Shapeshitter by i'm being good

Here's a little story about inspiration. So I started out with a waking memory of a Wim Wenders film where Dennis Hopper and Bruno Ganz form an unlikely friendship. I think one of them might be an art dealer and the other one's an arms dealer. Maybe a drug dealer, I couldn't be bothered to look it up. Anyway, so the thing I remembered was this ominous tone-picture of the soundtrack. It had this really emotionally heavy soundtrack that just constantly implied something terrible was happening, although I don't remember anything particularly terrible happening, I think they steal a VW beetle and crash it on the beach but I don't think anyone gets injured. Maybe they set off some fireworks. Not ominous. So soundtracks are funny things, they don't really stand up too well once they're liberated from context, kind of like a cat with the bones removed, it's just this twitching pile of fluff that flops off the side of the table and can't go anywhere. So I'm sitting up in bed and my brain is kind of licking around edges of the memory of this sound as if it's trying to salvage a melting ice cream. I'd like to somehow transpose this vague emotional/sonic form into something I can use, albeit parsed through the inefficient filters of memory, then personal aesthetic, and then squeezed through the narrow gamuts of imagination, the textural and tonal limitations of the instruments at my disposal and my withering ability to play them. I imagine picking up the guitar and what sounds might come out. The guitar seems to have a different agenda to the one I'm suggesting. I find myself attempting to mediate between the guitar and my creative urge in the hope of reaching some agreement. I've never really paid attention to the actual form of my creative urge before so I decide to try and locate it within my body. Turns out it's a small grey object that looks a bit like Mecca crossed with a celeriac root and seems to travel between my head and stomach. I realise that it's actually not so small at all, it's a much larger object but further away. I move toward it, it's about the size of a house. I want to communicate with it directly but it silently pushes out the vibe that to truly know it would cause it to evaporate. It's within the folds and knots of this unknowing that creative potential resides. I reach out to touch it and receive an image in return - a young doe with a leaded, arched window where its eye should be. Its mouth is wrapped around a brass door knob, desperately working its head and jaw to open the door, but its teeth just grind against the brass, a sound like a tea cup gently nudging across a formica table top.

The sound of no hands clapping.

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