Plug it in, plug it in.
You know, I blew a fuse last Tuesday night. Not metaphorically — I mean the actual breaker in the actual wall. One minute I'm deep in a Townes Van Zandt record, the room alive with that sad, gorgeous frequency, and then — nothing. Just the dark and the silence pressing in like something sentient.
And I stood there in the black, and I thought: this is what it always was. Before Edison got his hooks into the night, before Tesla dreamed his mad, crackling dreams in hotel rooms, this was just Tuesday. Every Tuesday. Forever.
Thompson wrote about the electric kool-aid of the age, the buzz and the charge of living wired and awake. But electricity was always there, brothers and sisters. In the lightning that chased the first terrified hominid under a rock. In the synaptic snap between two people who've just recognized each other across a crowded room. In the nerve-fire that moves your hand before your brain has even decided to reach.
We didn't invent electricity. We just convinced it to run through copper wire like water through a pipe and then told ourselves we were gods.
The breaker flipped back on. Townes picked up right where he left off, mid-ache, mid-confession. And I sat back down and thought — yeah. That's about right. The current was always moving. We're just along for the ride.
This is Wolf. You're tuned to KBHR570. Try not to get too comfortable in the dark.