Wednesday, October 06, 2010
A few days before the last, I ran a bath and filled it with vermillion. As I sat and peered at white foam growing beneath the water as it punctured itself, I realized my craving for the sound of drums and strums and crooning voices. A crackle of neural energy, somewhere underneath my scalp, occurred in the form of a notion. My fingers grasped for the cabinet handle and holding its breath under shadows an old friend resided. I apologized as I blew and rubbed where a thick layer of grey garnered in between plastic creases. The knob clicked on as my fingers guided the volume higher until it reached its end. Through the static I rolled, as it grew thinner, wider, playing games with my ear canal. The skin upon my fingers moist from temperature measure, I slipped past a gentle guitar strum, and when I scrolled back from the screech of the static a man’s voice echoed in between tiles and scorched liquid, melted vermillion and my own wet skin. A drum began to shed noise in even paces, a series of palms clinging to one another for merely a moment, reverberating between my consciousness. They all built among one another as the tide turned behind the white of my eyes and the drops of waves fell from my chin and became one with the body water. When the song had concluded I lay in a pool of salt and tap and waited for the man in a glass booth to give this series of sounds a name.