Chasing The Elixir
It means almost anything I want at the time. Half of me walks into half a conversation. The word I hear is 'diffraction.' The direction is literate. The meaning weighs me down, keeps me there. I lean in the direction of the weight like a tower of Pisa.
I want to never leave this chair that finds me as much as I found it. Staying still, centred, the universes revolve around me as I revolve around them.
A Ninja named Stellar plants the idea of the Ninja School like a seed in someone next to him. They seem to vibrate at a similar frequency, he and the soil. I am ignoring or pretending to ignore the man who is hell-bent on ruining my night with anything short of violence. We've probably killed him 4 times tonight but he won't stay dead. Just goes to show that we can't slit throats, chop hands and garrotte with words. We need something heavier to deal with Mexican Ryan. What is up with his accent, anyway? He is like an itch that migrates as you scratch it.
She is Joy wrapped in Enigma. She wants me to move from my seat. She gets me to move. She gets my attention and she gets my second name. I doubt she will remember. I do not commit. I will never unravel her. She is too short a story, lacks the details that will help me join the dots. Correctly.
Stellar stays and just next to him, The Tender Beard has eased into his trip. Why do they call it a 'trip' if they want you to be safe?
I want to dance with short-lived Joy. , the Enigmatic tale I will never finish. I want to. But we are from two separate cosmics and I am not putting effort in joining worlds together. I dance, but around her. I dance with the music and the lights, but not with her. Not that I expect harm but I need to find my Shield. He is on the right of my seat. He and The Tender are sweating like ravers.
I only notice I am tripping when I am behind the decks. Live 9 is up and running. Next to me, the Psy DJ is still Psying. I prepare Selassie I's majestic fire for those who may get it. And even those who don't. When another DJ tells me what my set should consist of, I get murky. I rage against the harder-than-thous with Jungle music. This is my set and I will do with ears and hearts as I deem fit. In this arena, I, am the fittest.
I know I will never see her again. She is young and still lacking the markings of experience. She probably still calls her self a girl and not a woman. She travels the welcoming circles of the party. I hear her now and then, laughing at a drunk who is not joking. She thinks she gets it but she doesn't. The Degenerate can not simply be understood. He is a force inimitable. He seeks a life lived by simple heuristics. A marijuana cigarette, a drink and free drugs. These are his needs and he can talk about little else. Heavy rules of thumb. As soon as the bird of thought tries to fly, it is dragged back by his insistent, persistent needs.
“...mumble mumble...dagga cigarette! Yes, yah,” escapes his mouth.
Those who don't know him laugh. Those who know, don't. Those words don't mean the same thing entirely, coming from him. The Baron says,
“What ever is wrong with you, it is not a small thing.”
Those who know, laugh. Those who don't, don't. They know that Degenerate used to care. But he doesn't anymore. He used to pay attention. But he doesn't anymore. He latches on to keywords and the mood, fills in the gaps with the tattered remains of his reasoning. He could be meaningful, poignant but he is not concerned anymore, with making an impact. He sometimes gets a sliver of my pathos because, like the fin of a gargantuan behemoth, his greatness breaks the surface now and then. It makes it worse as we know he will sink back under again.
Reggae for heathens who need the soothing. I provide. Moving from Burning Spear 12 inches to Chronixx MP3s. From the deepest of Dubs to lively Ska, we travel the Audio Cosmos together. The Valley of the Ear is our point of departure. Three Thirty AM is still early. Very early. Time means something else to these people.
Even though I will be going from 2AM til about 5AM, they will think I just began. And ended too soon. Even though I was on from 10AM til 7PM yesterday, they still want more riddim. So I give. To the heathens and holy alike. As non-partisan as rain. I take a moment between songs to go find my Sword but he is my Shield when I get there.
Migrants of the night. Small migrations seem large. A table is a world. Needs coalesce. Life becomes harder and easier at the same time. Conversation breaks down into blah-blah-blah. Things paradoxically mean too much. We try to navigate each other. Silence helps me overcome discomfort as migrants come and go. Simple needs get harder to fulfil as night leaks into morning. The Degenerate mitoses into a twin. Where else could such a copy of him come from? When they affirm each others' existence, they end up fighting in a language that we don't understand with our ears. They both never quit this lifestyle and it's clear for all. They should be too old for this, but they're not. Seeing them at war in this room fills me with the most authentic of laughter.
A Ka-Lahari Herdsman, humble and perceptive, has been here all night. With fleeting moments of interaction, we have traded respect and well-wishes in passing. It's been a tough 2 days. Going on 3. Wisecracks and wisdom walk the frayed edges of my memory. Like: never accept Kool-Aid from a hippie.
I am no longer surprised or upset to be the only Black at the party. Hardly remember what it's like to speak Zulu all night. I throw it in like spice over ugly food, now and then. Mexican Ryan thinks he can relate because he is Irish. But he is too far gone into The West. Too rude and has as much tact as the Degenerate, though with more vocabulary. Soiled by the system that oppressed his people till he exhibits their worst traits. The paradoxes of apartheid are very real right here. He lacks the experience to even handle his rudeness with flair. As I pack away my audio leads and cables, I wonder which one to choke him with. This would be the 5th time I kill him. He kinda deserves it. My Shield asks me to personify Allah's mercy. Forgive him, he is a stranger in a strange land.
“Awungipha ugwayi,” I say to my Shield. Maybe this will help my forgiveness. He understands Zulu. Half of his blood smiles at me. The other half wishes it could join in. The Shield and I smoke. Laugh at the murder in mind. Jest that we could be ruder if this was our home. But we behave.
Am hungry for a woman. A Black woman, at best,but I won't be picky at this time. It's sunrise. Dawn brings a warmth that makes me wanna cuddle with Zulu. With woman. With Zulu speaking woman that opens me up like a flower. Feeds me sunlight and lets me photosynthesize my self back to health.
I will be back here. With a Sangoma whose bones are keys. Together we will help them come down. What an ascent it has been. I nearly ate the sun. Through all the bloodclaat roughness, rudeness, niceness and missed opportunities. It has been an ascent worthy of the Gods.
It has evolved into one table. Like or don't like each other, we are one, now. There are even moments when we understand Degenerate. Those moments, like the extraordinary ones too, pass. Mucking about, I get glued to a bottle of water while discussing heuristics with the herdsman. It used to be just a jam jar. Now it's a sticky inconvenience on all 6 of my fingers. This is my party, too. I am stuck with these people and I can only wash my hands. Hours flow by. We drink what is left of the world. The rain, which has shown its face repeatedly during the party, now comes with mist. I step out to get a tad wet. Always thinking. What rest do I get save for misty morning moments in farms I may never return to? With peace: It is me I observe in a hoodie, hands in pockets, staring into the wet forested sky. Years separated me from dear friends but one day unites us. Today has been that day. There are waves of contentedness. For now, the existential terrors don't exist. They come back at home. But I am not home yet.
I am back there. For a 4th session behind the booth. 3000 Andres want a girl to spread for them. At least that's how it sounds. Riddim moves us. We move. A boy, a man as he gets closer, is dancing to it. I have been, too. Him, I know. Crucifix is his name and he cries via piano. When he cries. I heard him weeping during one of my respites from the booth. He made a shallow room deep. Now, we dance together outside of rooms. It's lovely in the feels.
I must Summon iSangoma, now.
We must make the outside as deep as the piano room. I do the Summoning. And afterwards, I swear that there are echoes of you bouncing off the tympanics. Twice did I mention the only rule of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. So I am calm even after your visitation. But I am getting spirited away by. UbuNgoma is not done with us. There is no coincidence that Ngoma means 'Witchcraft' as well as 'Song.' The layers of Zulu can bury you. This ritual, I am aiming at Stellar, who is still here and has not disappeared in a ninja smoke-grenade as yet. I know my Sword and Shield gets this ritual. These things I do, are always partially for someone else. Hours ago, we talked about empathy. It made the Sword angry just to even consider feeling for others in the mood he was in. The vein of passion on his forehead throbbed as he said,
“Empathy is what screws us over man, in states like these.” These things come in waves. They are never fully done with us. Like History.
When finally I call it in, it is with Ground Zero. Almost always. I bow out with Musical Foul Majesty, whatever that is. They do not know. They have never heard that His Majesty's Words is moving just like a magnet. This is esoterica to them. Alchemy, even. But we must move them. This is how we end. With poles and a charged centre. With curiosity to delve and know the in-betweens of our story, even though it's ours and hours of living. To become someone we have never been. We moved here. It means almost any thing. Believe.
I want to never leave this chair that finds me as much as I found it. Staying still, centred, the universes revolve around me as I revolve around them.
A Ninja named Stellar plants the idea of the Ninja School like a seed in someone next to him. They seem to vibrate at a similar frequency, he and the soil. I am ignoring or pretending to ignore the man who is hell-bent on ruining my night with anything short of violence. We've probably killed him 4 times tonight but he won't stay dead. Just goes to show that we can't slit throats, chop hands and garrotte with words. We need something heavier to deal with Mexican Ryan. What is up with his accent, anyway? He is like an itch that migrates as you scratch it.
She is Joy wrapped in Enigma. She wants me to move from my seat. She gets me to move. She gets my attention and she gets my second name. I doubt she will remember. I do not commit. I will never unravel her. She is too short a story, lacks the details that will help me join the dots. Correctly.
Stellar stays and just next to him, The Tender Beard has eased into his trip. Why do they call it a 'trip' if they want you to be safe?
I want to dance with short-lived Joy. , the Enigmatic tale I will never finish. I want to. But we are from two separate cosmics and I am not putting effort in joining worlds together. I dance, but around her. I dance with the music and the lights, but not with her. Not that I expect harm but I need to find my Shield. He is on the right of my seat. He and The Tender are sweating like ravers.
I only notice I am tripping when I am behind the decks. Live 9 is up and running. Next to me, the Psy DJ is still Psying. I prepare Selassie I's majestic fire for those who may get it. And even those who don't. When another DJ tells me what my set should consist of, I get murky. I rage against the harder-than-thous with Jungle music. This is my set and I will do with ears and hearts as I deem fit. In this arena, I, am the fittest.
I know I will never see her again. She is young and still lacking the markings of experience. She probably still calls her self a girl and not a woman. She travels the welcoming circles of the party. I hear her now and then, laughing at a drunk who is not joking. She thinks she gets it but she doesn't. The Degenerate can not simply be understood. He is a force inimitable. He seeks a life lived by simple heuristics. A marijuana cigarette, a drink and free drugs. These are his needs and he can talk about little else. Heavy rules of thumb. As soon as the bird of thought tries to fly, it is dragged back by his insistent, persistent needs.
“...mumble mumble...dagga cigarette! Yes, yah,” escapes his mouth.
Those who don't know him laugh. Those who know, don't. Those words don't mean the same thing entirely, coming from him. The Baron says,
“What ever is wrong with you, it is not a small thing.”
Those who know, laugh. Those who don't, don't. They know that Degenerate used to care. But he doesn't anymore. He used to pay attention. But he doesn't anymore. He latches on to keywords and the mood, fills in the gaps with the tattered remains of his reasoning. He could be meaningful, poignant but he is not concerned anymore, with making an impact. He sometimes gets a sliver of my pathos because, like the fin of a gargantuan behemoth, his greatness breaks the surface now and then. It makes it worse as we know he will sink back under again.
Reggae for heathens who need the soothing. I provide. Moving from Burning Spear 12 inches to Chronixx MP3s. From the deepest of Dubs to lively Ska, we travel the Audio Cosmos together. The Valley of the Ear is our point of departure. Three Thirty AM is still early. Very early. Time means something else to these people.
Even though I will be going from 2AM til about 5AM, they will think I just began. And ended too soon. Even though I was on from 10AM til 7PM yesterday, they still want more riddim. So I give. To the heathens and holy alike. As non-partisan as rain. I take a moment between songs to go find my Sword but he is my Shield when I get there.
Migrants of the night. Small migrations seem large. A table is a world. Needs coalesce. Life becomes harder and easier at the same time. Conversation breaks down into blah-blah-blah. Things paradoxically mean too much. We try to navigate each other. Silence helps me overcome discomfort as migrants come and go. Simple needs get harder to fulfil as night leaks into morning. The Degenerate mitoses into a twin. Where else could such a copy of him come from? When they affirm each others' existence, they end up fighting in a language that we don't understand with our ears. They both never quit this lifestyle and it's clear for all. They should be too old for this, but they're not. Seeing them at war in this room fills me with the most authentic of laughter.
A Ka-Lahari Herdsman, humble and perceptive, has been here all night. With fleeting moments of interaction, we have traded respect and well-wishes in passing. It's been a tough 2 days. Going on 3. Wisecracks and wisdom walk the frayed edges of my memory. Like: never accept Kool-Aid from a hippie.
I am no longer surprised or upset to be the only Black at the party. Hardly remember what it's like to speak Zulu all night. I throw it in like spice over ugly food, now and then. Mexican Ryan thinks he can relate because he is Irish. But he is too far gone into The West. Too rude and has as much tact as the Degenerate, though with more vocabulary. Soiled by the system that oppressed his people till he exhibits their worst traits. The paradoxes of apartheid are very real right here. He lacks the experience to even handle his rudeness with flair. As I pack away my audio leads and cables, I wonder which one to choke him with. This would be the 5th time I kill him. He kinda deserves it. My Shield asks me to personify Allah's mercy. Forgive him, he is a stranger in a strange land.
“Awungipha ugwayi,” I say to my Shield. Maybe this will help my forgiveness. He understands Zulu. Half of his blood smiles at me. The other half wishes it could join in. The Shield and I smoke. Laugh at the murder in mind. Jest that we could be ruder if this was our home. But we behave.
Am hungry for a woman. A Black woman, at best,but I won't be picky at this time. It's sunrise. Dawn brings a warmth that makes me wanna cuddle with Zulu. With woman. With Zulu speaking woman that opens me up like a flower. Feeds me sunlight and lets me photosynthesize my self back to health.
I will be back here. With a Sangoma whose bones are keys. Together we will help them come down. What an ascent it has been. I nearly ate the sun. Through all the bloodclaat roughness, rudeness, niceness and missed opportunities. It has been an ascent worthy of the Gods.
It has evolved into one table. Like or don't like each other, we are one, now. There are even moments when we understand Degenerate. Those moments, like the extraordinary ones too, pass. Mucking about, I get glued to a bottle of water while discussing heuristics with the herdsman. It used to be just a jam jar. Now it's a sticky inconvenience on all 6 of my fingers. This is my party, too. I am stuck with these people and I can only wash my hands. Hours flow by. We drink what is left of the world. The rain, which has shown its face repeatedly during the party, now comes with mist. I step out to get a tad wet. Always thinking. What rest do I get save for misty morning moments in farms I may never return to? With peace: It is me I observe in a hoodie, hands in pockets, staring into the wet forested sky. Years separated me from dear friends but one day unites us. Today has been that day. There are waves of contentedness. For now, the existential terrors don't exist. They come back at home. But I am not home yet.
I am back there. For a 4th session behind the booth. 3000 Andres want a girl to spread for them. At least that's how it sounds. Riddim moves us. We move. A boy, a man as he gets closer, is dancing to it. I have been, too. Him, I know. Crucifix is his name and he cries via piano. When he cries. I heard him weeping during one of my respites from the booth. He made a shallow room deep. Now, we dance together outside of rooms. It's lovely in the feels.
I must Summon iSangoma, now.
We must make the outside as deep as the piano room. I do the Summoning. And afterwards, I swear that there are echoes of you bouncing off the tympanics. Twice did I mention the only rule of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. So I am calm even after your visitation. But I am getting spirited away by. UbuNgoma is not done with us. There is no coincidence that Ngoma means 'Witchcraft' as well as 'Song.' The layers of Zulu can bury you. This ritual, I am aiming at Stellar, who is still here and has not disappeared in a ninja smoke-grenade as yet. I know my Sword and Shield gets this ritual. These things I do, are always partially for someone else. Hours ago, we talked about empathy. It made the Sword angry just to even consider feeling for others in the mood he was in. The vein of passion on his forehead throbbed as he said,
“Empathy is what screws us over man, in states like these.” These things come in waves. They are never fully done with us. Like History.
When finally I call it in, it is with Ground Zero. Almost always. I bow out with Musical Foul Majesty, whatever that is. They do not know. They have never heard that His Majesty's Words is moving just like a magnet. This is esoterica to them. Alchemy, even. But we must move them. This is how we end. With poles and a charged centre. With curiosity to delve and know the in-betweens of our story, even though it's ours and hours of living. To become someone we have never been. We moved here. It means almost any thing. Believe.
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