Interviewee: "I produced what should
be found as a hidden track
on track 1." Interviewer: "Oh really. Please Go On..."
I'm here with H. The time zero
one five nine hours on the twenty six
of the eleventh month of two thousand
and twenty five. My name is Liz, this is
for Asylum Rock Magazine.
The ENTER view,
Interviewee: "Thank you for having me on such short notice. I chose this time so near the closing of this enterview you can view my latest demo of 'Cemetery Rock.' It should end during the witching hour." There was an awkward pause. "Hello-I guess I should say something to get started. I learned that changing points of view allows me to travel in and out of demensions." I paused, "Or as those working in the psychiatric community would say 'dementia' as in dementional. Regardless, i use emotions that they feel, felt, to travel through space and time. Going places like graveyards when and where some energies are left behind...I reap. The consequence is that it can be damaging for the psyche.
Because maybe it's better to be interviewed; than to have an intake from a psyche tech, to determine rather I should be put away or not.
She grinned and I could tell by the way she took notes that she was drawing a smiley face on her papers.
"So is all of this going to be on or off the record?"
"Understood."
Interviewer: "Why do you play your guitar in graveyards?"
The better question would be
WHERE DO I GET MY IDEAS from? I get my ideas from changing points of view. When I change points of view, I get different perspectives of why certain things happen to certain people in their life. Having these points of view, I dare implore that one can even travel across space and time; maybe even dimensions. Sometimes, I even go to graveyards and play my guitar.
"You go to graveyards to play guitar”
Not only because graveyards are silent. One can reap things that are left behind in a graveyard.
Imagines a memory-brought by a familiar sound. And everything gets loud. The beating of her heart was the bass. The wind carrying the sounds of cicadas, locusts, beetles, the chirping of birds become my treble.
She was stuck in a moment while the setting sun’s rays release ravaging fingers that manipulate the shadows on the tombstones. Then those fingers paint orange red, pink to grey. Then illuminate through the street's light and the fool’s glare faded to a pale green color.
She stepped outside of herself. She saw me in a puddle, in an oak tree’s root that was above the ground.
I was playing guitar in the spot where she could not return. My melodies are added to
The Ethereal.
There was a voice…
"I want to die." "But what does that really mean?"
But then someone had to interfere with red, white, and blue flashing lights, a siren and an intercom speaker.
And as I quickly dismantled my tripod, and my equipment I found a ring. Encased in its circle is dried mud.
“Okay so you play guitar at a graveyard, but have no intention of hurting yourself or anyone else?”
No I just come here to reap the energies left behind. Sure, it’s a shortcut; like sometimes majick is. Got the graveyard dust. Countless grains of sand in an hourglass. Infinite like the things we thought we left behind.
Comments
Post a Comment