Then, the ring of water will sweep the world.
It snakes until it dissolves hidden meaning, substitutions, new phrases and even anagrams. Keep it to yourself.
Something slithered away.
I sat in a smoke-shrouded bar, down a cold wet passage, with paintings for sale at fancy prices.
The sensation of being drugged faded, I stopped and squinted.
The pictures were of letters, six feet high.
The artists, all on special commission, under contract.
And you know, they were obsolete.
They were past it.
Then I walked over to the woman, I said, I said, get out.
Oh, nobody could work in an area like this.
In the background, the gas-meter made some kind of a mysterious signal.
Twelve thousand miles away, black smoke boiled with a sense of decay.
My carbine over my shoulder, I walked briskly, looking for reality, but finding only heavy objects.
She interrupted me with a little moan.
Words tumbled and slashed at the car.
Leaves pressed like hands against her shoulder.
It seemed that she was a regular here.
Spooling through, keeping the tape under control, gripping the warm, taut machine shaft at the top, and looking out at the heather and bracken and gorse.
She started hallucinating, and the shafts looked steep.
And it was at least a thousand hours until dusk.
A summer of excitement and adventure forced him from her hard drives.
He's down there in the dark.
He could feel her searching his eyes for clues.
He kept his eye on the digital.
She found nothing interesting.
She contemplated how she would like to watch the ceremony.
It was tricky work to refine the random images in the right order.
Put their spoils on display.
Let them speak for themselves.
Allowing several seconds until her eyes shook with the madness of it.
Perfectly splashing all the sensitive vertical and horizontal surfaces of her sex.
Computer searches only worked when you had shaken the place down.
Three in the afternoon, she said, the guy had grabbed the mic and dropped it in the dead man's pocket.
And hitched his tom-toms closer into the hollows of the mortars.
The music built up into a thundering, followed by one of those recorded chimes.
And leftist revolutionaries rolled the prepared log onto herbs, garlic, with quick glances to their standard roadmaps of the local area.
Trying to fit them into coherent order to dig out historic adventures from almost indecipherable typing.
That's right, I agreed.
Everyone's a writer, and we will make a pleasurable hobby into a lucrative way of earning. That, at least, was the theory.
But a very long time later, I sat looking at ninety-two pages of random, muddy, melted mush.
Broad stripes of sunshine on the wall beside the washing machine.
The man was listening hard, and very faintly, he spotted the red record light.
He'd never grasped the subtleties of the machine, so he froze alone, his head bent.
He scratched at his scrotum, he began to jive around, his hands slapping down, his eyes closed.
He was repeating softly to himself: the trick is to pretend that the work has an elusive ring of authenticity.
The whisper of the ancient oaks, whitish silhouettes against the velvet of night, noises of bladderwrack and crusting mud, of the morning's high tide.
You can come with me, yeah, come on.
Nocturnal Emissions' Nigel Ayers has continued to work with a strong underground of cult support, avoiding music industry fashions, and following his own creative path he concentrated on creating a strong sense of a wilderness identity through sound.
supported by 16 fans who also own “The Ring of Water”
Pure enjoyment of sound, never knowing what will happen next except for the fact that it will be even better than what you just heard. I love this one, thanks. saimonix
This ambient pop album from Chute Records label head Jan the Man captures melancholy, contemplative moods simply, and without words. Bandcamp New & Notable Jun 15, 2021
