Icons

you do realize that all of the icons they have hanging in the church are not doing their job. there is no portal in the portrait that allows both parties on either side of the image to communicate. just an image. and you really should know by now that images are perceived and just simply are. there is nothing on the other side that can suck in your own image. don't cry for your reflection either. don't cry for all of the experiences it won't endure or the questions it will never ask. so maybe you observe the Sabbath. the image does not observe. [        ].

close your eyes and now no one sees anything.

a la moog

He is painstakingly careful in carrying each phrase to the moog synthesizer. There is love and patience in his handling of each note. Inside of the electronic music studio there is reverence for the virtuosity earlier master craftsmen had in laying out their works and also a devoted, caring irreverence in the structural transcription.

Carlos: there is a way to both laughat and pay homage to the structure. Carlos fervently tries to embrace hisCock in hand. The feeling of discontentment intensifies. How would his sex read through the moog?

The moog transcription is a cosmetic one, first requiring a translation in meaning of the composer's role  from one body to another. Inside the recording study, Carlos pokes at the buttoned, lit up boxes lining the walls: Is the framing of the older body already made to embrace that of the new? The inner physicality strangely resembles what he desires. 

His German love, Johann Sebastian Bach, is revived from the dead through this moog. For his technical command, Carlos reveres the late conqueror of many instruments. Carlos is delighted! The parts all interlock harmonically when played together. Isolated, one part--say, that of the violinist--is independent in its rhythm from whatever the cellist has designed. There are wires all over the floor, so the machinist is hard into his element. 

Bach's framework does not have many spaces for players to insert their own ornamentation. Carlos sees potential for a flourish here or there, out of reverence. 

Today his Love's compositions are often played through orchestras much larger than his originals. Already, the structure of the concert hall is expanding. 

Lightly, Carols pokes the dead into the moog from meticulous, obsessed strikes at the keyboard: love the loss and rediscovery of each phrase, love the surgery and the machine. 

A powdered wig, now electric blue. The machinist's sex left out of his trousers. Out of reverence. There is a phrase being transcribed. An incision down the shaft for ornamentation [a little, out of reverence (a little further)]. The dead is switch ed on, the shaft demolished, and the music breathes again. Hot and whirling, but not uncontrollably. Brightblue obeisance.

river panning children

The crookedly hinged man likes your perfume, whatever it is. It does not scape his debauched nostrils like a soapy washcloth, but its buttery base notes endure throughout the scene. He likes how your perfume is without rose petals. In fact, not one flower can be detected in the slightest. Again you do not smell soapy tonight, which is good, because they like their baths to be taken afterwards.

Go ahead and continue sobbing on the floor. This theatrical display looks to him like the cover of a great novella. His chums will be making an appearance soon. They are also handsome. Having business empires promised to them by fathers, they have commodity-reinforced confidence and big smiles.

The way they beam, the big boys, turns you on, but not one of them as invasively as Him. The others are fish chasing their own scents. He already knows his own scent. This is not to say that it does not turn him on, only that he does not swim in circles. Only that he does not swim in circles anymore.

They all enjoy this fairyland world of yours and how it is exceedingly fragile and forefront in your movements. They blow bubbles and scoop up the froth, tucking it away in their pockets like infantile kleptomaniacs set loose in a riverbed where gold has collected from a mountain vein. Mystified, they trade the scraps of joy, the precious nuggets.

He is inclined toward tracing back this music to the first wind.

You do not know, however strong the front from your angle, the delicacy in the way his muscles interact down his back and abdomen, underneath that dress shirt. His architecture buckles and twitches--not at all like a beast of virile maturity, but of a little child listening to the radio broadcasts at night that penetrate the living rooms of every home, addressing, maybe affirming all the whispers about a supposed dismantling of the empire. A child with his broken plaything.

His muscle face, it has been overworked. He was once an underwater infant caught up in a gold bed of his own. He had to be found out by his parents. It turns you on, the industry of it all. All of you now, shifting your pans from side to side in the stream, sifting out the unwanted. Back into the stream the pebbles plop.

In the room a train pulls out. With it goes the light.

drip-drop drip-drop.