Catwyrms
ISSUE #64
Meow.
Writer’s block snuck in through the doggy door in January—I’ve found that phrase is a more palatable way to say "techno-fascist despair." The soul rots in blue light, and that’s all my cell offers anymore. Oh, I still touch grass, believe me! The last clumps those bastards burn will have to be pulled from my purple fists.
The house where I grew up was two miles from Highway 61. That’s the historic blues highway that Bob Dylan referenced with Highway 61 Revisited, his 1965 album that, in turn, gave the film A Complete Unknown its name from a lyric in “Like a Rolling Stone.”
For years, my favorite song was 7 minutes long. I never chose to have “All My Friends” hit me how it did, but I can justify it: 7 minutes is the perfect length. Temporal mathematics have divine standards too—like the Fibonacci sequence in the natural world, in music, 7 holds liminal significance.
Often, one massive sensation gets split into two—or three, or four, or seven—different words over time, for the sake of convenience or the human urge to atomize. One example: “feel” and “hear” mean, in a prelingual sense, the same thing.