Bob comes out and marinates something.

Henry (Art): Do you hear that sound?

Cynic (Bob): No.

Henry: A humming.

Cynic: Ignore it.

Henry: but what is it saying?

Cynic: nothing.

Henry: nothing?

Cynic: Background noise.

Henry: Surely it means something.

Cynic: That something exploded a long long time ago.

So let’s get on with it.

First he would visit the tundra. North Dekota would do in a pinch, and it always did. He required the right perspective, the right vista. Some vast cold wasteland, some snow bound expanse of harsh and unending uniformity, the scrap of a metal plough on asphalt barely audible in the distance above the low keening howl of the wind. There alone he would think of other places, places where people congregated, where all seemed lost. His mind would fill with the din of voices and shuffling feet and the tortured squeal of breaks on a subway train.

And over the din a quiet would form like a woman removing her kimono. And his mind would clear and he would know what to write. And then again he would hear the scrap of a metal plough on asphalt barely audible in the distance above the low keening howl of the wind.

The remains of something broken down or destroying a fitting name with wider visibility of the new release in their third quick-changing and frequently hilarious industrial-strength LSD from the first wailing strains of feedback-drenched kicking visceral blast they charge through a set of diving jolting with an effective blend of thundering force and collective finesse for all their anarchy the members of this crew leave room for everything from fiery abandon with a sense of multifaceted chances and succeeds in turning out exhilarating pieces after the train wreck puts them back together as something categorically fresh.

Often colored by the use of odd homemade delicate subtlety each purposely contributing to the antics, the work in this area is more inside then those revered gentlemen, with actual uses of melody resulting in a mutant full of dramatic excesses and cranky drumming, but above all it’s real with a humor and humanity that has occasionally escaped some of the others who work a quote from the liner notes states the agenda that keeps you on the edge of your seat in the grand tradition of noisy, eccentric pared-down parries and flurries asymmetrically skewed which the four nail with a fluid, carefully attuned to find a form that accommodates the continued growth of this barbed wire, electric squiggles, and even duck calls.

debris is excellent at making chaos listenable.

They were completely outside my vantage point from a wealth of conventional and otherwise to a wild trukey bird call and a length of rubber hose in stark contrast to the first with a blood curdling cacophany casting glances backward at the brave few mounting one of it’s most ambitous efforts with texts on reeds as well as a couple of guests and a rubber octopus and atonal noodlings, respectful but not reverential, a new angle on the extraordinary flexibility of national attention despite their heady compositions some of which are sure to show up graphic scores and organizational technique in boggling and prodigious aural geography carefully attuned to find a form that accommodates ... visibility ... industrial-strength ... visceral ... cranky ... fluid ... skewed... dramatic ... plowed ... trashed ... hammered ... feedback-drenched ... a mess in a pink party dress ... no mere poetry-and-jazz retread ... faintly familiar ... synonomous with abstraction ... teasing out the humor and sweetness ... with more bran and more plump juicy raseins ... empasizing the warm human face ... now-venerable ... excellent at making chaos listenable.

debris is excellent at making chaos listenable.

He wrote one book and one book only, of which he produce only one copy.

The book was entirely composed of text from other sources, which he rearranged as he saw fit. He collected this text from very specific places. This limited set of these places included:

1. Anything written on meteorites.

2. Anything etched into stones found on the beach.

3. Anything written by hand on money.

4. Anything written by hand on any paper if that paper

was found in a bottle that had recently washed up on shore.

5. Anything written (by machine or hand) on mattress tags.

We are fairly certain that there were three or four more sanctified sources. This can not be confirmed at this time as we are not currently in possession of the entire list.

He took it everywhere - on trips, on the train to work, to the waiting rooms of doctor’s, dentists, and car mechanics. It was always in his bag, in the glove compartment, on his night table - always within reach.

Inside the spiral he clipped a pen. It was guaranteed for life and was advertised as always delivering a fine, even line regardless of the writers environment. That is, it would right upside down, in water (even at great depths), at any temperature or barometric pressure one might possibly encounter on the surface of the earth. And, if need be it could deliver that same fine line in zero gravity.

The notebook remains empty.

The notebook remains empty, and, one might say, perfect. It is the great American novel, vast in it’s emptiness. It is a tomb of ancient oriental wisdom, utterly Zen and without desire. It is Germanic in it’s manifestation of strict self control. It is artistic in it’s concept. It is scientific in it’s dimensions: 24.1 x 15.2 centimeters. It reflects the past in it’s opaque darkness. It anticipates the future in its pages of white lined with blue like the sky waiting to be opened and filled.

It is at once precise and vague.

It is brilliant in its simplicity. It is dumb in its mute silence.

_

He only ate lamb, which he considered to be "god’s meat". He marinated it in mixture consisting of mango mist tea, port wine, thyme, a dash of Inner Beauty hot sauce, and a small amount of red dye # three. On occasion he added sage.

After marinating the lamb he would use string to tie the meat into a nice roast which he would cook in an oven just as anyone would. There was nothing special about the string. It was the same as the string used by butchers or super markets to tie roasts together.

He would paint his naked buttocks with gray and tan pastels and then sit upon sheets of construction paper which he purchased in bulk on large rolls.

He would allow the paper to dry and then cut it into sheets using an old pair of sheep shears. The size of these pages varied from one to the next within a prescribed range - the height and width were not less then 3 inches nor greater then 17 inches. The aspect ratio of each page was likewise keep within a reasonable norm.

Upon each of these hand cut pages he would write a single word with a quill pen using the marinade (described above) as ink. The words came from a single source. He would copy them one at a time, in the order they appeared in the original, on each page of varying size. When he had processed around a thousand pages, he would then sort the pages by size into seven piles. From these he would produce seven books each bound using the string collected from his roasted lamb (described above).

The source for his words was a book he had found as a child. This book had no cover, nor could he find any mention of its author. However, its introduction claimed that all its texts had been gleaned from strange sources such as words written on meteorites, etched into stones found on the beach, written by hand on money, or anything written by hand on any paper if that paper was found in a bottle that had recently washed up on shore.

I went to the doctor ... it must have been a dream ...he was wearing a collar and a black robe ... the robe was open in front revealing his hairy chest ... painted ... with the yellow of tree sap and the red of dried blood ... bedecked with neckleses of beads and bones ... sundry totems ... little heads ...

He was short and walked with a limp ... his beard was long and matted.

"How that emotional issue?" he askes "Still feeling unreconciled"

I feel exasperated! Of course I’m still unreconciled.

"I prepare something for you." he says and limps off leaving me dejected ... my feet dangling, a draught up my back where the loose johnny opens. I lift the johnny and contemplate my pained abdomen ... the mysterious spasms therein.

If only it were a matter of plumbing - a kink in one of my tubes. Perhaps a hair ball ... a marble swallowed in my youth ... a stone. Yes, that’s it. A stone. Something my gut struglles with but can not push up or down. A stone.

Something foriegn anyway. Something simple, obvious, out of place, more or less easily removed.

"Why looky here! How did this get in here? No wonder ... we’ll just ... pop this puppy out ... there you go ... " Like a splinter it’s gone. A little pain ... a prick or two .. some digging around ... and it’s gone. The pain is gone ... unequivocally gone. But if it’s gray matter ... something between a chemical and a bad idea ... he returns with a potion.

"And i think it’s best if you stop drinking altogether ..."

It’s a total nitemare!

He didn’t. There wasn’t enough time.

Had he the time he would have written something like this:

If I really tried might be able to remember the long beautiful indian name of a lake I once escaped to for a day. It was a gorgeous name. And i adore those indian names that grace towns, rivers, and lakes scattered about the northeast - Masapequa, Lacawana, ... And i’m sure if i did recall this name, the name of the lake, which lay frozen at the bottom of a mist filled gorge ... if i cut through the mist of my memory and thawed the frozen block of my recollections, this name would be the most beautiful of all.

But i won’t. Though i yearn to recall all the poignant details of that day - her name, his name, the pattern and color of the scarf - i won’t. I hold this precious memory in a magnetic bottle of care. I dare not touch it too directly, too rough or rudely. That day was magic, and like all forms of bullshit, magic falls apart if spied on too deeply, pried open with the scalpel, exposed with the clamp, bleeding choked by the hemostat. No, i won’t subject it to the forensics of surgical recollection, even if I had that sort of memory.

I will tell you what i remember as it comes to me and i’ll try not to explain. It won’t be chronological, it won’t be a story. It won’t have much of a point.

I hide in the trunk as we went in to save the additional admission. That someone would be charging admission on such a day seems odd. But i didn’t mind. That too seems odd. It was a cold damp day. Low visibility. It was very much "off season". His car was red and the trunk was small, but then, so was i, small that is.

Her hair was red and she had many freckles. I would fall hard in love with more then a few girls of that complexion and physique. She was tall and thin, flat chested. I cannot recall her face exactly but you must believe that is was sublime. Her hair was very long. deeply colored near her face and wispy near the edges were it would do wonderful things to the light. What ever light might shine that day, it would positively swim in the proximity of her hair.

We had escaped. We escaped laughing. They were both much older then I as were all my friends. I say "all" but it was very many. I was feared and despised by my classmates. For being both what i’ve never quite managed to be, and what i can’t completely deny; intelligent and jewish. But he was my friend so none of that matters. Indeed he was, at the time, my best friend. You may doubt me here. As i admitted, i can not (or won’t) recall his name. Accept that he was, at least by comparison, old and wise and powerful and that he was my protector and savior. He was the golden boy of promise . He was the head proctor. He was of ivy destiny and beneath his ennobled wing i found refuge from the stupidity of my peers and their ceaseless taunts and jeers. In his room i found respite from the gothic nightmare of that boarding school. There i found friendship. Perhaps my memory distorts pity for affection, but i believed he loved me. And after all, he brought me with him that day. The day he and i and his true loved escaped.

Likewise she was royalty. Prom or home coming or some something queen, from the sister school. Saint whatever’s. She was grace made manifest. I worshipped her. She was a saint. Holy virgin of the spirit if not the flesh. Our lady of the blessed flirtation. She let me touch her and i did so quaking. My love for her was pure and unadulterated. Well, it was, adult. It was, i admit, adolescent, but none the less transcendent. I was her pet, her little bear. When she held me in her arms i felt pure as the baby jesus. She was mother, sister, goddess.

They were lovers. We pretended i was their son. We were a noble family on a quest of leisure. We drove up to the hotel which was perched atop the mountain overlooking the gorge. The gorge was filled as if with a cloud, and above the hotel stood, old and splendid and nearly empty. I recall no other guests. There was a bar with a piano. We must have been convincing in our roles. The barkeep served them without batting an eye and looked the other way when they brought drinks to me. The place was ours, we owned it. I played the piano for them. Time didn‘t stand still, we stood apart from time. I played and played and they sat enraptured.

We descended to the lake. Before or after the drinks at the bar. Let’s say after. That would have us even more giddy from the drinks. It was a steep climb down. There where stairs part of the way. We abandoned them. We used her long scarf as a life line. We held it in line as we descended through the fog.

And then we were on the surface of the lake, breathless and in awe. We glided away from the shore, arm in arm, and were completely engulfed by the mist. Every thing was a soft white. The light came from everywhere at once. We skated through it as it swam about her. He twirled about with the scarf. We laughed and ran off losing he each other. We lost each other and called to each other and found each other again. He lost his queen and i found her for him. I cried out across the frozen tundra for my mother ... and he lead me back to her. I cam upon them in an embrace, kissing, and we all giggled. "Kiss me" i said and she did. And he smiled. She laughed and gathered us in her arms. And she kissed me again. And it never ended. And it will never end. We are still there, out of place and time. Above and below it all.

And i said "Kiss me" and she did and he smiled and we laughed and she kissed me again.

And it never ended. And it will never end.

And if you create something - something besides yourself, something other then your own self.

And if this other, other then your self, find it’s legs, stand on it’s own, flourishes or festers, as the case may be, but never the less persists ...

And if when it stands on his own (so to speak) and you are touched, and you are pleased, and perhaps even swell a bit with pride ...

And if that which you have created grows, gathers it’s own, it’s form fills and it totters off under it’s own power ... moves away from you, under it’s own aegis, and does things, to or for others, by it’s own volition or lack thereof ...

And if in this moving from you it stumbles and teeters, has a false start or takes a false step, shows evidence of flaws as it moves away from the shelter of your possession and protection ...

And if it moves past your horizon, out of your sight, and traverses the land, exceeding your grasp and further influence ....

And if from far off places (geographically or otherwise) of strange tongues and slang that is opaque to you, comes word of deeds, thoughts, effects for which your creation is claimed as the source ...

And if other speak or print unkind and/or callous remarks, posit false, inaccurate, make perplexing statements (in public and/or private) as to the inspiration, originality, purpose, or process by which you brought your creation into existence ...

And if a lonely person stumbles across your creation and in the blind fury of their loneliness pull it, or some shadow if it, into the darkest folds of their heart and through some rearrangements of it’s parts uncover, discover, or perhaps merely invent some message which tells them to cause some great harms to a multitude of other’s, other’s who are, in some limited sense, innocent ...

And if a crowd gathers with signs and slogans denouncing your creation crying from the roof tops claims of damaging effects on physical and mental health ... if you hear angry shouts that your creation seeks to undermine the social fabricate, destroy the pillars of common decency, that it transgresses even the most liberal standards of good taste ... if it is claimed that your creation is inhuman, that it is incapable of expressing or invoking naught but some small poverty stricken subset of emotions, that it is ugly and shuns beauty, that it pleases only the vanity of it’s own creator, that your creations is a transgression against all of creation, that you have gone too far, that it must be banned from public places, that no child must ever lay an unwary eye upon it, that it must be rooted out, incarcerated, quarantined, drawn and quartered, made an example of, beaten down, burned to a cinder, so that all may again be safe from it’s pernicious influence ...

And if a different crowd gathers carrying your creation aloft, singing songs of hope and defiance as they swell into the main avenue and march towards the powers that be. And if you see in their hands and hearts your creation, the words, or myths, or deeds of your creation, copied, mimeographed, scrawled across placards, sewn into quilts a mile long, tattooed on forearms, made into bumper stickers and decals, made into flags which are carried and waved by the crowd as they move through from town to town gathering, swarming through the cities toward the city of cities where statesmen and elders sit in apprehension, because something is happening though no one is quite sure what, certainly not you ...

And if others, with or without your permission, see a profit in your creation, and mimic it, create their own versions of it, market action figures, children’s books, comic book, paint by number portraits, posters, t-shirts, beer mugs, and if by their actions the elements, the gross features of your creation spreads through the world like a ubiquitous cloud of pollen, and you find it’s words on the tongues of strangers or sewn into baseball caps and wind breakers, if you see it’s image on cereal boxes, find others dressed up at your creation at Halloween parties and costume balls, and people mutter words like mega-hit, blockbuster, chart-topper ...

And what if none of this ever happens? What if you are afraid of the possibilities. Or afraid that your creation will be ignored, could live nowhere but with you, could not speak to any except maybe you, in a language you were not even sure of?

Are you good? Are you a god? Are you evil? Do you live? Are you a dog? A philosopher? A charlatan, cretin, harlequin, idiot savant, servant to no one, slave to desire, a poseur, an impostor, a magician, a smithy in the forge of petty struggles?

Do you create because you can? For the glory of it? For the glory of some other? Perhaps the creation itself? Or for all of creation (as if it needed it)? I mean, were do you get off? Do you drawn a line ... then another, and another, till soon you have some drawing, some blueprint ... a blueprint for trouble, for is it not desire, or hubris, yes hubris, that drives you on that makes you sweat and swell with creation?

And which is it anyway ... festering or flourishing .. and if it is "life affirming" then who is to say that all this life is so wonderful .. is more life needed?

Is there not enough of it boiling over, foaming and filling the world that you must bring more into existence, one more piece one more bit of something different, differentiated, distinct if nothing else, there it is in front of you ... wish you could have been there to see it etc. but how can you tell if it’s any good? Is it good? It is bad? And either way, aren’t you tired, weary, of the devils and the details and the deep blue sea, and the cat and the moon and the cheese and all the endless debris? The action figures, children’s books, comic book, paint by number portraits, posters, t-shirts, beer mugs, quilts, town gatherings, crowds, posters, placards, messages, data ... details, so why more? Do we need more? Do we want more? Are we never to be content? Fulfilled? Fill full? Topped off and drowsy, blessed and ready to drop off, our happy buttocks painted with pastels, the journal by the bedside happy as a tea bag, and empty as our will?

For haven’t we had enough? Quite enough? Isn’t it time to say uncle? Uncle, isn’t it time to drift off, to left sleep take us, to stop the banter, the liturgy of things to do and say and become next ... to cease, stop, to draw the line and draw no more, draw one last breath, draw it in the air, on the wind, am I right to say so? Is this not what we wish now? To end, to stop, to come to a conclusion?