If you were there, eyes focused, hands a little clenched on the massage table, staring down at a young man, naked, his penis flaccid, you wouldn’t notice that he’s thinking about writing his first novel, but doesn’t know how to begin it. Stick with short stories, they say, and read widely and deeply, widely and deeply. But that costs money, fam, and time, time again to read again, because re-reading is the secret to writing well, fuck what those novelists say. Stick with short stories, as the spa music comes from another room, a room down the unreal hall, and in it an empty jacuzzi, maybe a spaceship, maybe a poem or two. Ambience: bricks and crickets; Pink Floyd sans Pink Floyd. Dare I say it, that word, prog? Progwave? Not likely. Most likely. More like Frogwave; at one point during “P3///comforting reality” a scrambled voice says something. For you will I turn on my electronic voice scrambler, mi amor. Even in the phantom village, as I gaze into the town square’s JumboTron, absorbed in the temporary desire to embody the perfect lives of anyone in a Christmas car commercial.
Speaking of embodiment, maybe the tropes I think vaporwave embodies—malls and Chinese cities—don’t completely describe the true vapor vista, which belongs to the 2D RPGs that were on the Gameboy and are now for the iPhone 6. Well, wait a minute, who knows, anyways. Making music is not a map, but something that comes after mapping. Psychogeography baby, let’s get it.
Which brings me to my one mortal wish. Shall I dare eat a peach? Shall I draw a map of the peach? Shall I dare download that album for free? Perhaps give a donation? Shall I dare name-drop the Surrealists, or Fluxus, who thought that the idea of walking was akin to disrupting the politics of urban architecture? A dog for example, is barking at the shade of itself, mistaking its shadow for another dog, a black dog, a dog without eyes, a dog that barks when it barks, moves when it moves, a piece of music inside of another piece of music, a poem inside another poem, a slipperiness of sound that is not a wall, but a faucet, and a sky so wide it gives off a whiteness, with this thing called The Wind I plug into.
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