A twinkling merriment behind it all.
“Funerals,” the Operacycle; “Gonna Miss You,” Hub Moore and the Great Outdoors; “Tear in Your Hand,” Tori Amos; “Bhangra Fever,” MIDIval PunditZ; “Turning the Pearl,” Jeff Harrington; “Myth,” k.d. lang; “The President,” Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians; “I Want to be a Sideman,” Dave Frishberg; “Dizzy,” Siouxsie and the Banshees; “Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya,” Ella Fitzgerald.
Oh, Paarfi.
On the subject of returning, to which we just made reference in the previous sentence…
—Steven Brust, The Viscount of Adrilankha
“‘He rose from the chair upon which he was sitting.’ Well, which other chair should he have risen from, if not from that upon which he was sitting?” —And why did it take me so long to get back to these books? Teeth!
Don’t mind me.
You know. Distracted. Reading. Painting shelves. Pushing a reel mower through a month’s worth of shin-high grass. That sort of thing.
I thought I’d gone mad for a while there and was imagining we’re now a country that sanctions torture and secret imprisonment without trial and monarchial, even theocratic power vested in a deeply unpopular ruler and preemptive war and the use of nuclear weapons, but then I got better.
I know what you want; your magpies have come.
“And She Was,” Talking Heads; “Cory’s Song,” Kid Creole and the Coconuts; “Green Finch and Linnet Bird,” Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street; “Appalachian Spring (As at first, slowly),” Leonard Bernstein, the New York Philharmonic; “Come to Daddy (Little Lord Faulteroy mix),” Aphex Twin; “Gateway,” the Seatbelts; “Yes, Anastasia,” Tori Amos; “The Natural World,” Robin Holcomb; “Lute Score,” Momus; “Broken Arm,” the Weird Weeds.
Something to keep in mind (Jupiter drops).
It’s maybe, what, fifteen blocks from our house to Salon Bédé? We usually walk it. And if I am for whatever reason walking by myself, I take my iPod. I take my iPod whenever I’m walking anywhere. It’s nice to have on the bus—that and a book and you’ve got your isolation bubble firmly in place (you and maybe half of everybody else)—but when I’m walking, I can hear it better. When I’m walking, I’m not doing anything else.
Last night, around about 42nd, something, I don’t remember what, but let’s say it was “Cyberbird” for the sake of argument, it fluttered to a stop, and then that rising ghostly hum-chord began, and crawling up out of it that unearthly backwards guitar, and maybe it was because it was a chilly night and I’d only grabbed a light jacket, but you know how Robert Graves goes on about poetry and the shaving mirror and the hairs on your chin? It was like that, only all the way down to my toes, and I stood there hanging between one step and the next until he began to sing, and it’s not the first time that’s ever happened.
And yet it isn’t the song, is it? Just? I’d play it for you, and you’d say maybe that was nice, or huh, but you wouldn’t hang there, unstuck from the moment-to-moment. (Unless.) —It’s everything I’ve put into the song, everything that unfolds when I hear it begin to play, a key only I can use for a lock only I’d want to open. —It’s all so very, very big. Without the song, where would I put it?
Here’s an alternate take on “Ubiquity is the abyss”; a polished remix of the earlier rough demo track. “Songs are fascist immigrants,” says Momus, elsewhere; “conquistadors who’ve come, inevitably, to slay indigenous sound wherever they find it.” —Well, yes. But not just slay. And not just sound.
Just so you know:
if you’re making oatmeal for breakfast and you put on the butter and the brown sugar and the milk and haven’t had enough coffee yet to realize you’ve just grabbed the cumin and not the cinnamon, well, it’s still edible.
Jupiter drops (four).
Where were we?
Opening fanfare, check. The basic theme; motives, episodes; the countersubject—
I’m beginning to be dissatisfied with the idea of CDs, the way they make all music so available to us, the way that all musical experiences are supposedly able to be shrunk down to fit this little plastic disc. I’m beginning to think it should be as difficult to hear music as it was in the Middle Ages. Imagine just hearing a concert once a month, how amazing it must have sounded!
What a strange thing to say. —“I’m beginning to think it should be as difficult to read as it was in the Middle Ages. Imagine just seeing a book once a month, how amazing it must have seemed!” Imagine a glass of wine just once a year—the taste! (The anticipation of the taste; the concentration brought to the tasting; the memory of the taste—a whole language constructed to better remember that taste—) Imagine: sex, but once in your lifetime. What an amazing experience!
What a terrible price to pay, for such fleeting evanescence.
It’s a strange thing to say, isn’t it, for an airport musician, a furniture musician, a knife-and-fork musician?
The concept of music designed specifically as a background feature in the environment was pioneered by Muzak Inc. in the fifties, and has since come to be known generically by the term Muzak. The connotations that this term carries are those particularly associated with the kind of material that Muzak Inc. produces—familiar tunes arranged and orchestrated in a lightweight and derivative manner. Understandably, this has led most discerning listeners (and most composers) to dismiss entirely the concept of environmental music as an idea worthy of attention.
Over the past three years, I have become interested in the use of music as ambience, and have come to believe that it is possible to produce material that can be used thus without being in any way compromised. To create a distinction between my own experiments in this area and the products of the various purveyors of canned music, I have begun using the term Ambient Music.
—Brian Eno, “The ambient music manifesto”
To say that an airport musician has said?
As usual, Brian Eno was the first person I’m aware of to sound a warning note. In an interview he gave around the time he moved to St Petersburg, he said (I quote from memory)—
Yadda yadda concert but once a month amazing. —So I went and poked around for an interview given by Eno around the time he moved to St. Petersburg, in which he expressed his dissatisfaction with CDs. I wanted to see his own words, not Momus’s memory of his words; I wanted to get closer to how Eno had squared this particular circle. And I did find the column he wrote around the time he moved to St. Petersburg, in which he said:
I was in a big art gallery in Los Angeles once. There was a Frank Stella painting about 60 feet long, and next to it a tiny, jewel-like eight inch square collage, and a little further along a Boltanski piece using framed black and white photos and table lamps and boxes of old clothing, and next to that a Nam June Paik sculpture made of working TV sets. I found myself envying visual artists the endless range of forms their productions could take—big, small, 2D, 3D, 4D, colourful, dull, glossy, rough, smooth, figurative, abstract—and I compared it in my mind with making a CD. Suddenly that seemed like a narrow bottleneck through which all music had to be squeezed. Imagine if you said to all the visual artists of the world: “Okay guys… from now on the only way that people are going to see your work is in magazines—on 11" x 8" colour pages.” What would happen to painting? Well, Frank Stella probably wouldn’t bother with making his things 60 feet long—he’d make something that looked adequate at the 11" x 8" scale. Similarly all the others…. because if the final format is only capable of certain things, that’s what you’ll end up regarding as your working palette.
So what I find exciting now is discovering music that hasn’t obediently designed itself to slot within the constraints of this arbitrary medium—recorded music—and which is somehow bigger than it, overflowing at its edges, extending beyond its horizons. Yes—I want to feel the music is too big to fit on a little old CD, that there is more to it than that, that it has a separate life from my hi-fi—a life I can imagine and add to my aural experience of the music.
Not a word about the ubiquity of music. Just the ubiquity of CDs. Not a word about the Middle Ages, or concerts once a month, but more, much more, and other and better and bigger and different. —And I don’t want to suggest that my search was in any way exhaustive. There could well be another interview or column somewhere about St. Petersburg that I missed, which starts with dissatisfaction and ends up with self-denial. There could be a remark somewhere else entirely, taken out of its other context, conflated. But I don’t want to suggest that Momus misspoke, or misremembered; he has as much Google as the rest of us. Nor do I wish to imply that he made up an authority to cite, the better to drive home his point. (The lurkers support him in email!) But I do want to remind you of his current gig: he’s the Unreliable Tour Guide for the Whitney Biennial.
And anyway, it isn’t the ubiquity of music that Momus is railing against, any more than it’s the fornication and the silk and the wine and the musical instruments that will lead Allah to let the mountain fall.
34°4'48" N, 49°42'0" E.
Arak is not an old city, though it is the capital of the Markazi Province, one of the oldest settled areas on the Iranian plateau.
That white patch in the upper-right is a sometime lake and salt-flat, if I’m remembering correctly. It’s the Kavir-e Mighan (or Miqan, or Miyqan, or MeiQan, depending), except this page says it’s the Shur Gel. I don’t remember; I do remember seeing plumes of dust rising hundreds of feet into a hard blue-white sky, the only sign of a convoy of trucks driving across it, lost somewhere in the shimmering heat-haze.
There’s a university in Arak, now: the Islamic Azad University of Arak, founded in 1985, some 23,000 students, degrees in drama, agricultural science, Islamic theology, English literature. —Actually, there’s several universities: the Arak University of Medical Sciences, the University of Arak, the Tarbiat Moallem University of Arak, a campus of the Iran University of Science and Technology. I don’t know how old any of those are. I don’t remember any of them; I remember a small town and dust and open sewers and the incongruities of an American-style suburb thrown up away from all that, platted blocks of yellow grass and red-brick houses and the high-rise apartment towers off over that way.
If I’m remembering correctly, the suburbs were at the southern end of Arak; we looked out on the mountains to the south and west. We’d drive up there and go tromping about. I spelled my name in flat rocks with letters taller than myself in the snow, but when we got back in the car and drove back down to our house and I got out and looked back, I couldn’t see them. When we went out into the country for the last day of Nawruz, I remember it looked a lot like this:
And I remember we could look out the window of our car and see farmers threshing wheat the way they had for centuries:
But if nothing changed for centuries, a lot can happen in thirty years.
Thirty miles to the northwest these days there’s a brand-new heavy water production plant. Heavy water is water made with deuterium atoms, rather than simple, light-water hydrogen; it’s used to moderate neutrons in nuclear reactors that run off natural uranium, rather than enriched uranium. Just the ticket if you’re trying to get a nuclear program off the ground.
I haven’t seen the list of 400 possible sites the president plans to attack in Iran, but I can tell you the Arak heavy water facility is on it. I don’t know if it’s hardened enough to require a nuclear bomb. If so, it’ll (probably) be a B61-11, which could generate between 25,000 and 1.5 million tons of radioactive debris—depending on the yield “dialed in”—some thirty miles northwest of a house I lived in, thirty years ago.
If not, it’ll just take a lot of conventional ordnance. —And I know, I know: who cares? The Russians loved their children, too. So did the Iraqis.
I just can’t help but take this personally. I’m only human.
—cross-posted to Sisyphus Shrugs
Dies Jovis.
“Lekar Ham Diwana Di,” Asha Bhosle, Kishore Kumar; “Time to Go,” Supergrass; “Stoned to Say the Least,” Saint Etienne; “Olson,” Boards of Canada; “The Laird of Inversnecky (premix),” Momus; “Can’t Get You Out of My Head on a Blue Monday (live),” Kylie Minogue, New Order; “The Beauty Regime,” The Divine Comedy; “Finisterre,” Saint Etienne; “Five Spot Blues,” Thelonious Monk Quartet; “Ba Doum,” 3 Leg Torso.
Jupiter drops (some further context).
Bunk has suffered through Gram Parson’s “Streets of Baltimore” on a hillbilly bar’s juke, just as Herc has been forced to police West Baltimore amid the throbbing bass lines of what passes for rap these days. Which is the point, perhaps.
“In real life you don’t get to punch the button on the song that you want to be playing when you get into the bar fight, when you’re in a car chase,” said Simon.
And so we have these buttons being punched on The Wire: 1972’s “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl),” by Looking Glass, played on a beat-up radio in the stevedore’s pierside shack when Frank Sobotka was worried about a can of contraband languishing on the docks; the Tokens singing that ridiculous, everything-that-Bob-Dylan-is-not folk song “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” as Jimmy McNulty and sons follow Stringer Bell through a city market; prosecutor Rhonda Pearlman, stuck at home doing paperwork, listening to the plaintive poetry of Lucinda Williams.
Yet one rule is strictly observed: All of the music has to be ambient, meaning it has to be justified by a source in the scene, either a boom box or a stereo or a car radio or a band belting it out in a bar that doesn’t even have a stage.
—George Pelecanos, “The Music of The Wire”
Might as well go with the flow of it. Jim puts on his “Supertragic Symphony,” a concoction of his own made up of the four saddest movements of symphonic music that he knows of. He’s recorded them in the sequence he thinks most effective. First comes the funeral march from Beethoven’s Third Symphony, grand and stirring in its resistance to fate, full of active grief as an opening movement should be. Second movement is the second movement of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, the stately solemn tune that Bruno Walter discovered could be made into a dirge, if you ignored Beethoven’s instruction to play it allegretto and went to adagio. Heavy, solemn, moody, rhythmic.
The third movement is the third movement from Brahms’s Third Symphony, sweet and melancholy, the essence of October, all the sadness of all the autumns of all time wrapped up in a tuneful tristesse that owes its melodic structure to the previous movement from Beethoven’s Seventh. Jim likes this fact, which he discovered on his own; it makes it look like the “Supertragic Symphony” was meant to be.
Then the finale is the last movement of Tchaikovsky’s Pathetique, no fooling around here, all the stops pulled, time to just bawl your guts out! Despair, sorrow, grief, all of czarist Russia’s racking misery, Tchaikovsky’s personal troubles, all condensed into one final awful moan. The ultimate bummer.
What a symphony! Of course there’s a problem with the shifting key signatures, but Jim doesn’t give a damn about key signatures. Ignore them and he can gather up all of his downer feelings and sing them out, conduct them too, wandering around the ap trying feebly to clean up a bit, collapsing in chairs, crawling blackly over the floors as he waves an imaginary baton, getting lower and lower. Man, he’s low. He’s so low he’s getting high off it! And when it’s all over he feels drained. Catharsis has taken place. Everything’s a lot better.
—Kim Stanley Robinson, The Gold Coast
Jupiter drops (three).
Momus—that creepy Scottish guy? world’s smartest pop star?—Momus wants to take your iTunes away.
That’s not an apt comparison, because literature is not a time-based medium that hogs bandwidth and restricts the other things you can do with sound while it’s “playing.” The comparison between an iPod and a book is a slightly better one, and I do note approvingly the iPod’s tendency to “privatize” the listener’s taste.
Well. Not so much take your iTunes away. Certainly not your earbuds. But your Limewire? Your BitTorrent? Your 60-gig hard drive? Your wall of CDs? Your ten thousand songs every one of which instantly sortable by title or artist or key words or album or genre or folksonomic tags or play count? Your Friday random tens? Your MP3 blogs? Your rack of audiophilic equipment capable of reading wax ripples or lit-up bits or magnetic tape and running the signals through knee-high speakers placed in the room just so?
Music’s availability, streamability etc seems to be liberating, but when other people have the same access to, and control over, music that I do it can lead to a kind of sound hell. I’d say a parallel situation is cars: sure, if I get a car I get more mobility, more freedom of movement. But if everyone has a car, not only do we all end up in horrible conflictual gridlock, the environment suffers. We are now reaching car saturation, and music saturation, car gridlock and music gridlock.
Well, not quite so much them, either. Not as such. There’s rhetoric, and there’s praxis. —But still, puritanical trickster that he is, he’s after some way to pull music back to a one true only—
But for whatever reason, Steve and Rupert and the others have squeezed music into every blank bit of space in our lives. We are rapidly reaching the limits of our own ears (tinnitus, my headphoned friend?) and the saturation point at which music becomes utterly unremarkable, and thus, effectively, inaudible.
As usual, Brian Eno was the first person I’m aware of to sound a warning note. In an interview he gave around the time he moved to St Petersburg, he said (I quote from memory) “I’m beginning to be dissatisfied with the idea of CDs, the way they make all music so available to us, the way that all musical experiences are supposedly able to be shrunk down to fit this little plastic disc. I’m beginning to think it should be as difficult to hear music as it was in the Middle Ages. Imagine just hearing a concert once a month, how amazing it must have sounded!”
current music: “Alegria,” Kirsty MacColl
Jupiter drops (two).
There’s this co-worker I no longer share an office with which is probably for the best, since she didn’t really like my music. (Still doesn’t. Except the Ella.) She’d mutter about those fake Russian lesbians or that creepy Scottish guy (I think it was “Scottish Lips” was how she knew he was Scottish) and the Bollywood (though the Bollywood was okay, maybe a little funny, and you never know what they’re singing about), and maybe she had a point about how hard it was to work to Muslimgauze. (Before her, before I ripped our entire collection to a 60-gig drive the size of my hand, the guy I used to share the office with brought his CDs and I brought my CDs and we’d trade off and that’s how I learned about RJD2 and Sigur Rós and how he learned about Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Robin Holcomb, maybe.)
But the thing she really hated was the mashups. —She didn’t like covers in general, really; she wanted the platonic ideal, the ultimate Joe Meek effect, the one you hear on Akashic radio, and I can sometimes see her point: I’ve never been so disappointed as when I sat down to listen to Vladimir Ashkenazy’s rendition of Sibelius’ Fifth and found the sombre joy in the face of the inevitable that builds to those staggering, heart-stopping beats at the end of the third movement transformed to something nameless, brusquely middle-management, impatient to be done and up and on to the next. (It’s Lorin Maazel and his Wiener Philharmonik you’ll be wanting.) —But the mashups really got her goat: the look on her face, say, when Kelis starts rapping about her milkshake over Brian May’s crunch?
I believe I’ve mentioned these days I work in a document coding shop? Back when I was still out on the floor, back before iPods and iTunes, or at least their ubiquity, somebody set up a tinny little radio and left it tuned to this soft rock station day in, day out to help us get through the tedium of day in, day out data entry. —I still get this uncontrollable tic whenever I hear the opening bars of “Drops of Jupiter.”
Jupiter drops (some context).
It is told to us by a long and unbroken isnaad of men of good character, known for their memories and their precision, that the Prophet (may the blessing and peace of Allah be upon him) has said: “There will certainly be those among my ummah who will allow fornication and silk, wine, the playing of musical instruments. Some of these people will stay at the side of the mountain and they will keep flocks of sheep. When a beggar comes in the evening to seek alms of them, they will say to him, ‘Come back to us tomorrow.’ And during the night, Allah will let the mountain fall down upon them, and others he will transform to apes and swine. They will remain as such until the Day of Resurrection.” —This is found to be neither odd nor faulty.
The fact that listeners hear the same emotion in a given musical score is something a Neanderthal crooner might have exploited. Music can manipulate people’s emotional states (think of liturgical music, martial music or workplace music). Happy people are more cooperative and creative. By fostering cooperation and creativity among bands of early, prelanguage human ancestors, music would have given them a survival edge. “If you can manipulate other people’s emotions,” says Prof. Mithen, “you have an advantage.”
—Sharon Begley, “Caveman crooners may have aided early human life”
Early in the twentieth century, however, the new science of industrial efficiency management was electrified by the discovery made at an indoor bicycle race held in 1911 at the old Madison Square Garden in New York. A brass band was part of the entertainment, and statisticians clocking the race discovered that cyclists’ average speeds shot up by about ten percent during the band’s sets. Five years later, a commercial laundry experimented with playing ragtime records; productivity increased dramatically when ironing was done in time to the music. In 1922, the Minneapolis post office tried playing records in its night sorting room and found that sorting errors fell.
By 1930, many American factories provided some sort of music, either live or phonograph, and the numbers of workplaces where music was supplied increased steadily…
—Nick Humez, “Muzak,” the St. James Encyclopedia of Pop Culture
The important thing about music from an Islamic view is that music expresses, or seeks to express, emotion. The purpose of music, when performed or recorded, is to produce an emotion, or emotions, in the listener—to affect the listener.
Islam is concerned about music because : (1) Islam believes that human emotions should be controlled because this control of our emotions is demanded of us by Allah (tabarak wa’tala)—it is what makes us human, and civilized, and enables us to remember Allah (tabarak wa’tala), and so access and maintain the numinous (the sacred) in our own lives; (2) listening to or playing (or re-producing) music on instruments or musical devices involves a lack of control because the music is the product of someone else’s mind and/or emotions and in the vast majority of instances is un-numinous: that is, it is profane, and seldom if ever is a remembrance of Allah (tabarak wa’tala); instead, music mostly conspires to distance us from Allah (tabarak wa’tala): it is mostly entertainment; distraction; frivolity; and mostly, in the modern world, a representation of what is Shaitanic—lust, greed, self-indulgence, pride, arrogance, loss of self-control.
The point is that music is a human construct, a human creation, and when we respond to music we are responding to or being influenced by this human attempt at creation. This applies even if a piece of music is an attempt at some sort of “communication” rather than an overt, obvious, expression of emotion; the music is still a human construct, and it is still an attempt to convey something fallible: someone else’s ideas, concerns, beliefs, notions, limited understanding or whatever. This also applies even—particularly—if the music is considered “religious”: that is, it is an attempt to re-present something of the sacred, the divine. In this case, there is a reliance on someone else’s perception or understanding of the sacred, the divine, and this is and always will be imperfect, error-prone and ultimately unnecessary. For Islam believes that the perfect perception, the perfect understanding of the sacred, the divine, already exists—in the Holy Quran, and the example of the Prophet Muhammad (salla Allahu ‘alayhi wa sallam). Thus, music—of whatever kind—is itself at best irrelevant and unnecessary, and at worst, a distraction, a path away from Allah (tabarak wa’tala), and a denial of that self-restraint which makes us human.
—Abdul Aziz, “Why Music is Haram”
When I was thirteen, I had a friend who was in his twenties. He began helping my father, who was in charge of our youth group. The music he listened to was wrong, and as I became closer to this guy, I began to listen to his music and began to get deeper into it. Finally, it was to the point that it no longer satisfied the flesh and I wanted more. So I then started to listen to regular, secular rock music, and it caused moral failure in my life.
I would warn anyone who would experiment with “Christian rock” not to do so, or it is likely that the same result would happen to them. Thank you!
—a 16-year-old student from Michigan
She checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo—
Jupiter drops (one).
I used to work in the Rax in Oberlin, Ohio, and one day I went to the manager to complain. I pointed to one of the factoids printed on the paper placemats they used to line the cafeteria trays. “It says you play soft rock, or jazz, or whatever.”
She looked at it. “Yeah,” she said.
“Not muzak.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“It specifically says you don’t play muzak.”
“I see that,” she said.
“You’re playing muzak,” I said. It was true. They were. I can’t remember what song was playing because that was the point, or it used to be the point. You know what I’m talking about.
She shrugged. —I got the skinny later: you subscribe to Muzak, like cable television. Literally pipe it in. The Rax had taken over the building from some other fast-food brand, Arby’s or some such, and the muzak system was already in place, wired up, switched on, chirping away. Nobody knew which particular service and nobody knew where the controls were and it would have been too expensive to rip the speakers out and anyway the stuff was bland and inoffensive and nobody ever got a bill, so why not? We’d close for the night, mop up, wipe down, just two of us and the echo of some airless afternoon in Van Nuys when some Nelson Riddle second-stringers phoned it in for a little mad money. We’d shut off the lights and lock the doors and leave the syrupy strings to serenade a dark and empty restaurant.
And, being troubled with a raging tooth,
I could not sleep.
I’m telling you right up front: I have no idea what this means.
Apparently, oneiromancers find it to be (by far) their most popular request: tell me what it means to dream of losing my teeth. They fall out, she says, and I try to catch them in my hands and I can’t. I start to say something, he says, and they turn to dust and blow away. He kisses you and they shake loose in your mouth and you swallow one and it catches in your throat. I spit them out one by one onto an empty plate and wake up in a cold sweat. —Wouldn’t you?
“Teeth represent our ‘bite’ or our aggressive/assertive nature. When we can’t get our teeth into something it suggests we have little control. Please contact me so we can discuss this matter further. If you dial +1866 286 5095, follow the prompts, and dial in PIN code 032, I shall assist you.”
I always feel a little guilty for not liking China Miéville more than I do. Maybe it’s because I’ve only ever tried to read Perdido Street Station, which comes off like Clive Barker on a Warhammer bender? —I should really try to read more, I think to myself, at least finish the thing, so I pick it up again after having set it aside for a good long while, ignoring for a moment the piece of paper that flutters out (I’m always using odd bits of paper as bookmarks—receipts, bus transfers, that sort of thing), and read “The hovels that encrust the river’s edge have grown like mushrooms around me in the dark,” and I sigh, heavily. (Oh, to rise above this to not smell this filth this dirt this dung to not enter the city through this latrine but I must stop, I must, I cannot go on, I must.) Well, ought, maybe. —That internal monologue comes to a stop soon enough, thank God, and the book settles into a third-person past tense that’s, well, redolent of Imajica. Sigh.
But I did pick it up just the other day, in an attempt to refresh my memory on certain points to be made later, and a piece of paper did flutter out, one of those things I’d tucked into the book when I’d last been reading it, and I picked it up and had one of those moments when the world cracks, when you’re presented with evidence of something you’d not so much forgotten as never bothered to think about again when thinking about the things around it. (Comes to much the same.) —I got on the train and went to work and heard the news and stood there, stunned, and shook my head; and then I went to the dentist. I had an appointment, you see. —Later, we bought newspapers.
Planes?
“Beware, not all tooth dreams are symbolic. Once in a while a tooth dream is telling you to get yourself to the dentist’s chair.” Sure, fine, but I’m telling you: I have no idea what this means.
Say: Who hath forbidden the beautiful (gifts) of God, which He hath produced for His servants, and the things, clean and pure, (which He hath provided) for sustenance?
“Except,” Babe the Blue Ox; “Complainte Pour Ste Catherine,” Kirsty MacColl; “Read, Eat, Sleep,” the Books; “Stone,” Cibo Matto; “Avignon,” Chuck Coleman; “Mimi on the Beach,” Jane Siberry; “Qu’ran,” Brian Eno, David Byrne; “Robin Hood,” Momus; “Bloodletting,” Concrete Blonde; “Let Me Be Your Liquor Man,” the Minni-Thins.
