I
Picture a piece of sheet music, clefs and bars and notes written out, each note a step.
Like all steps of infinite possibility in infinite space, these can land right or land wrong, spring you towards new space or plod on. Music, the art of arts, is the measure of immeasurables.
To navigate and occupy that infinite space between our ears which often screams about the conundrums of infinite necessities vs. the finite impossibilities.
Everything is on an axis of everything else.
II
4:45: The face in the mirror won’t stop, the girl in the window won’t drop . . . and a guitar lick that goes up or down, distinguishes the pain of me/the sex of you–or something that is of axis from the plane that dislikes any such irony elsewhere in the song.
4:10: Cancel my subscription to the resurrection . . . check. Will do.
But the trippiness before that declaration (2:51-4:10) . . . or at least to the guitar there . . . is aligned horizontally, refusing to chart any up and down of it like the lick at 4:45. The flat of an echo that confirms wherever this is we are alone, the thing we listen to our own thoughts.
I hear a sound, very soft but very clear.
Now.
8:55-9:13: This pounding on the door of perception Ray and Jim wanted to offer is where we get to after that door swings open. Like a Rothko, the line is nowhere and absolute, again and again, and again.
9:15 – Neither a baby’s cry nor the scream of orgasm, this flat shout, like after you get the world, or maybe what delivers it. Or am I hearing that first “yeah” through the sonic re-election of the third now at 8:08? The scream at 0:31 must have some kinda pain in it, register with hurt, however much there is too a love in “Yeah” of it
At 9:15 we are clearly coming down thanks to brother Ray, but coming down from where?
Over?
Turn out the lights.
The end.