2003: Eluvium - “I Am So Much More Me That You Are Perfectly You”

ordered YouTube search results

1. downtempro: “I am in no way associated with the content of this video, and in no form am I trying to take credit for the content shown.”

2. GMB32557142: “Pictures of Upstate New York and It’s Park - “The Adirondack Park”

3. Eluvium - Topic: “BWSCD, Inc.”, “auto-generated by Youtube”

4. trainsabove: “(panamericana - 2011)”

5. ouho: “Laboratorio de perspectivas”

6. billowandbethany:

Hey, ya humanoid lightbox-gawkers! Mitch The Cat here.

As my chosen person will note, I’m not named after any Mitches of human lore or renown. If you were gonna think on a homosapien Mitch, let it be Mitch Mitchell, Hedberg, Easter or even this would-be Dumpy Harry (though, as it happens, I am long and lank like a meerkat). Any Mitch is fine, save that rank piece of shit senator resembling Morla, The Ancient One. So, I live with these people in upstate New York, one of whom made this vid of me. I’m an outside cat, which means I worry them when I go out on an extended tear. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I miss that litter box about as much as those tedious dog ticks they pry outta me from time to time.

So they’re nice enough. They take good care of me and my hyper-sensitive brother, Bowden. But they’re a bit crazy. They seem to take time out to yell about stuff more than is healthy. Sometimes they need me more than makes sense. Especially this failure-to-launch, sadsack, YouTube channel host here. He’s very creative, often to the point of not paying attention to me. And this is annoying, often to the point of yelling (I’m gonna say I caught that from these humans, because I don’t remember doing it much at the shelter). Apparently, he has always made stuff. But here he is, 39 years old and nothing to show for it. I’d say he lacks ambition, but I don’t know from ambition. I’ll catch a bird or bite-size scurrier here and there, but mostly I just wanna eat, snuggle, and (as you see) sleep. I think my dude has lost his way in his human world. He has never known just who to be and how to be it. He sweats over his trinkets of sight and sound in an utter void. And since he believes in his work, despite his endless failure to connect, this is painful. But he’s smart enough to know that this belief is kind of it. There are more successful artists, but they obviously still gotta do it because they wanna, or it’s as pointless as yelling at an inanimate object. He does this, by the way. Don’t judge too harshly, but he does it a lot. Kinda freaks me out sometimes. What I’ve gotten used to, however, is the music. I don’t like it to the extent he does, but I like the way it shuts him up and, in a fashion, makes him more feline.

This was a good song for him to pair with me in the midst of my third favorite activity, because it is like peace and quiet, but better. Near as I can tell, this song is the saddest a human can be without it being a remotely negative thing. It belies a sadness more akin to practical bodily functions, like hind-leg speed scratches or tongue baths. It’s redolent of a salient, tender sort of sadness. An essential blue, soundly buffering the emotion against blubbery, incoherent despair (not a good look!). It is the essence of that ideal clear spot before a good sleep. We share this mild ecstasy with our human counterparts, serenely fading from the ceaseless rigors of welcome and uninvited stimuli alike. It is not always easy to claim this spot, but this song is there to make it seem so. Often, when I sleep in here, I am forced to be as restless as my human. I awake when he wakes. I toss and turn when he does (in pseudo-consciousness, I’ll protest with a low and drawn out groan). He always has some sort of device rambling off some bizarre human ephemera ad infinitum.

But I can see why this particular confection has come back to him so strongly across the years. While almost everything else he puts on at night sounds like distant thunder or death knells, this tune is that sweet nest, after I turn and turn in circles to get it just right. It is the pure exhale after a protracted series of deep, exasperated sighs (all of my housemates, when they’re not yelling or immersed in what-the-holy-flickering-hell-have-you). It is the becalming overwash of a rare, seemingly perfect warmth. Whatever changes or remains unchanged for my troubled person, I’m sure this peak-level lullaby will stay as recurringly vital for him as it has become for me. And for you too, my discerning friend, if you’re picking up what I’m throwing down.

Mews&Purrs,
– Mitchieboy

DeLorean

There’s a lot of good music out there, and it’s not all being released this year. With DeLorean, we aim to rediscover overlooked artists and genres, to listen to music historically and contextually, to underscore the fluidity of music. While we will cover reissues here, our focus will be on music that’s not being pushed by a PR firm.

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