(Rhythm #4: Crinkling)
(Rhythm #3: Puncture)
Original full-rez: (https://www.dropbox.com/s/egn2s2ben5lya4d/fuzzball.gif?dl=0)
LUCIANBLOMKAMP // Help Me Out
You are so much more than you’ve chosen to be. You are beautiful, you are wise, you are indefinite. For this long I’ve let my fears keep me from being great. You’ve kept yourself from being great. But all you need is a push, a knuckle to the small of your back, an embrace, a limp apology, a leak, a shove.
'Help Me Out' is the first single from Australian downtempo producer LUCIANBLOMKAMP's debut LP, 'Post-Nature.' The track evolves from a soulful lament to the release of pulsating house chords and dry claps before transitioning again to a waxy alto sax solo. It is both a cry for help and a signal that the past is just that: time wasted, a wave carrying fear and darkness and the pain of knowledge away. It leaves you clean, it leaves you pure. It's a night drive through your cranium, caught up in nothing at all.
Thoughts on the evening of becoming an adult in the eyes of the state
I wish I could come down from some mountain
Or climb out of some window
Or hop some low fence
And see you lying there,
With one knee bent and a finger to your temple,
In the way that made me glad that you were happy,
And sad that you were supple,
And believe that singularity could exist again
And it was there
In my arms
But your greatest feat was in denying me that simplicity,
Of identifying the final and infinite point of knowing something which could
And in that,
I know now that the only key to love, hate, ambition, and destruction
Is that forced patience
Which I hope I’m ready to give.
Summer. What a great place for us to live.
Where our feet are closest to the sun
Where your skin doesn’t pucker
Where you wipe your brow and pleat steeples into your forehead,
Where the air carries your weight too well,
Where you can forget that time does indeed move
But you still have your own heat to give,
Before your blood turns to alcohol,
Before we get fat in weird places,
Before autumn comes and steals your slow humor,
The ache of a body frozen in the simmer.
But you did always say that life is most beautiful in its latency,
And that kings only value useless things.
What does that make us, then?
Summer—what a great place for us to live.
But you forget that too,
You who are steeped in the culture of things built for warmth
You who trade cash for sweat, while your fathers did the opposite
But they didn’t teach you to listen for insects
Or wait for the sun to set
Or love with abandon
Has their summer passed?
Did they ever know to pluck the rubber of an open car window?
Did they know to tear grass and chafe toes?
The summer of the South does not employ comfort
But only reminds you of the storm within you,
The fever of your restless innards,
The thirst for your musk,
The stifling embrace of our growing star.
Summer—we need these things.
Summer—we’ll never leave.