Paul K at Cosmic Charlies: an acquisitive narrative!

After a long distance scrawl of some voice in lightning like imagery, having whiling away moments listening to Patriots, some iconographic image of him occurred to me as the emanator like a mundi vox. It was theophanic perhaps, because I was raining personas in a monk-like interval in my life then, then lasting about 10 yrs, no doubt. The image was remote but I toted it around as the album's antecedent, at any one point needing to be emptied... Once at the Dame, Paul was playing and I intended on going to see the show. The image had me on a limb, and I could see how it was pinned--til I walked into the dimness of of the old Dame sauntering thru the few groups of people murmurring... Then that chimera was before me, and without my impetus, Paul turned on a dime quickening some statement of presence--and the image was enjoined, and gone.
P.K. USED TO PLAY OVER AT LMNOP. Back in the day there was a dark orbiting feeling I thrived on knowing all that these people cared about was release & no pretension of who I was. I liked being the junction toward that effect. And if we observe "the-letting-go," we surface with the experienced-forms of self, rather than ultimately sacrifice ourselves in the fray of less serious moments. OVER at Montmullin (right across from Campus, next to the old Theological Seminary) w/the Weathermen & then also sometime later the impressions were thus: Surmising the plain hearth, looks like a spectralShore--I loaded it up w/ideas, toyed w/it. The smoke is the philosophy & the sky so vast, waiting, but not much can be seen! The sky is the mind, smoke gives it dimension. We go & lay our head, something tells us to do that. The fire burps & spews & we're not surprised. We think. And I felt I was a "Driver back in Khartoum." Guns were drawn, the TV stupidly plays--its antennae reflecting, alarmed. I set the bottle of whiskey on the table. I had bought it earlier that day intending upon a slow drunk--I give it away instead. Back toward the door I'm borne out to the streets. The Autumnal sky created by the architecture of birds over-coming, evading the smoke, clinging to tall trees--mayhem in some, like the breathing constituent mind, pulsing. Taking shelter in the warmest regions, I sit down & watch awhile. My ride will be there soon. I remember walking over to this cemetery--in a similar season's gray, the main one here in Lexington in this haze back when REd Fly Nation was making music--the band I was in. Getting out of our downtown abode, book in hand about alchemy, the sun seemed to say I had enough time to find a conscious pocket & commiserate on a Then unknown-- It was evening time, but no social rapproach in that I am my own worst critic, would sucker me into being something I couldn't or wouldn't live up to anyway. Like Bob Marley says--my then constant companion--"Music a godly thing." And the good company I kept in the place where humans were interred, was made of an indefinite chorus. There was something in the river of sight to which I belonged...the eternal world was the temporal one. And all the deceased pointed to it.
Excess all around, but I'm some gypsy--a hurried presence, maybe there in Newburgh, on my way, on my own, ready to see the planned vacation spot 4 me & my lady. A steely glance from this guy carrying a strapless suitcase & guitar seemed to indict the picture of me--now even less of a mendicant. It is foggy out this am., a quizzical look on my face records Valerie asking me, as if she is there, "Doest thou love the fog?" Dirt on pavement, puddles on the unproffered way across the parkingLot, I'm muddling forward to the busStation. She says, "If you fear it, you hate it, & if you hate it you love it." (Evgenii Zamyatin) I'm drudged up from the bottom now, she's Rt, but there is no afterward. But a bird lunges at the run over pack of crackers at my periphery, like it was belched out of the mist. Aunt Eleanor's house is only a couple of blocks away--a neighborhood adjacent to the shopping cntr. I've seen phosphorescent fungus growing out of a tree there 2 houses up from hers. The next day someone smashes it in with their foot: nature as art has chaos with which to contend. I'll need a key for the bungalow up in the Catskills, Valerie will be waiting for me there. "Dip in, dip in--to the sea of possibilities." (Patti Smith) --language is the valley of tongues, the spirit decends to correspond with the obvious=the quantifying of surfaces--but our babel wants more. Paul's music, like Aaron--brother of Moses speaks as if digging a ditch in the sky, where "pirates of the airwaves" (Lee Perry) can be interred in their graves burying the encumbrances of the details so it will rain down as the communicating ancients making known the world-to-come, if there is one.