Perpetually swimming through it all, feeding through new sounds for just the right one. Then this description turns up: self-described as an “unholy ambient mixture of slow jazz ballads, Black Sabbath doom and down-tuned Autopsy sounds”. Could anyone pass this by without sinking the teeth in for a taste?

Nah.

Not me.

God knows how long this will be up on Youtube, but it’s here now and it tastes good. It was a short journey from Henryk Gorecki and Arvo Part to Bohren. It’s more about the feel than the music itself really. It’s more about what part of the brain it spark and that may or may not be a healthy fascination. It seems to be the same part that houses uncertainty and fear. Or it could be very healthy. Split it open and see what else is inside, you know? You can’t be afraid of it once you’ve had a good look at it. There’s something to be said also for listening to this stuff between four and six in the morning also, before there are too many distractions. It’s easier to “be” with the music without the extraneous sounds and energy of other critters up and moving about. These are very fertile hours for reflection and imagination. My best writing often falls out between these hours right before the sun comes along and ruins things. I am, in that respect, looking forward to the shorter days of winter when the sun isn’t drawing me outside like a giant magnet. These are the quieter days, externally.

I’ve written off the wistfulness of the last several days as just being alarmed at the passage of time. I turned 58 yesterday and the number itself, while not quite jarring, stirs me in a not so positive way. That’s nearly 20 years older than I ever imagined being. It’s not a question of the fantasy of dying young and pretty. It just recalls a time when my brother and I fantasized about the year 2000. The year 2000, or thereabouts, was the setting of countless sci-fi stories and films. We would incorporate the stories into our play. We would be 39 and 40 respectively, in the year 2000. We would be grown men. We would be exploring space, because thats what was promised us back then. First the moon, and then beyond. There would be countless new encounters with alien worlds and life and robots and jetpacks and mystery. I would be 39, a grown man.

A grown man.

So here I am at 58 and I’m still earthbound and I don’t have a fucking jetpack, but I’ve got a clock and it’s ticking, and that had/has me thinking. What next with the majority behind? Just try to be 58 and not think about these things! Nothing to get twisted about. If I felt this complete at 40 then I probably wouldn’t have spent this time feeling salty about no jetpacks.

Anyway, the emotional weather report: I’m back on track and looking forward to the shorter days. I’m looking forward to the darkness. I’m looking forward to the chill and the way the lights reflect off the permanent layer of grime in midtown, and maybe a permanent layer of grime on me too. I’m shiny, though I’ll never again be brand new, and that’s more than okay.

And just to clarify what I hear with Bohren, it’s a weird mash-up of science-fiction, horror and spaghetti-western, mixed down into a creepy stalker vibe. Nothing campy or comical about it. It’s scary, like the feeling of knowing someone is right around the corner but never knowing exactly when they’re going to appear in front of you.