Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
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Carl Wilson's 'Ex Week': part 1, part 2, part 3, and part 4.
As soon as I hear the clapping in 'Black Satin', I want to clap along. But it never sounds the same. I don't have a Teo Macero.
a guitar or two, a skittering screeching saxophone duo, carefully cut breaks, two (2) hours of barely remitting feedback, blast beats, a harp, a temporary suspension of, a chopped-up vocal sample, insecure sex boasts, birdsong, the center of a black hole, drum machines, old Biggie lines re-flipped, craftsmanship, bombast, artfully arranged stretches of silence, passionate confusion, folk settings of Emily Dickinson poems, more drum machines, vocoders and imitation vocoder effects, endless depths of nihilism set to clangorous drones, kiss-offs, as many different words for 'money' as possible, cooing, moaning, adenoidal whining, obscure clouds of hissing and whooshing, inhuman bellowing, beat science, noise that just won't stop, whatever occurred to the performer at the moment of recording, actual honest-to-god guitar solos, particles, this synthesizer and that synthesizer and maybe that's a synthesizer, minutes and minutes suspended in time, sublimated resentments, unholiness, sublime holiness, a thriving career as a musician, the private talk of women, sounds like it might be about love or god or something, an awful lot of drugs, whatever they want, the time to write during a brief stint in prison, swagger, attitude, anxiety about the global economic catastrophe, tape-loop alchemy, a more relaxed second take, an accent, the joy of language, horns, are you sure this is even music, how long can this—
Five yard signs in a row, none betraying its candidate's party affiliation.
Some writers leave too much to their adjectives.
I feel happy to walk onto an unfamiliar college campus.
'I can only remind—more I cannot do! To move stones, to turn animals into humans—is that what you want from me?'