the whirr of a ceiling fan acts as the concertmaster of this noise lullaby.
there's loops played along the fan, there's processed hum, self-oscillating delays, and again the low-key drone of tc dittos playing half-speed and half-pitch.
it's probably nothing new, in the book of zanetti's kitchen recipes, though the feeling in this weather imposes to add "hell" either in front of "kitchen", or "recipes". or both, actually.
hey·zee_stew·por is inspired by the astonishment that's produced, in me, by this unbearable high temperature and humidity rate, the landmark of a smouldering august month in the lowest padana plain.
i'm almost longing for gills, hoping to feel again like there's some oxygen, too, in the sticky air i'm forced to be breathing.
being unable to switch the air conditioning on, because i've exhausted the ac mains maximum load capacity, makes me realize that this noise drops my temperature.
or, more likely and better said, it deflects my perception of my very self, to the point i feel the room is cooler than it actually is, because it's my aura to be refreshed by this vibe. which is, in the great overall picture, exactly what a ceiling fan does for a living.
does it do the same trick on you, too?
let me have your word in return, as it matters to me if you're feeling something, to hear from you. or don't, again your choice, for which i won't blame you at all.
because... yes, because.
because whatever you're feeling, and whatever your word in return (or lack thereof), i'm grateful to you for stopping by, for reading me here, and for listening to my hazy stupor.