The Vomiting CartographerIn the house where I grew up, the main method of musical reproduction was a loose set of boxes, and at the center of it all sat squarely a glowing box of amplifier tubes and assorted bits of days gone by. The orange glow of the thing was lovely on cool evenings. The most telling mark of the era from which it came was that it has a power switch. It did not go into strange hibernation, sipping juice from the wall so as to leap to service at the glancing brush of a button. When it was off, it was off.
In our more modern life, we, too, have a strange collection of boxes, but they are never really off. They do sleep, hair-trigger napping, ever ready for us. They let us know this by a chipper little red light on each, and our fancy stack of metals and plastics sports no less than four of these things when not actively engaged.
From the distance of the reading chair, at night under the slim pool of light from the lamp when all else is dark, the little red lights make a little constellation in red, for our own private use. We must name it nobly, and tell good stories of it.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Commentary accepted at comment@goob.com, although the traps are agressive and the pointy bits simply drip with dark liquour. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.