MAN’S BEST FRIEND

 

for Augustine Martin

 

c 1979 Tristan Winter

 

 

my friend here is a musician. oftentimes, at social functions, and sometimes at not so social functions, we sit and discuss the arcane impulses which posess him to spend his life marking time for a roomful of hyperkinetic inebriates. abandon your noisemakers, chew your own ears, i say, time leads to morality! but on this particular occasion he is in the grip of a drum reverie. as a matter of fact, he is so moved as to articulate his revelation: you know, he says, so it goes

 

                 beep

 

                              bomp

 

                                              BHUMP.

 

like hell i say. what about permanent revolution. what about the biological predicate for allegory. what about art shit and food. quack he says, or hit that thang. sometimes i notice that he emits little yips and whinnies if a wawa grabs him in the right place. his pelvis is a veritable soundbox. however he is an honest man, because if a funkachunkawowow or an uganugashim really gets ahold of him, he is very often the first to admit it. rarely, whether in deference to my own undertakings or out of genuine enthusiam, we discuss painting and its mysteries. here again i find him authentic, for mostly his reaction is to gesticulate like a windmill and repeat the word ‘colors’ with a maniacal gleam in his eye.