18 Sep 2015

The belt of my Stanton T.60 grinds to a halt as I morosely acquiesce my world of sound to the silencing knuckle-on-door demand of my upstairs neighbour. Despite my protest of "It's Friday night", I was startled to hear how weak and mid-Wednesday-morning-at-the-tomb-of-the-eternally-depressed my voice sounded, and just how suddenly my night was over. How suddenly the sadness came flooding back in.

The sounds in question had been unveiled from a brown packet marked "Trance Mystery Pack ~ $10", and with a sober toast to moments of happiness amidst the murk, I called upon my creator to lay unseen hands over the consecrated secrets contained in the black vinyl.

The tarot-esque ritual ushered in an excitement to my messy house, a fervour that promised the headline slot at Earthcore, promised a new self-produced album and pizza and Halo 4. It promised desolate masturbation, it promised I would not think of her tonight, promised I would not message her tonight, promised I would not call her and that I would never swear at her like that again. I promised I wouldn't make any promises, for I know I don't always keep them. I promised I would get around to cleaning this messy house. I promised I would do the washing. I promised I would do the washing.

The hopes and dreams of the powerfully creative lie forever shattered when they are dreams of a world without interruption or criticism, and hopes of an unyielding love, an unbreakable love. Yet none of this can be, in the living moment of the yin-yang - a world of ants, humans, monkeys and God. None of this can be whilst the yearning soul craves also for caring, also for forgiveness and gentle redemption; and whilst the upstairs neighbour is perpetually cradling a hangover.