Damn, the bus is late, and I have to walk or I’m not going to make it.
Trust the process, they said. It’ll get there, they said. Now I have Southwest
Detroit to contend with, and I’m not too keen on it. Have I been to Southwest
Detroit before? Not on your life, which is why this bus, which has not arrived
on time as I was told, was such an important element to this afternoon. But
see, it’s overcast, it’s chilly, and I’m probably going to get drenched by
passing vehicles (because, let’s face it, why walk on a sidewalk if you’re not
treating its edge like a balance beam?). I’ve got places to be. I’m a drum
machine.
My beats lance through dystopian noise like a hot scalpel through
lesions. I make tones suffer until they no longer resemble sound sources at
all. Southwest Detroit is a gutful of grand funk ambience, and I’ve got a date
with it. Here it comes – the overcast sky becomes a drenching rain, and I’m
still plugged in, my infinity-foot extension cord trailing through rivers of
asswater down gutters choked with refuse. What
bus? Irrational anger at nothing but general circumstance overcomes this
gray-out, and we’re better for it anyway. Zone6 is about to get shifty, and I
haven’t even begun to short out. Oh wait, maybe I have.
--Ryan Masteller
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