23.dec.2003

f�r jason

--

i'm kept.

Jason, my musical comrade for life, my Reznorian sugar muffin, my positively accessible and diabetic-coma-inducing sweetheart of the synths, has graced my inbox with another minimalistic masterpiece, and to properly celebrate, I looped the song for a good hour. I have no plans of ceasing this repetitious enjoyment, agony, release, reverie, all of it.

I met him unconventionally. We spoke to each other in lyrics. There was nothing literal in our involvement. That was three years prior to this moment.

The newest track, "Keep Me", is musical dolor. Within the last thirty seconds of the song, the synthetic structure begins to dissipate, and his voice, run through mounds of sultrily subdued gear, sustains the ending note as he sings a plea with tortured, blue-eyed abandon, and I swear to God it fucking tangibly hurts when I hear it. It hurts so perfectly. There is glass in his voice. Honest, visceral, unbridled grit.

His voice is an acquired taste, and I have it with soft drugs at nine in the mornings, with the sun sitting on my retinas in garish streams of light, harsh and completely unyielding.

Theoretically, we have the perfect musical relationship: he sends me songs, I derive inspiration from them, pen something, send it back to him, our recycled emotions bled to electronic blue, rinse with the antsy liquid of our impatience, and repeat.

He's not for everyone, but I could not give a toss. He's for music. I've had the extreme pleasure to experience every transition he encounters on daily bases in the last three years, emotionally, musically, psychologically, et al, and it's veritably fucking everything to have in my life.

He is not greedy with his passion. He is not nervous with his delivery. He is not apologetic with his message.

It's a musician's dream.

As possessive as I am, I am content with knowing this does not solely belong to me.

--

time & machine