"molly"

standing paralyzed in a bathroom stall, getting my central nervous system power-washed by the sound of a sensor-activated hand dryer reflecting off tile, accented by boxy midrange din of: nearby voices, crawling from dry throats onto porcelain-glass-wood-plastic accent-outlines, slipping from mid to treble mid-travel, with an eerie-unnatural-suspension-long decay time, like, the high-treble fadeout of the last millisecond of the projection of a word will suddenly already have assimilated itself into the ceaseless hand dryer wasp swarm, and the swarm is coming from the dryer on the right and the words are traveling across the walls and mirrors to the dryer from the open door on the left, so there is a demonic stereo image forming, echolocating the bathroom's dimensions while threatening to narrow itself into mono, triangulate my skull, and the entire thing has a bouyant, round, i'm-bouncing-toward-you-and-enveloping-you shape to it thanks to the pulse of the sub bass throb happening upstairs, a little off-center, towards stage-right in real physical space, but your brain splits the difference and centers the bass in your mind because you have a spatial memory of standing square in the middle of the dancefloor underneath the hanging tweeter array, which is why you can decode the bass throb from a distance anyway. and eventually maybe i should leave stall.

when someone inside wants to go outside, they push the door open: a dull-low-mid-thud. you, on the door's outside-side, register this thud as a muffled intrusion on outside's cold-air noise-floor, or you don't even hear it because it's a soft sub-100hz rumble easily vanished by human sensory highpass. the door creaks open. the person inside becomes a person outside. the large hinges will, every time, slide first up-down quickly, then rise higher up, then gasp back down. it sounds like Eric Dolphy rehearsing a lick. the door closes and you are now both listening to outside from the door's outside-side. or maybe you'll choose to listen to inside, through the door, from outside. april & i spent a few conversations grouping sensations into four quadrants of evocation: "inside-looking-in," "outside-looking-out," "outside-looking-in," "inside-looking-out."

on the patio: still water half-rattle of metal, soft transient tree leaf, puddle & vibram sole, lighter flick, gravel, tired voices, trace circle-patterns, ghost engines gesture skyward (discernable as a phenomenon of the corrugated gate's outside-side’s soundstage, but let's focus on the patio). human connections audibly form, break, strengthen, twist, twitch along the noise-floor. standing alone, apart together. omni-directional telepathic deep listening. the shared psychosocial soundstage of this place. greg has a concept: "the mono convo."

dream excerpt: a plain door opened by a well-dressed bouncer. enter an ornate room, red and gold, cushions, roaring fireplace, my friends from high school are here! good emotions. we are simultaneously thinking and talking and reacting and directing and reflecting and digesting and feeling. one huge telepathic conversation, perfectly easy to follow, naturally collaborative & improvisatory, beyond time... i turn to my friend ezra who i've known since kindergarten. i ask, "where are we? what is this?" he answers: "we are always having this conversation, across history. this room is where we go to have the conversation."