Cross Fader Cross Sections

I had to exchange media with my friend Mica of Mind Temple Productions who is working on a documentary with me, Logos Beheld, (about my theories about evolution and visual communication) and he was setting up to do the music and lighting for a film wrap party or something like that, and he invited me to stay, and out of politeness I did, not expecting to stay for long. But I found myself involved in interesting conversation with a young ethnobotanist named Evan, and while this conversation unfolded I noticed that Mica, who was spinning records, and John, a drummer, were in a egoless mind meld of flawless musical virtuosity. I already knew that Mica was a master at matching beats and flowing musically with the energy of rave or club, but John, who I had never met before, was obviously one of the best drummers I had ever encountered, and the unexpected brilliance of this collaboration kept me there despite my usual allergic reaction to socially dense environments, especially those that involve the usual combination of alcohol and the frenzied collision of sexual agendas which is, after all, practically the definition of a party or a club or a primate populated prison planet or whatever this plane of incarnation is supposed to be. Although my body had long since been exhausted by an extremely taxing and over-long day the musical intensity kept me transfixed and eventually reaching for my hand held computer gadget to record a stream of consciousness on one of those Tom Thumb type keyboards lit by a candle helpfully placed at the table where I was sitting.

Cross Fader Cross Sections                               © 2005 by jonathan zap

Turntables slipping back and across each other,

spinning hemispheres in cross-fading neural dialogue,

and bongos,

bongos slapped by mental intention,

“ I do not drum with my hands, I drum with my mind.”

says the drummer by his actions, as

spinning engines of musical thought wind up and down, and

drums, rendered of animal skin and wood,

mix beats with heavy electromagnets,

firing black polymer cones,

vibrating with electrocuted machine frenzy

behind black on black grills,

and the many thousand wattages of electricity, from

distant coal-fired plants,

pump electron juice

through black rubber-coated wire,

to become percussive beats

massively realized by black on black speakers,

as the primeval black gold of dead dinosaur energy is

alchemically transmuted into

vortices of sound spinning with electrical cross contention

spilling out into summery night.

and yet,

the percussive crossfire of beats and rhythms,

also fires adrenals of narcissistic hominids,

presenting as spinal cords

flailing herky-jerky across dance floor,

knees and elbows pumping to rhythm of heated primate sex-politic,

fired by rhythm, hormone, alcohol, frenzy of social density,

as hands slap animal skins alchemically taut,

on bulging tubular seeds of polished wood, and

rhythms shimmer with precision, as

fatty deposits of

dinosaurs and fermented ferns,

decaying sweetly through geological time,

come to explode as electromagnetism of gigantic bass propulsions.

speakers aggressive with electricity and stretched polymers,

vibrate from the marrow of Japanese hardware,

commanded by needle of diamond,

tracking discs,

shiny and black as coal,

spinning and glimmering,

needle fine etchings, on

hydrocarbons of dinosaur metabolism,

pressed into discs,

great densities of acoustical energy, and

super compression of carbon,

become knife edge of diamond,

cutting out vortices of acoustical patterning,

as the fate of spinning vinyl,

rests on the edge of a diamond knife,

straying but a little,

to the ruin of all,

while hominid digits sheathed in protein,

slap electrically,

flickering skeletal tongues of rhythmic intentionality,

slapping animal skin on animal skin slapping,

slapping air, slapping ear drums,

convoluted inner skin drums,

vibrating within

protein solid hominid agents,

who, to the possible ruin of all,

are moving and jerking automatons of

joints and tendons, acting out

alcohol-fired rhythmical-arhythmical movements,

ever so slightly recalibrating positions

in the evanescent nexus of

primate hierarchical relations,

intermingling the effulgence of

nonverbal gestures and

primate olfactory cueing

of synthetic perfumes, sweat, pheromones.

and yet,

drummer and dj are in the zone—

focus and flow yielding

free fire to power

grab n’ gusto of

sloppy, sprawling social agendas,

sweating fermentingly and

jerking with percussive rhythms,

as massive cascading of musical energy

heightens something,

heightens each in kind,

heightens jerks and grinds of pelvic gyrations,

forever at the root chakra of existence, as

dinosaur electro-magnetism

heats throbbing tape loops of sexual agenda.

And so,

Musical intelligence becomes energy source,

becomes meat puppet espresso,

becomes neurological stimulant,

becomes spinning gyroscopes in my head—

spinning out rhythmic-patterned cross sections of

primates,

acting out stoboscopically,

stroboscopic flashes revealing hominids on hottie quests,

with tools and anti-tools, of

attraction and rejection,

punctuating the ecstatic frenzy of social maneuverings,

stimulated by combustion of

simple sugars and neural peptides of

excited hydraulic intentions,

throbbing simultaneous with

phasing sounds, creating

strange hemispheric fires,

spinning out rhythmic word energy to

cross section primate density,

and my own inner mechanicalness,

musically submerged and skewed, becomes

perceptual flashes of primate hydraulic intentionalites,

throbbing with percussive dynamics of sex-politic, which

thicken and become sloppy and sluggish as

music s l o w s,

and then,

as music reignites,

it boots up again,

into flight or fight giddiness, and

dinosaur fat throbs shimmeringly

out of Japanese electronics, and

the vibratory hysteria of

polymer cones electrocuted behind black on black grills,

and mind become drumming,

keeps up with edge of excited electromagnetism, as

musical thoughts extrude from massively black speakers, as

twisting, fabric-sheathed, sound-baffling primates yield space to howling, phasing phantasmagoria of spinning hardware that

needs no social density before it,

but lives for analog signaling of diamond point knife,

extracting musical thoughts at

thirty-three revolutions per minute,

stroboscopically lighting up

cascades of diamond on black vinyl,

unfolding etched layers of acoustical patterning,

spinning and shimmering outward

into the darkness of summer night.

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