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When I woke my hands were straining against their shape. They were large purple, fashioned from sausage and pain.
I thought perhaps I had fallen. What I did was worse.
A mediocre conga player builds no calluses and never remembers tape.
A mediocre conga player is continually surprised: beneath the skin of the heads is a metal ring; hitting the metal ring affords you control of pitch.
The recognition is electric.
When you are electric a pulse emerges and an inner automaton comes.
It’s arrival is the pulse is giving way to a series of descending pitches and what is underneath them.
Soon everyplace is a pattern made from interlocking patterns each of which unfolds a particular number series.
Together they define a temporary machine comprised of x musicians, which is a something that is always about to fall apart.
When the pulse starts to blossom with lattices of pain, you see them as counter rhythm. When you cannot pick up your beer, you say it’s better to moderate.
And so the evening subdivides
Later I fell asleep with my hands straining against their shape.