The sound of television in the background as the junkie ties the strap around his upper arm and clenches it in his teeth, inserting the syringe into the vein of his wrist. He pushes it down, the blood flows into needle and the sweet, sweet pleasure rolls its way into his bloodstream. Numbness, an emotional blank. The comedy show on television and its canned laughter is very distant now, and as time passes a man in the corner of the room plugs in an electric guitar and plays a few fuzzy notes. The stimulating nature of this dissonance between silence and the television in the background cannot be understated, the relationship between sound sharpened to a point with this acute, beautiful awareness. This is perfection.
The man continues to play his guitar as the never quite so haunting comedy show continues to be heard, somewhere, somehow. He is not a particularly proficient player but this does not matter in this myopic haze, the fuzzy, burnt out timbral quality to his guitar and what it is doing to the particles in the air reveals something that should be obvious but isn't, that the only true perfection is in imperfection. This notion feels so clear as the guitar, television and their relationship with the silence between them work together to create their own unusual symphony, something very private, very profound but never to be appreciated by those who could never understand
. This is tunnelvision, staring towards the light at the end of the tunnel whilst doped up in a chair and Mr. Myagi's Magic (but gloomy) melodies play to the heavens.
Or is it just really some guy jamming on guitar whilst watching some TV over in Lebanon, I don't know.