sfdeep

a punctured sleep, in and out of dreams that loop like a vintage analogue reel. memories unquenchable flicker through my mind.

the alarm.

call the engineer. pick him up at Fell and Divis. ride through the lower Haight, he puts the seat back and ducks down, "yo, i can't be seen in this hood." he puts in a CD of new beats. we ride beneath the threat of rain. soft vocal wafts through the car, the smell of clean skin and dirty sheets.

the studio.

break down the groove again. start pulling records, sampling the sweet snippets of sound that arouse. try not to gaffle* the soul of another. work the bass line around, shift through frequencies and push up the volume. yeah. that's the one. cut up chords like a carcass, lift the still fresh meat into the program. the track comes alive, pulsing through processing power, rearrange and work the filter, pulling up the vibe until we're both bobbing our heads, the unison of minds.

lunch.

back home down 15th, Corona Heights in the line of fire. sweet hill lush and red rock glisten under fresh rain. almost Spring here again. burnt CD heats through the pocket. pour again the rhythm still new-born, still wanting for discipline. there is work ahead, work tonight. long hours to pay bills and pass as a ghost through tired lives until the next time we conspire to work upon this seedling, kindled fire.

i arrive.




*gaffle: (v.) to blatantly steal someone's beats without properly fucking them up into something fresh.