Winter of Sludge has commenced. It's been oozing along for months, but it's time we acknowledged it. Let's take it slow and muddy. I'm going to consume nothing but meat and marijuana. I don't want to wake up until the sun is setting. Only Cronenberg and Lynch movies until Spring. I'm going to eat cigarette butt salad with fingernail croutons and cough syrup salad dressing. Just stuff stale white bread in my nose, to be absorbed through my mucus membrane. Plant seeds in your beard. Comb the ice crystals out of your hair and into my m'oats. Cycle the coffee two, three times. Psychotic adventures with sound waves and paint and green foam vomit. And the playlist for the Winter of Sludge: Black Flag (especially circa My War), the first three or four Black Sabbath records, Melvins, Weedeater, Big Black, Harvey Milk, Meat Puppets, Converge (they'll be in Nashville soon), maybe Beach House(cuz some sludge comes shiny), Lewd Acts, Twin Cats (Royal Osprey), Nirvana's Bleach, High on Fire, Baroness, Trapped Under Ice, Sleep, and Zuma Zuma Zuma. Cortez, Cortez!
Weird pages of dreams last night, very realistic and detailed, but with bent morals and obtuse endings. After dream-days of mundane commonplace, in conclusion I dreamed we had weed on our person, maybe, and were carrying a cursed purple pocketknife right into some sort of cop-trap for hapless musicians, and my father warning us that our fates were sealed; either we had our jaws broken between cell bars, or the little purple pocketknife gets drawn tight across the gristle of our throat. No ideas, it's late in the afternoon now and the dream makes less and less sense as my eyes forget the sensation of looking inward and backward, behind. It's all irrelevant, my gristle's intact. I'll march out the door into the real dream, the one that really gets to slice you up, the one that we spend all these long hours trying to sleepwalk away. Cold life, through perennial sunglasses and a thin parka coat, tastes like microwaved old coffee and cigarette butts. Good cold life. It's the Winter of Sludge?