I sat cross-legged in the longest branch of the tallest tree. Mind blank, frisbees thrown, Buster’s crushed, ducks avoided. In my mind, not a concrete train of thought to follow, but an intangible pervasive sense of understanding brewing. The boundaries between my physical self and multiverse around me slowly blurring with each update to my snapchat story (MENTAL GAME STRONG 💪🏼💯😜). Normal procedure dictates a 17 step process to safely disembark from a transcendence of this calibre. I was not afforded this luxury.
The secret ingredient that made folks really taste Irene’s peach cobbler was sneaking in some cherry pits. Could about break your jawbone by accident. The secret of her apple brown Betty was mixing in plenty of sharp slivers of walnut shell.
When you ate her tuna casserole, you didn’t talk or flip through a National Geographic. Your eyes and ears stayed inside your mouth. Your whole world kept inside your mouth, feeling and careful for the little balled-up tinfoils Irene Casey would hide in the tuna parts. A side effect of eating slow was, you naturally, genuinely tasted, and the food tasted better. Could be other ladies were better cooks, but you’d never notice.
(Rant – Chuck Palahniuk)
This should give you a full sense of the way that I am forced to consume all media. Any mention of ducks and I will be sent apoplectically into an anaphylactic bout of terror. As a result I listen to music deeper, better, and just generally closer in every way than any other human being. Does that make me qualified to review music? In no way shape or form. Can I listen to music and report the presence of ducks? Yes, albeit reluctantly.