The Dark Crystal arrived in the mail on DVD from Amazon.com. I watched it - it has been a while. I forgot how creepy it actually was - and saw from deleted footage that it was almost even darker yet. Glad I have it.

Did little else, other than find out that putting your resume on Monster.com as a software engineer gets a lot of peoples's attention.

More

this, post-posted, is what was slashed to become rez -tc

Through a haze of sour lactic aerosol, touched with the bright metal of sweat, the band can dimly be seen manipulating instruments of sound. Packed in on the floor. Strobes. I dance unreservedly, a rarity; undulate, jump, wave, gesticulate, eyes closed. This is the beauty of the show; this is the part I come back for, the self-absorption in the capacity crowd that lets my own version of reality flow to the sound.

A brief image: every waving hand signifying a complete envisioned reality, all of us sharing only the soundtrack for our worlds and motion.

Amazing, the thought of that many entire worlds compressed into this hot and smoky room with laserlight and strobes piercing the gauze that separates the layers of images. A box containing fabrics of spacetime separated by thin sheets of tissue; imagine carefully lifting the world out of the flat package and shaking it gently out into its full shape before slipping it on. Borrowed sight and leased sound with stolen hopes.

In front of me are four young women. The one directly in front of me is wearing tight-fitting pants (black) with a dark gold or ochre shirt, also clinging. A brief slice of the small of her back is visible; two inches between the bottom of the shirt and the pants’ waistline. A small drop of sweat has collected there, just above her coccyx. It would taste salty with a hint of bitter from the perfumes and esters floating about us in the atmosphere.

Strobe lights. Strobelife. Blink. Blink. Each time the photons scream out over us at speeds so quick that all of us are soundless statues in its path. Each blink I can see some other dancer’s world spread out to engulf us, storm, virus, warning, cloud, mist, love. Blink. Another. Blink. Green. Blink. Dark. Blink.

Dance.

Crescendo of sound, rising, rising, strobe freq increasing, arms waving-

life kid suck the box
drink from the box
the juice kicks up
life kid suck from the box
drink
yeah
bruce lee

A Macintosh Powerbook rests atop a traveling equipment case at the back of the stage. Thin film transistors stream some few small quanta into the void; there, the drive icons, the control strip, the-

the water of the dark boats
gliding the bright boats
gone out to sea
and dave is floating
dave is floating
and old man einstein crazy in his attic

Gifts of images from the band, precious, sift down in slow flakes of experiential rain

shake well before use she said, but you
never touch me anymore
i was busy listening for phone sex
coming through the back door
in your skintight trunks
and we all went mental and danced
i get my kicks on channel six-

Wave hands – realize briefly with a sharp flash of humor that the gestures used when too tired to move the body may somewhat resemble ASL; hope no-one tries to converse-

listen to your eyes she said
but all i could see was doris day
and a big screen satellite
disappearing down the tube hole on faringdon street

There is a brief hole in the crowd before me which sucks me in, inevitable, abhorrence of vacuum, nearness to the invisible ethereal grail of Perfect Stereo Separation hovering in the fogger/cigarette/cannabis smoke above the people who gyrate. Move forward. Brush the girl in the tight- no, she’s gone, that’s a whole new person, I wish I had the week to study the fascination of the shoulderblade that catches my eye but too late, we’re gone again and this world isn’t one I know

daily daily daily daily to dream like
tom and jerry think
and drink drink drink
and you go ping

ping he says ping she says ping we say ping ping ping ping ping is the frequency of a plucked strand of wire in one of those cable fences along a deserted highway with snow rising up the creosote-laden posts that hold the rusty coils of metal tension up off the tarmac and you go ping

into the cold blanket of nighttime air licking the sweat off your body and sodden T-shirt in a series of laughing icy shivers while you walk

watching the realities flutter overhead, tied to their owners with lengths of balloon string, bobbing along behind with an amused air to them as

we

all

walk

home

with the sounds of rez cleansing my soul

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