(being a ramshackle cavalcade of whatever emerges from the mind/shed/whim of one tyler w weaver)
Filled out the hospice's survey / questionnaire re: my grandfather's care (with a black pen, and yes, I was certain to fill in the entire bubble): 10+ when they showed up the day he died, 4-5 for the week and a half I didn't see them between admission and death-eve but hey at least they're paying the postage now and they did get him that bed he liked.
In order to not run out of infusion sets while I await the incoming delivery of TruSteels, I've broken into my stockpile of AutoSoft XC 90s (which I fucking hate) and am, at present, waiting to see if I've already cocked the thing either during the overly-complicated insertion or by general movement in the moments after, the only way to be sure is to see if I reach into the realm of puke-inducing hyperglycemia for the next couple of hours and spend the rest of the day feeling like ass while hunting down a supply of TruSteels because yes, I would rather have a sliver of metal stuck in me for three days than deal with these plastic little dixie cup “innovations.”
Another recent Bandcamp find: rollicking, undulating psychedelia (think The Necks meets Jack White by way of Tanya Tagaq – though my description barely scratches the surface). Just hit play and read their own words:
“This is Olimpia Splendid and this sound is solstice air, sharp wire on moss-dampened drumbeat, wood fire throwing shadows on all the warehouse walls. It is a whisper from the back of the throat, a chorus in the fog, a growl feeding back in triplicate.
To hear it better, ride your bike or take the bus to the second-to-last stop on the line; exit and follow the path away from the paved road and into the Finnish forest of silver birch and rowan for 500 meters until you come to the large granite outcropping – the one with a faded spray paint tag, speckled with fluorescent lichen in the shape of an old cat’s sly grin. The cave entrance is behind the slab – although you’ll surely feel it before you see it – and once you let yourself dematerialize into that long swirl of blue mist, you’ll see three figures slowly taking shape before you, like witches circling around a cauldron.
Have a feeling this – and all of their releases – will be on heavy rotation for awhile.
Last week being the week of better-late-than-never first exposures to late 50’s-on NYC luminaries: first, John Cassavetes and SHADOWS; and now, Chester Himes and A RAGE IN HARLEM. By the end of the first chapter, Himes made it to my "favorite authors" list: character, rhythm, fury, life, hope, horror, love, hate ripping from every page. Everything I hope for from crime fiction and then some, another body of work to be devoured.
A most happy new discovery (thank you, Skyjelly): haunting, elegiac vocals over endlessly intriguing instrumental permutations. Releases in a couple of weeks but I’m presently taking a dive into their back catalog to sate me until then. So good.
Every time I go into what used to be my office to put on clothing or punch a punching bag and see all the boxes on top of the closet door on saw horses and all the boxes on the shelves and all the boxes on the floor and across I tell myself that I've got to get on with cleaning this shit up. Even get notions of how, exactly to go about doing it. But I haven't brought myself to do it yet: I only finished emptying his house a month ago and I was able to do it only by not caring about the things I put in the boxes in the name of meeting a closing deadline. To embark upon this great cleaning and organizing means that I have to care about the things I put in those boxes. And I'm not ready yet, no matter how nice it'd be to take a full swing at a punching bag.
