The creator(s) behind Clutchy Hopkins sure know how to work the allure of mystery. activist? student of silence? alias for DJ shadow? Who is this person? IT DOESN’T MATTER. enjoy getting down, especially to track 4, and especially to the other albums (collaboration with Shawn Lee HELLO)… especially everything.
I don’t know what this is? but it was time to make something and share it.
“WHAT IT IS”
I eat. I make strawberry donuts glazed with cream cheese, and I eat half the batch. I dip pretzels in the leftover frosting and lick my fingers clean. I pull on my paint-splattered cross-trainers and break into a run, wiping sweat off of my iPod and trying not to count the squares of sidewalk. I watch TV shows chronicling inexplicably optimistic Midwesterners trying to “make it” in New York. I sit at my parents’ piano, repeating bass lines and scribbling couplets until I have forgotten where I am. The first week at my new job, I scrub down the walls, brew coffee for the baristas, and operate the register with the relentless cheer of a lobotomized school spirit mascot. By the end of a shift, my voice is hoarse and my cheeks ache from holding a smile. I drive to my favorite cemetery to read fifty pages of something funny and not laugh. I sneak gulps of whiskey from plastic bottles in the afternoon and rearrange the piles in my room. Once or twice, I meet up with friends, people who know which questions not to ask. I avoid the coffee shops and sidewalk corners where recognizable faces gather. I drive aimlessly. I lose myself on familiar trails. I do not talk about the ghosts.
…versus disillusionment. (DAMN. My crazy-glue oozed ALL UP IN that shit. Lovers might still have love, but I’m too shamed by my snail-trail to glance back.)
“Our main business is not to see what lies dimly at a distance but to do what lies clearly at hand.” -Thomas Carlyle
At hand – charting the unmapped/overstated.
() love, ideal: unapologetic authenticity. (“Love means never having to say you’re sorry!” – someone who has never been married.)
() love, experience: mutual goodfeelins, occasional authenticity, ending in apologies.
() love, idea: mutual authenticity, occasional apologies, resolved with authenticity, resulting in goodfeelins.
An onslaught of insight from Thomas Carlyle, as well as writing the phrase “occasional authenticity” just now, is sending my whirligig brain on a jaunty wind away from my heart. Come back! I want to dissect you and vomit you! Never mind, I want to preserve you and display you! Or, how long does this kite-string stretch?
just savor the tasty mash-up.
the camaraderie of written words, a satisfying speechlessness. thank you for writing.
Listening for ghosts is dangerous. The angry dead crave a reckoning, an enfleshment that will or might return them to a different form of unbeing. What it is to desire a ghostly body. What it is to desire ghostliness.
I’ve been standing in grit-bearing wind
listening for traveling whispers
The angry dead are hungry. Not for the ghostliness of former enfleshments, but for something more than was available, something more than was promised, something more.
The hungry dead are writing,
feeding on your sleep,
borrowing your dreams
Place your ear on a termite hill—the hungry dead will speak to you. Place your hand in a mole hill—the angry dead will touch you. Put your fingers through the bars of a lion-bearing cage—the traveling dead will enflesh you.
Sit in a metal basin filled with green-dyed water, hold a pen filled with purple ink, learn to trace characters on green…
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