We seem to have been talking about kids a lot recently amongst ourselves. Names we like for hypothetical offspring, the neuroses we would keep from them, the world they would grow up in, the feelings of broodiness in some of our female friends.
It’s as though there’s some stream running out of us, branching off like a tributary from the main stem of our life force. It wants to bifurcate now that we’ve reached some unquantifiable maturation point, biological compulsion driven by the swelling river of adulthood trying to spill over to create a new course while it’s still full and fast.
It seems to me that most human life starts this way, a gleam in our parents’ eyes, the slow dance of romance revolving around the possibility of propagation. We all start as a hope, a dream, a need: before a concrete agreement or happy accident there’s that tug, that glimmer deep within that shifts the current of our lives to redirection well ahead of anything tangible.
we grow in a gleam is a piece that you can articulate about as well as the innate wellspring of our basal energies. It simply exists, a cool radiant experience filled with a distant life as synth sustains revolve over the fizz of rain and gentle drones. Near its centre a static threatens to overwhelm, noisy scuzz abrading the banks like an oscillating mass of seeking sperm or the scintillations of packed ova waiting to become realised.
In the end it resolves itself, shimmering out into cruising reverb at peace in its direction, whatever or wherever that may be. The river bed dries up either way and the gleam moves on, an endless current of sound that doesn’t stop, but rather is carried into a space beyond perception.