Val Spins Gold

WE’RE IN SEARCH OF ELEMENT 79; AU; GOLD.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT WHEN YOU HEAR THE WORD ALCHEMY?

SOUNDSCAPE BLEEDS INTO:

SCIENTIFIC RUMBLINGS COLLAGE

TEXT:

DO YOU CONJURE UP AN IMAGE OF HOODED FIGURES STOOPED OVER A FIRE WITH POTS AND PANS AND INSCRUITIBLE TEXTS?

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SHORT, RAPID COLLAGE OF OLD RECIPE FADES IN (NON-LINEAR WEAVING), THEN SHARP OUT, BACK TO RUMBLINGS WITH NEXT SECTION

TEXT: QUESTION AND MONOLOGUE

OR IS IT PERHAPS AGING BEINGS, YOU IMAGINE, SO FULL TO THE BRIM WITH FEAR — SO DREADING THE KISS OF ETERNAL REST THAT THEY ARE WILLING TO SOAK HUNKS OF LEAD IN HUMAN PISS WHILE THEY PRAY TO OLD AND NEW GODS FOR A FEW MORE GOOD YEARS?

I THINK I’VE ALWAYS BEEN AN ALCHEMIST— IF I GAZE BACKWARDS IN JUST THE RIGHT DIFFUSED LIGHT.

I’M NOT AN ALCHEMIST IN THE HISTORICAL SENSE. NOT EXACTLY, NO.

SOUNDSCAPE BLEEDS INTO:

SYNTHS THAT DRIVE? MAYBE IT SOUNDS SOMETHING LIKE THIS?

TEXT:

IT’S TRUE THAT MY YOUTH WAS NOT FILLED THUMBING THROUGH ANCIENT SCROLLS OF PAPYRUS AND SCRIBBLINGS, SUSPENDING METALS IN LIQUIDS WITH A HAND ON MY HEART AND A FLAME THAT WOULD NOT EXTINGUISH. I DID NOT TOIL AWAY FOR YEARS SCOURING LONG-FORGOTTEN RECIPES, AND WILLING LEAD TO GLINT IN THE MOONLIGHT.

I THINK I’VE ALWAYS BEEN AN ALCHEMIST — PERHAPS OF THE SPIRITUAL VARIETY. NOTORIOUS ENCHANTER OF MATERIALS, SPACES. SPINNING LANGUAGE INTO THREADS OF STERLING SILVER AGAIN. YES, DARE I SAY — INTERPERSONAL ALCHEMIST? ALCHEMY AS A WAY OF MAKING, OF MOVING, OF BEING, OF BEING, OF BEING, OF BEING.

I THINK I’VE ALWAYS BEEN AN ALCHEMIST. JUST IMAGINE THE SHEER FUCKING WILL NEEDED TO COLLECT GARLANDS OF TRASH IN THE SHADE OF IRON. IMAGINE DEMANDING THESE OBJECTS BECOME AND BECOME AND BECOME — NEW STATES OF BEING PLUCKED OUT OF THE ETHER. IMAGINE BEING HERALDED A ZEALOT SIMPLY FOR CONJURING A WORLD IN WHICH WE ENVISION RADICAL FUTURES FOR OBJECTS, FOR EACH OTHER, FOR THE SPACE BETWEEN US, FOR THE PARTICLES THAT BUZZ AMONG THE QUIET BREATHS WE SHARE AND THE LINGERING EYES THAT SCREAM THE WORDS WE ARE MUCH TOO FRIGHTENED TO MUTTER.

I THINK I’VE ALWAYS BEEN AN ALCHEMIST.

SOUNDSCAPE BLEEDS INTO:

SAMPLE FROM LOOPS/VOCALIZATIONS, MAYBE A PREVIEW OF A FEW LYRICS BEFORE FADING OUT (OR UP WITH A HARD CUT OUT??)

SOUNDSCAPE BLEEDS INTO:

ANNIE LEVIN: RESEARCH NOISES AS BACKGROUND, MAYBE ADD IN SOME GRATUITOUS CLICKING, AND TYPING?

LESSON WITH ANNIE

I’M UNSURE IF THIS SECTION WITH ANNIE WANTS MUSIC OR NOT, BUT OPEN TO YOUR THOUGHTS

SOUNDSCAPE BLEEDS INTO:

SOME KIND OF WILD FEVER DREAM EXTRAPOLATION OF THIS COMMERCIAL

SOUNDSCAPE BLEEDS INTO:

SAMPLE FROM LOOPS/VOCALIZATIONS, MAYBE A PREVIEW OF A FEW LYRICS BEFORE FADING OUT (OR UP WITH A HARD CUT OUT??)

SOUNDSCAPE BLEEDS INTO:

NEO STORY COLLAGE

GOOD OLE NON-LINEAR SPLICED UP TEXT, MIGHT IT BE FUN TO PLAY WITH LEFT AND RIGHT EAR STUFF HERE?

NOT PRECIOUS ABOUT LENGTH BUT WE HAVE A GENEROUS CACHE

I DO WONDER WHAT THE BACKGROUND TRACK SOUNDS LIKE — MY INSTINCT IS ALWAYS TO GO FULL COLLEEN, BUT FEEL FREE TO DO YOUR THING

SOUNDSCAPE BLEEDS INTO:

CHAN: “VAL, TELL ME ABOUT A TIME YOU SPUN GOLD”

TEXT: VAL STORY

OK I’VE NEVER BEEN A STELLAR SCIENCE STUDENT. AND WHILE I DID TECHNICALLY FAIL MY PHYSICS CLASS IN HIGH SCHOOL, I DO REMEMBER A HANDFUL OF TERMS AND FIGURES. HIDDEN AMONG THE CEREBRAL RUBBLE THAT IS MY BRAIN ARE THE WORDS POTENTIAL ENERGY. PHYSICS TELLS US THIS IS ESSENTIALLY THE STORED ENERGY AN OBJECT HAS RELATIVE TO ITS PHYSICAL POSITION.

A BALL HELD STEADY AT THE TOP OF A HILL. A YOYO GENTLY CRADLED BEFORE ITS RELEASE. WATER PATIENTLY WAITING BEHIND A DAM.

FOR MANY OF MY YEARS, PEOPLE IN MY LIFE — FAMILY, FRIENDS — HAVE MEASURED ME BY MY POTENTIAL ENERGY, WHIPPING OUT THEIR BLESSED INVISIBLE YARDSTICKS TO MAKE AN EDUCATED GUESS AS TO HOW FAR THEY SURMISED I COULD JUMP, FLOAT, SOAR.

BUT I KEPT A SECRET BURIED IN MY LEFT PALM AS I NODDED AND GRINNED BENIGNLY WITH A SPLINTER IN MY LOVE LINE.

OH, THE MILE MARKERS THAT WERE CARVED INTO THE EARTH ON MY BEHALF — ALL BETS LAID BARE ON THE TABLE. AND I, WEILDING A LICENSE TO LIVE I DID NOT ASK FOR, AMBLED FORWARD STUPIDLY, MORE DEAD THAN ALIVE FOR ALMOST A DECADE — SPECTATORS GROANING ALL THE WHILE.

AND YET, I WENT ON MY OWN WAY: LEFT FOOT, RIGHT FOOT, LEFT AGAIN.

BUT SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY, MY LEGS GOT UP AND WALKED AWAY WITHOUT ME? NO DOUBT ALSO TIRED OF MY DEFAULT BULLSHIT, MY CONSTANT AND SLURRED REFRAIN.

WHERE DID YOU GO?

DIDN’T MY LEGS KNOW THAT I, TOO, WAS TIRED OF THE SORRYS AND THE I’M TRYING? THAT I, TOO, COULD HARDLY STAND ANY MORE OF THE RENDING AND THE GNASHING, THE GNASHING AND THE RENDING?

I HAD LEFT MYSELF BEHIND BOBBING IN THE WATER WITH THE CIGARETTE BUTTS AND THE EXIT SIGN.

TRAPPED — LIKE SOME UNLUCKY SPELUNKER — IN AN INFINITE LONG POUR. I WAS CHASING MY OWN REFLECTION IN THE DREGS OF SHOT GLASSES.

YOU SEE, I HAD DEVELOPED AN UNHOLY PARTNERSHIP WITH AN ELIXIR EXTRACTED STRAIGHT FROM HEAVEN SOME DAYS, FROM THE HELLMOUTH ON OTHERS. TECATE & SILVER TEQUILA.

YEAH, WELL TEQUILA IS JUST FINE, THANKS, BUT ESPOLON IF YOU’VE GOT IT — YOU CAN KEEP YOUR WEDGED LIME, YOUR TABLE SALT.

RINSE, REPEAT. RINSE, REPEAT. ON AND ON FOR ALMOST 10 YEARS. A DURATIONAL ART PIECE NO ONE WAS ATTENDING BUT ME, MY BARTENDER, AND THOSE WHO STUCK AROUND. MANY — MOST, EVEN — DID NOT AND I CARRY NOTHING IN MY HANDS BUT SALVE FOR EACH OF THEM.

TILL ONE JUNE NIGHT IN BROOKLYN, I SAT IN A CURTAINED HOSPITAL ROOM, MEASURING MY OWN ABSENCE AND BEGINNING THE DETOX PROCESS FOR THE UMPTEENTH TIME. MY QUEER LIMBS ACHED, MY STOMACH IN SAILOR KNOTS.

YOU SEE, I HAD BECOME THE BLESSED WRECKAGE THAT HAD SUNK TO THE FLOOR OF THE OCEAN, A RAGGED WHISPER OF MYSELF.

BUT THE SWEATY SECONDS BECOME MINUTES BECAME HOURS BECAME DAYS BECAME MONTHS BECAME YEARS BECAME THE SHAPE OF MY INTEGRITY BECAME THE CLEANSING OF THE SWEET FIRE BECAME THE SERENITY PRAYER BECAME FINDING MY LEGS AGAIN BECAME OFFERING MYSELF THE GENEROUS GIFT OF TIME AND SPACE, OF THE SOFTEST CARE.

THESE DAYS, I AM KEEPING MY NOSE POINTED DUE NORTH AND MY FEET GENTLY OSCILLATING BETWEEN LEFT, RIGHT, AND LEFT AGAIN. IF YOU ASKED ME RIGHT NOW, I WOULD SAY POINT BLANK THAT I DON’T MISS DRINKING.

I DON’T MISS THE HALF-COLLECTED FRAGMENTS OF RECOLLECTIONS. I DON’T MISS THE FLAGRANT DECLARATIONS OF LOVE. I DON’T MISS THE MYSTERY BLACK EYES AND THE OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE? I DON’T MISS AVOIDING MY REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR. I DON’T MISS THE FRACTURED FRIENDSHIPS.

AND FRACTURE, THEY DID. WHEN I STOPPED DRINKING PROPER, A CURIOUS THING OCCURRED. MANY, IN FACT, BUT THE QUEEREST THING I NOTICED WAS THAT I CERTAINLY LOST A NUMBER OF DEAR FRIENDS. I WON’T SPECULATE AS TO WHY RIGHT NOW — THOUGH I HAVE A FEW FUCKING HYPOTHESE — I THINK THERE’S SOMETHING HERE ABOUT THE TOIL IT TAKES TO KEEP A SHIP FROM SINKING.

WHERE DID YOU GO?

NOT DRINKING SAVED ME FROM THE SPELL I HAD CAST ON MY OWN TWO GREEN EYES.

IT GAVE ME THE GIFT OF PRESENCE, OF LITERAL MEMORY, OF THE SWEET ARNICA THAT IS SELF-COMPASSION, OF EQUAL PARTS DEDICATION AND DISCIPLINE, AND SOME DAYS EVEN PLEASURE.

AND SO I QUEER THE SPACE WHERE ALL THE ACHE GOES AND MEET THE DAY. RINSE. REPEAT. RINSE AND REPEAT.

AND I THEN I USUALLY WONDER: DOES POTENTIAL ENERGY GET RENEWED LIKE THE CRIMSON SUN IN THE ARIZONA SKYLINE?

WHERE DID IT GO?