I just wish my life could be as strange as a conspiracy
I hold that hope, but there's no way to be what I want to be
The CD player finally quit after endless revolutions through Music for 18 Musicians by Steve Reich. I've now substituted my CD-single copy of Felt's "Primitive Painters", again with the setting on 'Repeat'.
Reich's shimmering, looping atmospherics were the perfect sonic backdrop while reading Geoff Dyer's Yoga for People Who Can't Be Bothered to Do It. An episodic travelogue of sorts, it's tinged with the same longing and ache that bled from the pages of Paris Trance and suffused the vignettes of But Beautiful.
What can I say. Now that the book reading is over, Felt's aural bombast is the perfect salve for the sense of inextricable loss that I'm left with once again. I don't know why Dyer's writing does this to me.