one groove's difference and the universe can be on into a whole 'nother song

“What goes around may come around, but it never ends up exactly the same place, you ever notice? Like a record on a turntable, all it takes is one groove's difference and the universe can be on into a whole 'nother song.” 

― Thomas Pynchon, Inherent Vice


The History of Love

Once upon a time there was a boy. He lived in a village that no longer exists, in a house that no longer exists, on the edge of a field that no longer exists, where everything was discovered and everything was possible. A stick could be a sword. A pebble could be a diamond. A tree a castle.

Once upon a time there was a boy who lived in a house across the field from a girl who no longer exists. They made up a thousand games. She was Queen and he was King. In the autumn light, her hair shone like a crown. They collected the world in small handfuls. When the sky grew dark they parted with leaves in their hair.

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering. When they were ten he asked her to marry him. When they were eleven he kissed her for the first time. When they were thirteen they got into a fight and for three weeks they didn’t talk. When they were fifteen she showed him the scar on her left breast. Their love was a secret they told no one. He promised her he would never love another girl as long as he lived.What if I die? she asked. Even then, he said. For her sixteenth birthday he gave her an English dictionary and together they learned the words. What’s this? he’d ask, tracing his index finger around her ankle, and she’d look it up. And this? he’d ask, kissing her elbow. Elbow! What kind of word is that? and then he’d lick it, making her giggle. What about this? he asked, touching the soft skin behind her ear. I don’t know, she said, turning off the flashlight and rolling over, with a sigh, onto her back. When they were seventeen they made love for the first time, on a bed of straw in a shed. Later—when things happened that they could never have imagined—she wrote him a letter that said: When will you learn that there isn’t a word for everything?

— Nicole Krauss, The History of Love 



25 Years of Mushroom Jazz

I remember finding Mark Farina's "Mushroom Jazz" on a mixtape in Little Five Points in Atlanta, at a rave/electronic music store Trixie turned me onto.  It was different, had more intricate instruments, horns, sax, than some of the early purely electronic house music that was more common at that time.  Along with Joeski, Miguel Migs and Naked Music, and Dubtribe, I felt I had stumbled onto something pure and beautiful with a beat.

It's interesting what Mark Farina says in this article, as I think I was a fan who wrote him and told him about "Remember Me" and the power of that song and its relation to Silverbelly and the conception of Finn.

from the article:
"You have that brother, sister, uncle, aunt, that doesn't know electronic music," he explained. "People will turn them onto it through Mushroom Jazz." The compilations have served other purposes as well: Farina recalls fans informing him that their children were conceived while listening to Mushroom Jazz.
  • Current Location: the Universe
  • Current Mood: Smiling
  • Current Music: Remember Me by Blue Boy

on the edge

The two girls with the sun in a spiderweb bag are standing by the mountains talking with the snake that makes holes in the wind with his rattle.  The girls have large white eyes and tattered shorts.  Their legs are softly salt-crusted.  They can smell water.
I don't know why I'm scared now, or why I can't close my eyes, but there's something inside like a shutter release, and I'll sleep when the world stops, or simply when this mess of broken foggy sky drifts out of the lens.
Taking the final drag on a cigarette, standing on the balcony, flicking it four stories down and watching it erupt in a shower of tiny orange sparks against a rain-soaked and shiny tarmac.  We always aim for the roof opposite, the plain above a block of shops and bars with skylights that look like moon craters, some kind of space unit, there are maybe a hundred of them, spaceless and sallow, some forgotten galaxy.
No-one's ever reached the roof.  It would be the equivalent of the stars and stripes on the moon if they did.  A smoking cigarette end slowly dying, but there.  Reaching that roof shouldn't signify any sort of revolution, but somehow, sometimes, mostly, the simplest things in the world are the most incredible.