wytchcroft (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wytchcroft) wrote2009-02-22 02:56 am
wytchcroft) wrote2009-02-22 02:56 am
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And then everything went 1978
- and stopped. That’s what you get for sitting in a crash bar too long, he thought, everything smears.
Listening to the bloody Rolling Stones again – aint it weird, yes it is. Trying to spoon more of the congealed sweetener into a swamp of black coffee, like hiding evidence, like burying a corpse.
And the music – some randomly titled confusion of sessions – it was still now, with every plastic tinsel glittering sound from way back, the thin wire layers of muzak and demon irony.
So very now.
Not the finished artefact of course, that was long lost and best forgot in the laser flashy past of dated production. The crash bar, like most, prided itself on playing the raw, the real, the bootlegged and the remorseless same old same old. 1978. They, the band, must have known somehow, even then, that the music would wind up sound-tracking a purgatory.
This oughta be the waterfront, he thought, there should be docks.
A quick sharp glance around the bar, the trim cabling, the ugly oversized vid-box,
all the clichés of a half-assed sci fi ad infinitum.
Well, wasn’t he?
Sat stirring the caffeine sludge and waiting for the call to come – “Hi, Mr Laveaux? Yes, this Meditek, we have a slot booked for you as requested.” A voice as brittle phony as the music he was listening to.
That was the problem – with a mind shortage, sure you get a cash fix and supplements from a grateful med-post, “We’re not taking your memories, Mr Laveaux, merely copying them,” but you also got stuck in high gear, the mind you had became so sensitive to itself that it never switched off, thoughts, images, mental descriptions folding in on themselves.
Like this cheap wallet of a town, he thought.
Memories were money, but imagination wasn’t worth the cost.
Listening to the bloody Rolling Stones again – aint it weird, yes it is. Trying to spoon more of the congealed sweetener into a swamp of black coffee, like hiding evidence, like burying a corpse.
And the music – some randomly titled confusion of sessions – it was still now, with every plastic tinsel glittering sound from way back, the thin wire layers of muzak and demon irony.
So very now.
Not the finished artefact of course, that was long lost and best forgot in the laser flashy past of dated production. The crash bar, like most, prided itself on playing the raw, the real, the bootlegged and the remorseless same old same old. 1978. They, the band, must have known somehow, even then, that the music would wind up sound-tracking a purgatory.
This oughta be the waterfront, he thought, there should be docks.
A quick sharp glance around the bar, the trim cabling, the ugly oversized vid-box,
all the clichés of a half-assed sci fi ad infinitum.
Well, wasn’t he?
Sat stirring the caffeine sludge and waiting for the call to come – “Hi, Mr Laveaux? Yes, this Meditek, we have a slot booked for you as requested.” A voice as brittle phony as the music he was listening to.
That was the problem – with a mind shortage, sure you get a cash fix and supplements from a grateful med-post, “We’re not taking your memories, Mr Laveaux, merely copying them,” but you also got stuck in high gear, the mind you had became so sensitive to itself that it never switched off, thoughts, images, mental descriptions folding in on themselves.
Like this cheap wallet of a town, he thought.
Memories were money, but imagination wasn’t worth the cost.