As the dog days struck in August, I declined a gig to record audiobooks. And I was so low that I didn’t stop thinking, not even when I did laps in the Olympic pool. Climate change, many hellish summers this century, seas infested with microplastics and jellyfish and anisakis. And prawns expensive as f**k.
I have no choice but to buy an AC if I want to work during the next summer. What world is this, how have we fucked it up so soon?
I grew up loving books and wanting to write them myself. When I began handwriting, the words flew away. They were whispers, secrets, confessions to a blank page. I never kept a copy because I thought that the original was not original if there was a copy. It was just the other way around. All that is relevant is copy. And no story is relevant without a good conflict.
That’s how foolish we are, looking for a fix, eternally head bowed, showing a goofy smile, with the tip of the finger scrolling into a cesspool. Click bait, scroll down, link here, fake news. So intoxicated with notifications. Last time you walked with a book on the street, no one filmed you. And it was lost forever.
Don’t overthink, don’t you dare to write anything controversial, be discreet. But look for an alias to leave your poisoned slime. Hate in secret. Vote for the blabbermouth of the day. No check and balances against absolute power, even if it fills the streets with masked fat men, and takes the gardener who mowed your lawn for a fair price.
The future that looms on the horizon is dark, as if the Great Depression and then the 30s are coming back. I foresee the brutal Nazi brownshirts coming back, herding Jews and gypsies into concentration camps or whoever is nowadays the sacrificial lamb.
Sometimes, I remember why I write, not every day, and when I do, I never suspected that I would have to go back to Homer.
There are no more rabbits in this hat, I said to myself this endless summer. I shall write and record in summer as well as in winter, always at a lovely 70 Fahrenheit degrees and 50% humidity throughout the year.
I got a vocal chain and a beech wood matryoshka to record in grand style, as I always wanted to do. I rebel against Artificial Intelligence and its robotic readers. F*****s, you won’t be capable to beat my analog sound.
This is Soda Mill Studio and if the wind blows and the night has quieted the neighbors and the traffic has stopped rolling, the abandoned pipes that go down from the terrace to the basement, whisper secrets between the owl’s spaced hoots.
If I could use the words like scattered flowers and fallen leaves, secluded in an imagined world where I could get fired up, I would never leave the beechwood matryoshka or I would chain myself to the desk and thin myself out in what I tell until I don’t look back.
