After an encounter with hydroponic technology I go home to sit on my couch and play a few tunes through my stereo. As the guitar notes from my new "Tortoise" LP play emerge fitfully from my speakers, I feel the absolute appropriateness of this album as an adjunct to the effects of hydroponics. The sweet notes slowly fill my living room to the brim, lifting my couch up with them gently as the walls and floor disappear. Higher and higher we go, the only connection to the known world a faint echo of the stream of thoughts that normally fill my waking conciousness but which now have receded as before some great wind.

Time melts away; the album must have ended: the notes now flowing out are of Shadowfax. The guitar passionately rides the scales up and down seeking their glad rest in the arms of beautiful completion. I, gounded to my magic couch, now flying upside down, now looping through baroque currents, see the land open up to envelop me in a warm moist embrace like the vagina of the earth. "Fuck it, fuck the earth's pussy" the universe seems to say, "surrender to it competely." Everything is made of bliss.

NOw I see the warm spring sun streaming in through the window, the bright green grass is breathing and basking in the warmth, reflecting my smile inside. All is right with the world.

Shit, I'm getting hungry.