War, Al Wilson https://youtu.be/kCoAzYdvMTI video on guitar, impossible, inconceivable. not the group or a group, the Ukraine war, invasion by sick hordes who remains behind an international border, leak their poison everywhere. I tried to play this, bloody arrogance on my part. The guitar sounded like a guitar, my own thinking deeply ignorant, another error or worse, another encapsulation, bracketing, of something I can't conceive of. Not this one, not this time, not ever. That this can happen? That I am here? R. should burn in hell. What I say is irrelevant, the sky is green, the ground is glass - inert. Too many repetitions in my lifetime, from wwii (aw, dad didn't want me) to roiling (to render turbid by stirring up the dregs or sediment of; as, to roil wine, cider, etc., in casks or bottles; to roil a spring.) 'actions' do done, to do, did, will do, as much damage as possible. So this day I played this day from here (no one dead yet) this way, stuck some video on it (moving images from the early Access Grid reversed), broke that down a bit, but it's in the sound of it, (to render loud, with clarity, to fear, to run, to turn, into/from/out/within fire;; there are times I had to run but it was all so so so safe. But this I fear, thinking through those dregs (turbid life, casked), what I could do (in my dreams, you) was just this (above), that sound (did I hear a war) -- Years before now I was close with Al Wilson, later of Canned Heat. I was in Cambridge and he called me, said I should come over. There was a junkie on the loose who had murdered two guys already and was outside his apartment and he was scared. He ran out to make the phonecall and ran back in. I drove over and went in the back way, looked in around the front door first. The whole foyer was smeared with excrement. I went in the back door and joined him. We heard scratching on the door. We were real quiet. There was garbage all over Al's floor, about six inches deep, the room smelled, he was buying one set of clothes at that point and wearing them until they fell off and he'd get another one. We stayed up all night and I don't know if they caught the guy. We were scared out of our minds. I don't remember any furniture but there must have been some. He was severely asthmatic. I think it might have been raining out. I don't remember that one way or another. When I left it was a gray gray morning. I don't think the police were called. He always seemed dirt poor, I woke him up once sleeping under the urinals of Club 47 when he was about to go on. I learned more from him than from most people. we were born the same year but he died in 1970. I hadn't seen him for years then. I remember going with him to Philadelphia to meet Guitar Nubbit. You can look him up too. Philadelphia. All that music was a crisis in my life. I stopped playing the blues. I looked for everything else. I put the guitar down and then picked it up. So if you think I had a normal life, this is the life I've had. ___ _______________________________________________ NetBehaviour mailing list NetBehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org https://lists.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour
