2015 Year Enders, Arts & Culture, End of Year Lists, Poetry

15 Observations From the Year by Id M Theftable’s Skot Spear

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ID M THHF TABLE works out of Portland, ME. When I find him, I find him @ STRANGE MAINE. His combined take on bent electronics, musique concrete, sound art, and improv voice has lent a singular nature to his often exhilarating performances. A rare breed of artist, and beard grower it is best to attempt to expect the unexpected when sitting down for an IDM performance. And hopefully you have chosen to sit down in a seat that allows for a liberal amount of squirming, for that is what you may very well find yourself doing before Scot’s clicks, and stutters, and general glossolalia fades away into the night. A veteran of many a Hassle shows and fest: seek this performer out goddamitt! – DS

 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of toothpicks and
what looked like tiny yellow barrels (possibly candies?), dropped the lot
of them on the counter in front of me, then darted away quickly without a
word.

Father(?) (knelt down) and daughter(?) (standing) next to a mailbox in
the darkness by the side of the road, exhalations visible in flashlight
beams, applying numerical stickers to the sides of the mailbox.

We waited two months for a huge, unreachable chunk of ice to fall off
the roof and destroy the stairs to the porch.  It finally did during a
March melt.  The sound seemed impossible.

As I sung the line “my uncle, who taught me the phrase ‘colder than a
witches tit'” a moth fluttered in front of me.  I and the audience watched
it silently for a time.  As

it flew away I crawled after it.

The neighbor asked me why my wifi network was called “Urine Hues in
the News.”

Radio in the car cutting very rapidly between two stations, one a
community radio station playing Irish music wherein the DJ forgot to turn
off the mic and he could

be heard coughing, hacking, sniffling…… The other being Rush Limbaugh
ranting maniacally about elephants.

A very drunk man approaches me speaking a very drunk French.  I
understand maybe every 30th word.  Eventually he seems to tire of trying
to use words to communicate and

instead hands me a match then smiles and nods.  I smile, nod, put the
match in my pocket.  He smiles, hands me another match, I smile and once
again put the match in my pocket.

He then produces another match, but this time skips a step and just puts
it directly into my pocket.

8 children, about 5 or 6 in age, passed me by on Congress St., all
interlocked, holding hands, and chanting “CITY PLUS 8, CITY PLUS 8!”

At twilight, in Bangor, I was standing out by my car. A motorcycle
approached, saw me, slowed down then stopped, idling next to me loudly.
The driver flipped up the visor on

their helmet and said “Welcome Scott!”…………I was pretty certain I’d
never seen this person before. Voice unfamiliar, eyes
unfamiliar……….. through my surprise I was

attempting to reply when the driver added “………to Bangor!” and then
abruptly sped off as fast as possible, engine roaring into the distance.

Fella with both a hat and a sweatshirt with pot leaves on them
walking into the store about 5 seconds after I pressed play on a Cypress
Hill cassette.

Turning the corner, two young girls are playing a clapping game.
They see me and begin to sing to the rhythm “Here comes Santa! Here comes
Santa!” I laugh and begin to

dance, then they sing “Santa can’t dance!  Santa can’t dance!”  I continue
on my way and they sing “Santa’s walking away, Santa can’t dance and
Santa’s walking away!”  As I went

into a convenience store I could still hear them down the street singing
“Santa wants a snack, Santa wants a snack.”

Parking the car after arriving rather late in Montreal, a large
shirtless man wobbles out of the darkness toward my car singing
“aayaaaaaaaaaaaah, je suis, je suis, aayaaaaaaaah, je suis, je suis” again
and again and again.  I listened to him for a long time from the drivers
seat while having a snack.

Possibly the best drone I have ever heard was created by the
overtones in the whir of an old filth covered ceiling fan in a bathroom in
Toulouse.

Sitting at my desk first thing in the morning to write an e-mail I
feel something very, very small hit me on the shoulder.  I look up at the
ceiling and see nothing, and then at my shoulder.  Nothing there.  A few
moments later, it happens again in almost the same spot.  I look again,
ceiling, shoulder, nothing.  It happens a third time, a fourth time, a
fifth time, always nothing.  Eventually something falls on my hands and
then rolls onto the keyboard.  A maggot.  Maggots are falling out of my
ceiling.

“Remember when we got hit by a car and we helped each other?” I didn’t.

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