If not for the constancy of dwelling on one’s shit,
One could reach the root beyond the smelling of it.
Bred heredity, nurtured traits:
Makeup made of mixing mates.
Ascribe wit to the one and depth to the other.
Find the inversion is as true in view of the mother.
Declaim gratefully, this fatefully wondering why
As well, flippantly wanting whilst waiting to die.
It’s professed He shall return all pompous for to judge us.
That’s what I’d deem: Classist proverbial mis-algebrus!
O! I wish I were awake. I’d say,
‘You, something something, Blessed Birthday!’
Long ago I read a review wherein guitarist Andy Summers said his certain solo was a tribute. From a song called “Mother” off an album dubbed Sychronicity, it was slower than the one referenced, done by Fripp for Eno’s “Golden Hours” on Another Green World.
(When I think that the one was only eight years after the other, the thirty-four years since waxes.. . true to the span of a lifetime!)
Two things have occurred to me subsequently (subsequent to one another (many years later and in between)), only consequential occasional to this diary entry.
In reverse order: 2) Already at twenty-seven, Eno was culling the depths of an imagination that told of a time that, for the young, would be too far away to see, let alone contemplate in the 1st person: His mind’s whiling waning while fuzzily fading to black.
Of course, he might easily have observed this occurrence in a mentor or relative, read about it regarding someone else, or seen a depiction on film, television or the stage. The text and mood of the piece, however, hug how I imagine such state of mind subsists – such that I feel as much to be living it as I should seeing it yet to come, although that wasn’t the case not so long ago. Least of all did the depth of the ditty’s darkness reach me when I was twenty-seven, when I had heard the song umpteen times, and in as many contexts.
The mood was always there, I just don’t remember when I started to feel this way. I suppose it’s growing, this waning. The whiling was always part of the program. Of course the whole damn dream is hard-wired.
1) The rest of the structure of Summer’s song resembles more the original than I had previously bothered to consider. Somewhere along the line I took both songs and mashed them up into the audio that accompanies the imagery below. I am not sure when I did the matching & splicing of the music, but if digital information is to be relied upon, about ten years ago.
Still, it was only rather recently that the irony of the lyrics in correspondence presented itself to me.
Now. There is truth in comedy, and drama in truth, but that doesn’t mean that what you are about to see & hear isn’t of zero significance. Or, contrarily, contains all the substance there’s to be. Or both. Or neither. Or always whiling in between when not hanging with the one &/or the other.
What I mean to express is: No pun intended. The puns intend themselves upon us forever & ever. Beyond that is anyone’s guess.
Happy Birthday, Mama. I love you.
Turn up the volume & wait ’til the end; it fades for a while.