(25 records of a saddle)
(the saddle feed)
(drops of ink)
(introduction)
(rss)
My Noise Poetry
Last year, around the time I started listening to noise on a regular basis, I had a dream about Junky — the "last surviving member" of Torturing Nurse. In this dream, he was my upstairs neighbor (we all lived in an office building the size of the planet) and had come down to tell me that I wasn't legally permitted to scream. He'd heard me screaming late at night into my pillow. It's not that the noise bothered him — it was simply that the faculty of screaming had been patented in the 50s, and anyone who wanted to scream after that had to purchase a license. In the good old days, maybe we could get away with stomping all over copyright law, but not today — it certainly wouldn't befit anyone with serious artistic aspirations to do so. He was simply being a good Samaritan, warning me before I got in real trouble.
It's hard to say what relation this dream Junky held with the real Junky made of human flesh — this man I'd encountered many times sitting on a plastic stool at the entrance of Trigger, holding a printed out list of everyone who'd bought tickets, crossing each name off when they arrive. I have had many dreams about my girlfriend wherein, for instance, her vagina and anus had swapped positions, which indicates dreams might not the most reliable source of information about other people. Was it a product of my own subconscious? Was it his ghost? Was it really him, taking on supernatural powers in order to impart his wisdom unto me in my sleep? Or was it simply a demon, wearing a Junky mask, just as the real life Junky has worn all sorts of masks?
Essays:Contact me at saddleblasters [at] gmail [etc]
If you'd like to subscribe to the SADDLENET newsletter, send me an email informing me in some way of your intention to do so!
