How NOT to write about music – 40. Gwenno

gwenno

Let’s see where we go with this. (Nowhere. My brain is too tired. My body is physically exhausted. I can barely function but somehow I do. Somehow I still push through. Last night I had a dream I’ve had several times before where I am effortlessly flying above the streets and fields, just me, not in a plane or anything, clothed, natural, free from any potential harm or attacks, but able to view everything as it is. Not places I recognise, I’m not flapping my arms or anything. I’m floating but moving. I have control. I can dip down low and fly up high. I can encourage others to do the same, and learn.) This music is soothing, at least it would sooth me in all its sparkle-infected glissando harmonics, in its dreamy somnambulist haze and casual sprawl of beauty, but I am too tired for even soothing to have an effect. (My body is fatigued. Is this what fatigue feels like? I have no way of judging because usually when I work hard it does not feel like work. I feel myself dislocated, disconnected, idly wondering how long I can go on like this before I break down. I cannot remember yesterday. I do not recall having conversations with friends. I wander how long this state of being will last. Floating in my dream tank feels wonderful, but the state probably only lasts one or two seconds in reality. Maybe it’s Nina the cat, the way she likes to snuggle middle of the night. Man, I would love to snuggle middle of the night.) It’s beautiful, yeah – soporific, but in no bad sense. Beautiful. Sparkly and magical and possessed of alien intoxication. Like travelling slowly over Sunderland Bridge just after twilight, like that secret dead pond in Bedford, like the state of being rested, content. Is this what it feels like, not being stressed, being in company, happy? I have no way of judging. (Slip-sliding along, slip-sliding along. Companionship is a wonderful thing, please do not dismiss it so lightly. I view myself almost with dispassion wondering how long routine and sleeplessness can continue to keep me functioning. Last night I slept for five hours. That felt like cheating. Usually, it’s far less. Often the grey doesn’t just overwhelm; it’s all there is left. Unless, those one or two seconds where I fly/float effortlessly. Unless, these four or so minutes where I listen to Gwenno on a loop, more and more familiar. Yet still it fails to comfort the fatigue, the mental unrest.) Psychedelic, baby. Yeah. (In my dreams, I am the one wearing the red dress.)

[Ends] [Does not end].

I’m using all the wrong words.

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