When I listen to that at lunch today it will be the eleventh time since Monday. I'm listening to it the tenth time since Monday as I write this post. Demis Roussos recently died. I'd never heard of Demis Roussos, but he was a member of Aphrodite's Child, a band I thought of as a Vangelis vehicle. Various WFMU djs have been playing 666 in remembrance. A brief reiteration of personal history: first and foremost, 666 is my favorite just as the acid is kicking in album of all time. One cannot underestimate the importance of the just as the acid is kicking in album in the overall joy of the trip - this is why I hate The Motherfucking Doors. It is also one of the albums that was required listening on all Major Epods - a group of us (Elric 7 was one, but he won't comment since he no longer reads this blog since I offended him in a retort to something he'd said about Chelsea Manning, and Landru attended some minor Epods but never a Major Epod) split sheets and bought ounces and grams of combustibles and cases of been and fifths of rum and bourbon, got ourselves places safe and unsafe, and brained our trips out. So the past three days have rendered me nostalgic. I'd only heard the album sporadically since - I want my albums back, Blondie, I want my fucking albums back - so I associated my appreciation of 666 with the heightened ears of the blissfully lit. But here's the thing: this is an insanely good album. Thirteenth time since Monday tonight.
Epod: dope spelled backwards. Three more Major Epod songs below.
- Creeley on acid.
- Click the Creeley tag for much more.
- Cat update, and send the coins in your pocket to Arthur, please.
- Is declining violence only a good thing?
- The one way forward.
- The enduring sorrows of the savvy Liberal.
- Szymborska, for those of you who do, for those of you who don't but should.
- Click the Szymborska tag for much more.
- Terry Riley's In C in Mali.
- We Have Heaven is the best Yes song ever.
- Also too: fuck this, inching closer. Fuck this.
Go out into brightened
space out there the fainter
yellowish place it
makes for eye to enter out
to greyed penumbra all the
way to thoughtful searching
sight of all beyond that
solid red both brick and seeming
metal roof or higher black
beyond the genial slope I
look at daily house top on
my own way up to heaven.
Same roof, light’s gone
down back of it, behind
the crying end of day, “I
need something to do,” it’s
been again those other
things, what’s out there,
sodden edge of sea’s
bay, city’s graveyard, park
deserted, flattened aspect,
leaves gone colored fall
to sidewalk, street, the end
of all these days but
still this regal light.
Trees stripped, rather shed
of leaves, the black solid trunks up
to fibrous mesh of smaller
branches, it is weather’s window,
weather’s particular echo, here
as if this place had been once,
now vacant, a door that had had
hinges swung in air’s peculiar
emptiness, greyed, slumped elsewhere,
asphalt blank of sidewalks, line of
linearly absolute black metal fence.
Old sky freshened with cloud bulk
slides over frame of window the
shadings of softened greys a light
of air up out of this dense high
structured enclosure of buildings
top or pushed up flat of bricked roof
frame I love I love the safety of
small world this door frame back
of me the panes of simple glass yet
airy up sweep of birch trees sit in
flat below all designation declaration
here as clouds move so simply away.
Windows now lit close out the
upper dark the night’s a face
three eyes far fainter than
the day all faced with light
inside the room makes eye re-
flective see the common world
as one again no outside coming
in no more than walls and post-
card pictures place faces across
that cautious dark the tree no
longer seen more than black edge
close branches somehow still between.
He was at the edge of this
reflective echo the words blown
back in air a bubble of suddenly
apparent person who walked to
sit down by the familiar brook and
thought about his fading life
all “fading life” in tremulous airy
perspect saw it hover in the surface
of that moving darkness at the edge
of sun’s passing water’s sudden depth
his own hands’ knotted surface the
sounding in himself of some other.
One forty five afternoon red
car parked left hand side
of street no distinguishing
feature still wet day a bicycle
across the way a green door-
way with arched upper window
a backyard edge of back wall
to enclosed alley low down small
windows and two other cars green
and blue parked too and miles
and more miles still to go.
This early still sunless morning when a chair’s
creak translates to cat’s cry a blackness still
out the window might be apparent night when the
house still sleeping behind me seems a bag of
immense empty silence and I feel the children
still breathing still shifting their dreams an
enigma will soon arrive here and the loved one
centers all in her heavy sleeping arm out the
leg pushed down bedclothes this body unseen un-
known placed out there in night I can feel all
about me still sitting in this small spare pool of
light watching the letters the words try to speak.
Classic emptiness it
sits out there edge of
hierarchic roof top it
marks with acid fine edge
of apparent difference it
is there here here that
sky so up and out and where
it wants to be no birds no
other thing can for a
moment distract it be
beyond its simple space.