Blogging the new Marah record
In a forum kind of way, by Serge. First, record, introduction.
After cigarette number 23 yesterday, my lungs and stuff just stopped clockin the smoke. My veins stopped trying to dilate and keep up with the action. My nose stopped trying to smell stuff. Except smoke. And the room was filled with it. Smoke, smoke, smoke,….the killer, the devil's mist, the whisping sky-snake of death. Smoke that many cigarettes before 3pm and they oughta send ya' a skull ring in the mail. You're tough. Nervous. Jittery and raw. If the smokes ran out, at times like this, people like us would knaw through the softer underside of our arms, gash at a main vein with our teeth, and slurp the nicotine right out of our own blood, as if it were the candy'd syrup in a wax straw….old school penny candy never dies.
Following day 2, ("I notice a record called the Ballad of Johnny Bench on the wall and that makes me smile even though it has to be bizzare"), days 3 and 4 ("Every little magic world needs a guy called Willie from Kentucky in it"), day 5 ("When Dylan dies, so will a thing…an indescribable thing, something even he had no idea was happening"), day 6 ("I wonder if I have a kid and name him Bronco Bielanko, if other kids will make fun of him?"), day 7 ("A distinct lack of vegetables over the past two plus weeks has led me to feel a bit scurvy-ish, which is probably not much of turn-on to you the reader, yet must be presented in the narrative in the spirit of Naturalism"), day 8 ("There was thunder roaring as I went to sleep last night though so I guess that means that despite the dreary weather, spring and then summer are indeed just a few storms away"), and hopefully more to come.
