trying to interject stories between the songs, but the space was too small; i wanted to listen to the songs; or his thoughts were too big. imagine, all that and a piece of your brain gone. </moya watson> <!–1:38:20 PM–>
<moya watson> “stems may curve as flower seeks light.”
it is blustery and almost like snow; take a deep breath and i almost smell snow. like giant invisible bungee cords, the wind unpredicts from the sky to the ground and back up around again. the tapping at my window sounds like a ghost; there is nobody there, but don’t i understand that look in wanda’s eye. wild cat. </moya watson> <!–1:35:45 PM–>
Moya Watson 