This Song Has No Title Just Words And A Tune

We’re all carrying around an unused arsenal of wim wender angel credit. None of this ammo fits my piece, see, and then somebody comes around with just the right tool for the job and we all start firing. Alone. Together. Up. Down. Something. Nothing. There. Not There. Different from Before, then slowly Resuming Before, almost before we Know It.

In this way life is sad to me.

We went out to the Black Rock Desert to build the Giant W from It’s a Mad(4) World, introduce hundreds of twenty somethings to the genius of Stanley Kramer by playing a cinemascope wackyfest on a 13″ b&w monitor (looking swellegant on its pedestal in the middle of the desert) and blaring the audio track off the pa. We discovered we were in the middle of a theme area called Irrational Geographic, and we were the good neighbors of the folks who built a real-life version of Bianca’s Smut Shack. 50 yards to the North, a man in a perfectly restored unimog patroling the searing playa in camo, long sleeve button down oxfords with the top button undone to reveal his brilliant white tshirt. He drank Coors and had many many firearms, which he discreetly polished in their unassembled state.

It wasn’t until everyone left that we started playing our instruments, pulling weights onto them and taping keys down and setting loops so that we could turn it up as loud as it could go, hop on a bike and ride away to see how far our howl would go into the big null maw of the desert:

Not very far at all. Very disappointing, projection-wise. We were blips on the landscape. Little creatures. Unnoticeable.

So I dropped down to the ground, accepting my diminished relevance. Was I tripping? Is this a goddamn tripping story? No, G! And it wasn’t, like, nature and its splendors. Neither was it spirit jolt god head stuff. But there was a fair amount of boundary blur, like the kind I associate with a darkened room, face forward, proscenium arch.

Tragically, there was no dark room, my face was not forward, there was no arch of any sort. Just flat. Flat. Big long ever Flat. Forever.

Within 10 minutes I was quite out of my mind.

Back at the truck, I reclined on the loading ramp and listened to Z eke out the Eno Mystery Chord while the coleman stove roared our pasta water to life. One more nissan pathfinder left center camp to race the sinking sun back to the road, 15 miles away. Seeing the approaching dust plume, Z picked up the megaphone and groaned at them to please drive slowly. They didn’t hear. After a few empty seconds, their roil arrived and passed over us with a sizzle.

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