The needle gently cajoles a tune out of the scratchy analog of the vinyl LP. A non-descript instrumental slowly makes itself comfortable within the dingy confines of the studio basement that I have casually convinced myself to call a home. A very lose definition of said ‘home‘ is a rickety futon, a bookshelf sporting the leftovers of academia, accompanied by a thrift store rug that has started reeking of spilt beer. The open brick walls are slightly moldy, echoing the soggy sentiments of the wintry rain that has seeped through after days of continuous downpour. Soggy walls and a rug with Guinness stains.

A plastic cup sits on the far corner of the rug, a few feet from the door to the basement. It is half-full of what is now an amalgamate of beer, soda, water, and cigarette butts and ashes. It could almost be the next revolutionary chauvinist’s cologne scent. Almost. The red plastic cup nurses the scars of being scorched by the consecutive cigarette butts. Little dark holes, with maroon edges, that lethargically leak brownish goo. Brownish goo of beer, soda, water, and cigarette butts and ashes.

What began as a nondescript instrumental slowly resolves itself into a warbled version of Cannonball Adderly’s “Mercy Mercy Mercy.” The needle, in its own nonchalant pace, decides to swallow certain notes hurriedly while precariously dragging some out of the speakers like stale chewing gum. Continue reading ‘stains’