May 27th, 2019

following the trail

i could feel myself under your fate

i wonder what becomes of those guitars annihilated in the course of a stage performance. or rather, i wonder exactly when such ideologically fecund assemblage material became completely inaccessible to me by way of monetary value in lieu of it simply being swept into the trash at the end of the night.

it's a weird thing to think about, unless it isn't.

guess i'm more than a little peeved that as many guitarists as i might have in my social circle, i'm likely still going to need to locate a guitar store and buy my own pick new if i want one for art or magical offering, which i do. for a while, in fact. i haven't done so yet because i'm way seriously broke and anyway, such an acquisition process is less than ideal. such materials are best reclaimed for art at the end of the life cycle for their intended function. the singed chunks of an instrument that met a violent end in the throes of performative ecstasy seem rarer than lightning struck oak of serendipitous vintage and/or geolocation, but stranger things have happened, so might as well ask: anyone reading got a line on something like that?

OR rubber date stamps from 1989 to 2008. there's this whole thing i'm doing.