"Future Fables"

by Octopi Mills

Conny Ochs has washed upon a nearby shore like an old seaweed thrice entangled; swept into my arms like a water logged skeleton just in time for the summer solstice, and somewhere someone is missing a resident to the island that holds the cosmic make up of singer song writer fellows. A strong coffee shop persona comes through, and not because of the good sparseness of the instrumentation, or the stark alone feeling of the recording. This is a welcome manner of presentation, without the need for standard and typical instrumentation done for the sake of having to do so. In this manner, Ochs finds well with the waters in which he digs; that lonely folk path of the singer song writer, which is a role he seems to take entirely, and this in itself should be applauded. At least, I think so as I fumble with my manners with a monstrous touch that ruins fancily set dinner tables and breaks small pets. 

The vagabond in question will breeze through a variety of songs here, often sounding uninspired, or a bit road burned like an animal that has been compressed by nearby motorists and trampled under hooves in neglect, and I am reminded of an incident of my youth. It was when my step-father used to come in and violently kick up the foot rest of the reclining piece that went to a couch. One day he reached inside the thing and found something that made his eyes wide and what he felt inside must have felt strange, and weird. I can still feel the strangeness as he reached inside and pulled out a flattened, naturally mummified cat carcass; which was as thin as a piece of cardboard. It had, no doubt, been slain many moons ago when he closed the foot rest in his sudden motions of jumping in and out of the seat, and the terror as he held it in disbelief had a certain atmosphere more powerful than the television show he would have been watching. 

Here, it had met it's end, and it must have ran in the open door from somewhere astray, as it was not of our own home. It is here and in this similar manner that I hold the skeleton of Conny Ochs; astray and crushed by the mechanisms of man's cruel industries...Thin and crushed; caught in the gears of the machine, eyes staring in the last frozen promise of shock and disbelief. But it is not my eyes that are frozen, but the eyes of Conny Ochs and the collective death of all wandering song writers; blown in like unkept tumble weeds from wild winds over hills and far away.