There's no telling where I am right now.
For the last hour, this Cloudland Canyon session has been playing. It stops and then it starts again and if you close your eyes during it, you could be down in the Florida Everglades, hurtling across the water on one of those boats that look like they have huge fans attached to their backsides, hair whipping back in a brown splash and gators jumping out of the way, not wanting to get swamped. You could be inside one of the first Macintosh computers, back when all of the screens were made up of glowing green cursors and typed words. You could be sitting next to a bug zapper, on a particularly thick nights of pests, their bodies striking the electrified and enticing purple pole of doom with a succinct and stinging finale. You could be at a séance. You could be a participant or you could be leading the thing. You could be at a cathedral, a church that's got rows and rows of treadmills and elliptical machines in the place of pews and while the big man's up there preaching his way through his prepared material - in the most intense, but non-threatening way - you're pumping your legs and you're giving it your all, while staying in one spot, sweating all over the apparatus. You're absolutely feeling like you're getting somewhere.
Kip and Kelly Ulhorn and Ross Johnson make sure that we're only positive that we've been relieved of the stagnancy that we felt prior to listening to them work through their hypnotic and active narratives of curious urgency. We are lifted from our bodies and thrown into the clouds, unable to take all of the scenery in as it's pelting us. It hits like sheets of water - a relentless and restless smattering of flashes and blurs, of flurried apprehension. They make us feel lit up and still we keep asking, "What is all of this? What's going to happen next?"