I’m having to pick my way artfully through this topic, as I pair notions with songs to match. Sgt. Rock is going to aid my stab at this most difficult of lipogrammatical tasks, but I’m still touching a rabbit’s foot for luck prior to starting in on it.
So it’s touch, sight, olfactory bulb and tract, all that acts synaptically on that muscular mass for tasting in your mouth, all that’s audibly born through air too, working in common to impact amazingly on your brain, as MDMA might do, in a club, with 4/4 rhythms insisting that you consign your mind and gift your body to music’s structural flow. On occasion grass or laughing gas might work similarly, allowing you a stony high or making you stupidly happy.
It’s also a singular kind of thrill, which works maximally with coupling parts locking in sinuous gratification. It’s both an armchair holding your body and zaps of almost painful joy acupuncturing your mind. It has you burning with flaming optimism, blowing rooks away, and can unfrost any snowman in an instant. It’s yachts dancing, ladybirds loving, dog day cauldrons of knock-out punch and a wish you had which abruptly blooms. It’s fluvial orchids and dictionary minds. Pink things and fruit nuts. Brown guitars and radios in motion. Stars twinkling as fairy lights do at Christmas and a full moon’s glow. Rain and sun skylarking to form a rainbow. It is, to sum up, your own palatial Nonsuch in which any wondrous thing might occur.
This kind of thrill scorns cash; it can run on nothing much at all – a farmboy’s salary, say. Follow such a boy and his girl walking arm in arm through high swaying corn, making plans and passing hours carving wood and daubing paint. As dark falls, should Thor blast lightning from his tool and so crack monstrous sound simply out of sky, watch on still as our pair hold fast in sugary bliss; mark how two minds can lay upon a solitary pillow. Caution though; as participant or fly on a wall you might incur its risk and cost – its morbid Midas touch.
It scorns status too – Argonaut or navvy or blacksmith or mayor of a small town, it’s of no account, all can act as king and consort for a day. It’s no ball and chain, and usually though not always it balks at chains of command. Nor is it for somnambulists – waking up is what it’s all about. But with luck a runaway and a vanishing girl might find lasting comfort in its clutch.
My final thoughts: always avoid a void. Day in day out. Last thing you want is that sound of a scissor man snipping, coming for you. Raging against dying light and any fat lady’s song, that’s what I’m advising. And without a doubt Sgt. Rock thinks so too.