Nala Sinephro’s Soundtrack for “The Smashing Machine”

Tonight was the first 30 degree (f) night of this latter part of the year I believe (37 to be exact).

I found my biggest coat, went downstairs and stepped outside; ambled onto the field outside my room, sat down, lit a cigarette, stared into the sky, and marveled at the wonders of bluetooth and its ability to transmit Nala Sinephro’s The Smashing Machine original soundtrack through a wall and at least 150 feet into my over-the-ear headphones. 

I also marveled at the big trapezoid of stars directly above me. And then I thought about writing about the experience without experiencing the experience for a while. My right shoulder has been in pain for the last few days; I expected it to transfer to the other shoulder by now but it hasn’t. I found myself without sleep but with the looming terror of the consumerist music industry and algorithms controlling my taste for the price of 2 children bombed in the global south a month. 

Why experience when you can just think about writing about the experience you’re wasting the time of not experiencing while you should be experiencing it. Some parts of the album scared me and I got up to look around to make sure no one was entering the back door I’d left open while I retreated inside my headphones. 

This was my first cigarette in three days. I used to smoke to fall asleep. I realize that tonight this remedy will not work. 

Nala Sinephro’s name is underlined in red dots because any cool unique name doesn’t deserve the right to register as regular words even if capitalized. This happens to me sometimes but not often. My name is spelled incorrectly in the class group me because whoever added me doesn’t know how to spell my name or at least they didn’t when they made my contact. 

I thought about crossing the street to go to the 7-Eleven across the way. I had no money in my pocket but I thought about going to talk to the employees. But then I thought that’s pretty privileged of me, they’re stuck working and I have the luxury of going outside and lying on the grass and looking at the stars and wondering about how society’s taking advantage of me and my built-in consumerist tendencies. 

I attempted to rationalize by thinking that everyone needs a reason to tell their story to someone and I like creating that reason. I like being the sponge. I too often think about myself and need to learn from others. 

Two weeks ago I stood by blue dumpsters outside a friend’s house and talked to John, a homeless man in a wheelchair whose one working leg had just been bitten by what he said was a badger. There was a large chunk missing from his shin that still shone with blood. He told me him and the badger were friends now and sometimes he gave it a blanket. I thought there were no badgers in Colorado Springs. I wheeled him to aforementioned 7-Eleven and bought him a big gulp iced coffee, a pack of camel crushes, and a long-john. I also bought myself a long-john. We ate outside the 7-Eleven in silence. 

I wonder what this album could ever have to do with a movie called The Smashing Machine. I asked two of my friends if they’d like to see it tomorrow (or to-) night. I think one of them will accept but considering the amount of work I have in front of me I might back out. 

There are synths, glowing far-away meteors that descend and then appear and descend and disappear. There is sax telling some story I can’t decipher. There are strings that rise and scare and fall and remain in the head but not in the ears. There are drums in one track. I wonder what happens in the movie during the drums. 

You can hear what I heard and decipher what you heard here: 

The Smashing Machine Original Soundtrack