More Advanced Production & Analysis from Ginz
I.D. warned me that if I did not contribute any music related content to the blog, I would have my privileges suspended. I hereby contribute the follow review of my forthcoming album, "Fantabation":
Fantabation was recorded in a very very small studio in a place I rather not speak of. The concept of Fantabation is simple: Fantabation is the act of fantasizing about masturbation, and more specifically, fantasizing about fantasizing during masturbation. An example might be when you are working in your proletariat factory manufacturing small components that make up an insignificant part of a disposable easily broken children's toy that only serves to create a sustainable economy of choke-danger-warning-stickers manufacturing (some towns in rural america are based around these factories) and you begin to feel a tingle down in the unmentionable zone. Being the lonely man you are, you think not of getting home to your flaccid, bored and aspiringly coquettish wifelet, no... no instead you long for that moment when you will fall upon your bed thinking of the woman in the small picture outside of the porno-naughty theatre in the redlight district you saw this morning, she looks at you from her cardboard face and grasps her naked coconut shaped breast eagerly while some sort of python wraps it self around her thereby obscuring her pubus (to your dismay), and you proceed to play tug-rope with your genitals.
On the cover of my album there will be nothing but the text from a pith teaching of the great spiritual master, HH Chunky Rumpajump - immortal words set against a micro-void of black pigment.
"You have never arrived and never will arrive on this planet or any planet.
Your mind is in a jar aboard a space ship in the centre of a galaxy of galaxies.
Your experiences and thoughts are mere changes in temperature and pressure in the nutrient rich fluid your mind rests in."
While we are on the subject of Chunky, I think this serves as a perfect moment to address those who "control the jar" of my existence, those who would have me accept the views of a mad world and parade them down main street and high street and all streets short or long, wide or narrow, inclined or declined. Yes, this is precisely this moment, it is numinous, charged with potential, ready to burst forth in a kinetic fireball of veracity.
As you all know, my jar keeping oppressors, I have been in the states for a while now, resting, recuperating, recharging, recreating chains of alliterative verbs, and wrestling them into relevant coherent sentences and designing, delineating and delighting at finding contextual homes for them. In the deepest recesses of my meditative mindstream a few points have been pulsing brighter and brighter and I feel I must share them; I feel you must allow me to share. Can you.... will you..... I hope you will..... I know you will do me at least this service, oh the smallest of favours and read on, oh dear dear reader, read on.
I will present them in points, titled with the cardinal numbers that I require.
1. I can not begin to fathom how it is that my awareness of Miley Cyrus can be monetized. There is no place I will venture to and no product I will consume either first hand or because she wears it's logo upon a small tight tshirt which serves to sexualize her and to taunt and tempt my mind to stray to illicit and inappropriate thoughts. Why then, oh jar, must my mind breathe wafts of such superfluous teen entertainment.
2. In my mother's house I like to listen to reggae music while I align two mirrors on either side of the bathroom creating a endless hall of I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and I and......... in this optical tape delay I rise to the top of Mt Zion.
3. Sometimes I try to type but my fingers begin to dance upon the keys and they are showgirls legs dancing in parallel kicks assaulting the liquid crystals of my monitor creating kaleidoscopic craters in the display and I fall in these craters and I am stranded on a moon orbiting a man who looks on from below his ginger eyebrows and ponders the solitude experienced by a jar mind, alone or in a room full of other jar minds, victims of the rippling variations of temperature and pressure.
That is all. They are here now.
Please,
Ginz.
