No humble beginning for this kid. Birthed out into fire it holds a scream and looks around locking eyes with the father. Are you responsible the lips seem to read. Could it be possible? Recalcitron looks up form the hands of the nurse and calmly too account of the situation. So this is what it is like. The opposite of darkness is light. I was right all along. Lingo aside, it seems the child of love would be attracting attention and beginning starting from right now.

Days spent in a hive of inactivity were few and far between. The century would end and we really were going to party till it was 1999. The lounge room on being rearranged again revealed a corner space where you could stand leaning against the electronic organ set to full reverberation playing bumps with your other foot playing notes on the synthesiser. The bass hanging down would swing and hit a box when you moved. Headphones on interpreting the tape recording listening to the flow from analog microphones placed high in the book shelf. From here listening to the drums come through and wishing there were ear plugs involved in this story as well.

Single room into the kitchen where the typewriter sat. Archways combing the sound. Vent through to the vibrating upper deck. Kitchen sink shifting glasses and pulsing as it is played by subsonic display coming from the Juno. In the accumulated output of afternoon sessions the typewriter would type at its maximum velocity. Recorded into the room noise along with the sampled tumbling out of the turntable. Each thing written on the machine or on paper or scraps from the room. Even onto the walls at times when the impetus struck and now all collected together again. So it now gets as say a life of its own. Not changed just represented. It is the work of the time. Not to be reworked just represented in the style that is fitting as.

Writing on the typewriter at a metered pace fosters a sense of thinking and talking in your head as you write. The inner voice vocalises and you do it and that’s all there is to it. It comes out on the page. Easy to do in noise so load as it goes rattling the kitchen benches and stomping ripples into the pooled water on the breakfast bar. This sytle verses now as I sit and write into the keys remembering the discovery of these thoughts as they have evolved over the past decade or so. There is no need to decipher the future.

It is a cycle evolving and spinning around. Each land scape a trophy of some victory or other now long forgotten and into the past. Breathless riding up the hill of mistakes into the fortress of infinite great escapes.