The beats my friends have kept

I should be making music with my friends, of that there's no doubt. Out there with the fucking Orcas, gliding among the straits we sound meaningfully at each other, keeping time and caressing the melody. Life is so short, it's a wonder that music is possible. I wonder if all of the gods are offended. The divine beings suspect that we should be ashamed of our existence, our ancient ancestors wrote that we were profoundly failed beings. But it seems to me, and I'm indifferent to my error, that we are only meant to care for each other. And tight beats, tight music making is one of the quickest and bestest means to immortality. If you have to ask, you'll never know, said Louis Armstong.

It's hard to imagine that the nonsense of our time means anything. I'll be damned if Stephen Harper has any bearing on my life. The state of Canada can seep into the drain of oblivion for all I'm concerned. It's not my parents' fault that they lived here therefore it's not my ancestors' fault that I'm Canadian. I prefer to imagine myself as a being of the pale blue dot. I'm simply one of those of the earth. What significance are the tones of my language? Hundreds of languages have existed and they are translated. It's the modern world, children. What adventures exist? Only those which happen in our minds. And the adventure that exists in my mind involves the musicianship of my friends, my comrades. Once I suggested that our band be called "Not Now Later and the Some Other Time." It will always be later and some other time. I love you guys.

Orcas and wolves are always surprising. It's because we know so little about them. Seriously. Herman Melville wrote Moby Dick a long time ago, and one of the major themes he emphasized was the complete and endlessly deep ignorance that humans idiotically nurtured about the behavior of Sperm Whales. The mighty Sperm Whale is plagued by human idiocy. First of all, do you know why this wondrous "beast of the deep" is named as it is? It's because the merchant monkeys who raced to massacre them noticed that the oily white substance which served as a fuel for lanterns had the viscosity and coloring of human male sperm. Kill 'em all. Their heads are filled with fucking sperm, like. Today, at the cutting edge of the present, we know barely anything more than the mighty Melville. Don't fret, the Sperm Whale is nearly a memory, we've almost murdered the entire species, praise be to God. To hell with us.

My friends are great musicians. I would love to imagine that all the Gods have an interest in human music making. In this endless universe, isn't it amazing that this stranger "human", self named, chooses to create rhythms to mark the march of time? I don't know if it's amazing, but I know that my friends are. Let's kick it.