the rhythm is the pattern is the light. new thoughts now alive.
“And just like that, the fistful of words, the ones you let go all those years ago, they come sliding back to you from over the horizon. The words are covered in moss and tattered at the edges. They are barely recognizable. A few of them have broken down into even smaller words. The others have dissolved into little more than phonemes and indecipherable bits of data.
When you hold them up to the light they are opaque and don’t reveal any of their secrets.
Most of the words just sit there, dull, listless and occasionally slipping out from behind your lips.
A few of them however resist easy categorization. They pursue you in your dreams and hunt you while you sleep. These extraordinary words have somehow managed to escape the tethers of their Latinate roots.
These words have come back in the form of a mythical bird that wears the emblem of immortality and reborn idealism…”
We Used to be Everywhere by Craig Foltz
Roy of the Ravers Emotinium from 2 Late 4 Love (slow)
“Is the morning a time of festivity?”
“Is the dress you’re wearing a garment of celebration?”
“When you escaped did the light hurt your eyes?”
“Is this music?”
“Is it too much?”
“And am I your secret vice?”
“Sometimes by moonlight and sometimes by starlight, she stared at the light where the water ran over the sand. He never came. She got out of the car and walked up and down the beach hour after hour. The water ran over the sand, one wave covering another like the knitting of threads, like the begetting of revenges, betrayals, memories, regrets. And always it made a musical, murmuring sound, a language as definite as speech. But he never came.”
from Mrs Caliban by Rachel Ingalls
(screen shot from sword and sorcery, superbrothers 2011)
it is surely lost.
all in my head.
i have been.
well, everything really.
a new scent. a new shape. a new prayer. a new intoxication.
a new errand.
only you by Steve Monite
the Dogon people of Mali speak of ‘hearing’ a smell.
they believe that scent and sound are intrinsically related because both travel on air.
incendre “to burn”
spirare “to blow, breeze”
candere “to glow”
“Slowly the evening draws on its coat
Held out to it by a row of ancient trees:
You gaze: and the landscape splits in two,
One part lifting skywards, while one falls,
Leaving you not quite part of anything,
Not quite so dark as the house, the silent one,
Not quite as surely invoking the eternal,
As that which turns to star, each night, rising –
Leaving you (indescribably, to unravel)
Your anxious, immense, and ripening life:
So that, now bounded, and now grasped,
It becomes, in turn, stone in you, and star.”
Evening by Rainer Maria Rilke
Jethro Buck, Little Big Bang
Jethro Buck, The Night of the Glowing Sembar
“I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.
I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I’ve been circling for thousands of years
and I still don’t know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?”
Widening Circles by Rainer Maria Rilke
Jethro Buck, Bindu
in a forest clearing.
wind withered. storm pale.
parched and possessing,
a falcon shape.
to travel between worlds.
my heart open
a little red
my heart open
a little red
– shinzo no tobira, mariah (Yasuaki Shimizu)
“I have walked behind the sky.
For what are you seeking?
The fathomless bliss of blue.
To be an astronaut of the void, leave the comfortable house that imprisons you with reassurance. Remember, to be going and to have are not eternal- fight the fear that engenders the beginning, middle and end.
For blue there are no boundaries or solutions.”
from Chroma by Derek Jarman
Mughal-e-Azam (1960) featuring Madhubala, song by Lata Mangeshkar
Ask: the hum of branches ringing in the body,
a nervous shimmer, change inside a frequency. Therein
a tone, blood red.
Listen quietly to the storm, until we turn away,
The pattern of the wind twisting, a theory of everything: a rush of heat to the face.
Ask: gravity, radiation, making it visible.
To accept that, is music. Notes from a meeting:
Giving. Is central.
Wanting to ask. Not answer. And the universe expands.
“We thought we could control the night.” And it continues:
From Astroecology by Johannes Heldén
in Hinduism the ringing of a bell is said to engage all the senses, stimulating the inner ear. the moment the bell rings, the mind is disengaged from thoughts and becomes more receptive.
sometimes broken is more interesting.
sometimes slow is like all of your favorite swear words at once.
"heroic dose: the narco-imaginary establishes a circuit, maps an ancient course. The mystique that surrounds the narco-imaginary concerns it's mystical beginnings; intoxication names the cypher through which mere mortals correspond with the gods."
a pleasure or a poisoning or a vision of the future.
"what happens when the immediate familiarity of the present overwhelms the ability of the subject to frame his or her experience in language? What happens when "what is" appears to be exactly like what just was. When the "new development" appears to be an exact replica of the old development, relocated? Take a simple reburial, for example, the same old bones."
bird bones may be hollow, but they are also heavy.
"a map of desire works like discourse; it fails to account for marauders that attack from unmarked territories. To understand it's terrain you enter; or rather, already inside, you try and find your way out."
i rely on triangulation and telepathy.
quotes from The Narco-Imaginary by Ramsey Scott
photos by Albert Von Schrenck Notzing
“Although my mind confuses eruption for euphoria and devotion for diaspora, it clearly distinguishes today from tomorrow and yesterday from today. Or does it? Perhaps it blurs yesterday and tomorrow with the present so that life is one extended breath, minced to calendric intervals. Perhaps we are fit to perform only one duty: exhaling. Perhaps in life and in language, one can substitute one word for another word like pouring water from one glass into another. And perhaps I would like to surrogate exhaling for a more fitting dualistic jab: expiring.”
Fish in Exile by Vi Ki Nao
“Like a wind, like a storm, like a fire, like an earthquake, like a mud slide, like a deluge, like a tree falling, a torrent roaring, an ice floe breaking, like a tidal wave, like a shipwreck, like an explosion, like a lid blown off, like a consuming fire, like spreading blight, like a sky darkening, a bridge collapsing, a hole opening. Like a volcano erupting. Surely more than just the actions of people: choosing, yielding, braving, lying, understanding, being right, being deceived, being consistent, being visionary, being reckless, being cruel, being mistaken, being original, being afraid…”
from The Volcano Lover by Susan Sontag
Rhosyn live, 2013
“The end is a sudden stop, a cut in the last time of the compass that leaves everything in suspense because the emotion could not be diluted.”
“In other versions I am a doctor or a ghost. Perfect devices: doctors, ghosts, and crows. We can do things other characters can’t, like eat sorrow, un-birth secrets and have theatrical battles with language and god. I was friend, excuse, deus ex machina, joke, symptom, figment, spectre, crutch, toy, phantom, gag, analyst, and babysitter. I was after all ‘the central bird… at every extreme’. I’m a template. I know that, he knows that. A myth to be slipped in. Slip up into…
(I do this, perform some unbound crow stuff, for him. I think he thinks he’s a little bit Stonehenge shamanic, hearing the bird spirit. Fine by me, whatever gets him through.)
Grief is a Thing With Feathers by Max Porter
gifts. it’s time for gifts.
and the meaning,
it comes in waves.
untitled #1, by Agnes Martin
“Hawk. Electricity is humming. You hear it in the mountains and rivers. You see it dance among the seas and stars and glowing around the moon, but in these days the glow is dying. What will be in the darkness that remains… Now the circle is almost complete. Watch and listen to the dream of time and space. It all comes out now, flowing like a river. That which is and is not.”
Margaret Lanterman in Twin Peaks
a gift of blue woven through gold.
a gift of blue woven through gold.
a gift of blue woven through gold.
Friendship, by Agnes Martin
“seeing your seeing.. often the eyes will create form when it’s not there…every evening we unfold the light and every morning fold it back to return the blue to the sky. this is the light just passing through just beneath that usually seen. who owns it? you who look, not to be held but known.”
You Who Look, James Turrell
“she wanted to be like light- a presence but one that spread out in all directions; powerful and immaterial. It’s not grandiose, she’d say. There were advantages to being invisible…”
from Modern Love by Constance De Jong
“Daydream, which is to thought as the nebula is to star, borders on sleep, and is concerned with it as its frontier. An atmosphere inhabited by living transparencies: there’s a beginning of the unknown. But beyond it the Possible opens out, immense.”
from Travailleurs de la Mer by Victor Hugo
there is a time and a place for falling to pieces.
“there again is a circle
there again is a circle
the effort, see, the complete effort to be beautiful
and being beautiful
while the whole of anything is meant to be silently understood
only if it is the effort, not the complete thing
but the effort, the effort is the beauty, the effort
how long is waiting?
how short is life?
blue morning glory.
and that morning, or that moment
when it didn’t really matter
to live or die
it really didn’t matter
to live or die
that’s suspended animation
the suspended animation of being
that is true perfection…”
Harumi’s fire by the river and words from their twice told tales of the pomegranate forest
soft sounds for hanging in the balance.
the color of a voice.
the veil of conversation.
the picture of health.
the tone of the weather.
the picture of a voice.
the color of conversation.
the tone of the weather is the color of a statue
with arms wide open overlooking a village
threatening to leap into the sea.
a luminous object
with clouded judgement
and a portal ripping through it’s chest.
but you were a bag of old potatoes. all eyes, not seeing.
photo by Ren Hang
Shearwater - North Col
Star Axis (Solar Pyramid 1976- )
precession: the slow movement of the axis of a spinning body around another axis due to a torque (such as gravitational influence) acting to change the direction of the first axis.
“You have to enter the Earth to reach the stars.” -Charles Ross
“hello? come again? come again.
stay. stay a while. stick around a while.
stick around as long as you can.
heaven help you. god help you. jesus help you.
everybody else help you.
everybody make happy.
make everybody happy.
be a comedian.”
from American Movie (1999) a documentary by Chris Smith featuring filmmaker Mark Borchardt.
(video no longer available)
sound becomes visible in the form of radiance.
“Everything in the world has two movements; the moon has its waxing and waning; the sun has its rising and setting; the tide has its flow and ebb; man has his rise and decline. This shows us that time is not in the watches and the clocks that we have made, but time is the rhythm that is in the whole universe.” -Hazrat Inayat Khan
“There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay? Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and the end of time. Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon.” -Tom Robbins
Nusrat Fatah Ali Kahn, live in london 1993. a ghazal in the qawwali form.
this heat not waving
Slow and Steady Wins the Race by Ken Price
“Human beings are capable of becoming perfectly pure at some moment in their lives. It doesn’t matter if they’re royalty or literati, middle class, working class, or the lowest class. For many people that moment must be the moment when they are clasping hands with each other. Memory finds its way back through blood, through body heat. Right at that moment. But now is not that moment. Right now doesn’t mean anything at all.
…time repeated itself. It outlived memory… and it would be no different in the future.”
Nowhere To Be Found by Bae Suah translated by Sora Kim-Russell
sleep to pass between the real and the dream.
follow the scent and sound.
initiate a song of sworcery.
awaken to break up the storm.
run towards the mysterious light, the meadow, a time of miracles.
superbrothers sword and sworcery soundtrack by jim guthrie.
“…in what rhythm you began, you should continue to breathe. By losing the rhythm much is lost. Music is the miniature of life’s harmony in sound in a concentrated sense. The person who has no rhythm physically cannot walk well; he often stumbles. The breath, the speech, the step, all have rhythm. The person who has no rhythm in his emotions falls easily into a spell, such as laughter, or crying, or anger, or fear. We should practise rhythm in our lives, so that we may not be so patient and yielding that everybody takes the best of us, nor so carried away by our enthusiasm and frankness that we say things that are undesirable in the world, nor so meek and mild that we fall into flattery, timidity and cowardice. Then, by and by, we may understand the rhythm of emotions, the rhythm of thoughts, then the rhythm of feeling. Then a person comes into relation with the inner rhythm which is the true meaning of the world.”
–from the Sufi Teachings of Hazrat Inayat Khan
gather with me. together let us listen to the soundless sound.
and then throw ourselves into the river.
accidentally had these two things playing simultaneously and bright embers floated out of my brain and into the night sky. perhaps you’d like to try it?
“unknown adventures in an unknown space”
1819-1823 El Perro, from The Black Paintings Francisco Goya
cut from the walls of a country house.
a deaf man descending in the silence left by the deaf man before him.
matter falling on a black hole forms the brightest objects in the universe.
in the sweeping gesture of causality
in spite of the cold and cruel
that time can be a form of mercy
and mercy can take the shape of surprise.
“Just over a billion years ago, many millions of galaxies from here, a pair of black holes collided. They had been circling each other for aeons, in a sort of mating dance, gathering pace with each orbit, hurtling closer and closer. By the time they were a few hundred miles apart, they were whipping around at nearly the speed of light, releasing great shudders of gravitational energy. Space and time became distorted, like water at a rolling boil. In the fraction of a second that it took for the black holes to finally merge, they radiated a hundred times more energy than all the stars in the universe combined. They formed a new black hole, sixty-two times as heavy as our sun and almost as wide across as the state of Maine. As it smoothed itself out, assuming the shape of a slightly flattened sphere, a few last quivers of energy escaped. Then space and time became silent again.”
a love story, a waking story, a dreaming story, a faint whooping from low to high story.
“… oppressed people only have one tool of resistance: run amok. And if I have to tell you, revolution is nothing more than a collective running amok, organized by one particular party.”
beauty is a wound by eka kurniawan
“What is the point. That is what must be borne in mind. Sometimes the point is really who wants what. Sometimes the point is what is right or kind. Sometimes the point is a momentum, a fact, a quality, a voice, an intimation, a thing said or unsaid. Sometimes it’s who’s at fault or what will happen if you do not move at once. The point changes and goes out. You cannot be forever watching for the point or you lose the simplest thing; being a major character in your own life.”
Speedboat by Renata Adler
the mystifying power of enthusiasm.
the accidental evolution of a sound.
add that backbeat.
like it very much.
Bernard Purdie for endless inspiration and for the lifting of spirits.
”you hold the first moment in time up to the light… the first moment in time, she’s moved from the present to the future. she’s changed from black and white to technicolor. she’s left you behind in a world of grayscale, wondering whether you will be able to accept more subtle tonal variations.”
from we used to be everywhere by Craig Foltz
a dry spell.
the spoils of anticipated behavior.
a season of conformity. a season lying awake.
a season of reversing winds and asymmetric heating.
asymmetric behavior and reversals.
the vagaries, and the easterlies,
the ocean that holds a different opinion.
the weather will give you ideas.
the weather will ask you to do things.
the intensity and the duration of
a tropical phenomenon.
a rainy spell.
photographs by Raghubir Singh
sick from all of the emptiness. seduced by a sound. a sweet, irresistible sound.
the drift (2007) kelly sears
“the subject of fierce debate”
“some great great wound” “in the whole body”
“no one dares operate”
“the ghost of the pain”
“is the circle of wild horses”
“on which we can paint” “the feeling of return”
“THE QUESTION OF OUR DEPARTURE”
from the warring factions by Ammiel Alcalay
small wavelets, crests of glassy appearance, not breaking
time, space, causality
thinking, willing, feeling
acids, bases, salts
mass, power, velocity
laughter, weeping, sleeping
the one who is remembering, the remembered, the act of remembering.
"And then in its turn the journey entered the zone. And Hayao already showed me my images affected by the moss of time. Freed of the lie that had prolonged the existence of those moments swallowed by the spiral.
When Spring came, and every crow announced his arrival by raising his tone a half crow, I took the green train of the Yamanote line and got off at Tokyo station near the central post office. Even if the street was empty, I waited at the red light, Japanese style so as to leave space for the spirits of the broken cars. Even if I was expected no letter, I stopped at the general delivery window, for one must honor the spirits of torn up letters, and at the airmail counter to salute the spirits of unmailed letters.
I took the measure of the unbearable vanity of the West, that has never ceased to privilege being over non-being, what is spoken to what is left unsaid.
I walked alongside the little stalls of clothing dealers.I heard in the distance Mr. Akoa's voice reverberating from the loudspeakers... a half tone higher.
Then I went down into the basement where my friend "the maniac" busies himself with his electronic graffiti. Finally his language touches me because he talks to that part of us which insists on drawing profiles on prison walls. A piece of chalk to follow the contours of what is not, or is no longer, or is not yet; the handwriting each one of us will use to compose his own list of things that quicken the heartbeat. to offer or to erase. In that moment poetry will be made by everyone and there will be emus in the zone."
image, sound, words from Chris Marker's Sans Soleil.
"Because I know that time is always time.
And place is always and only place.
And what is actual is actual only for one time.
And only for one place."
"my young girls who read in dreaming poses are escaping from fleeting, harmful time. fixing them in the act of reading or dreaming prolongs a privileged, splendid, and magic glimpsed-at time. a suddenly opened curtain sheds light from a window and is seen only by those who know how. thus a book is a key to open a mysterious trunk containing childhood scents."
from vanished splendors a memoir by balthus. or Count Balthasar Klossowski de Rola
january / wasting / loss of ears / an accident in an elevator / lurching sickness / cracks / false affection / vapors / a secret enemy / misdirection / demons / estrangement / chagrin
the sea, from edward gorey's fantod pack.
it's not so much love versus hate, maybe more a teetering on that thin line between opposition and surrender.
there are those who believe, have believed so profoundly in someone or something that submission poses, has posed the only solution. be it to die a violent death at the hands of another (red martyrdom) or to die to oneself everyday (white martyrdom). it's a choice. wholehearted. and i respect the lack of pink.
recordings are from an ongoing series of reel to reel, single take performances inspired by martyrs. saint triduana and saint edmund, for example.
a distinction is drawn by arranging a boundary with separate sides so that a point on one side cannot reach the other side without crossing the boundary. for example, in a plane space a circle draws a distinction.
once a distinction is drawn, the spaces, states, or contents on each side of the boundary, being distinct, can be indicated.
there can be no distinction without motive, and there can be no motive unless contents are seen to differ in value.
if a content is of value, a name can be taken to indicate this value.
thus the calling of the name can be identified with the value of the content.
that is to say, if a name is called and then is called again, the value indicated by the two calls taken together is the value indicated by one of them.
that is to say, for any name, to recall is to call.
words from spencer brown's laws of form image from matila ghyka's the geometry of art and life
"In terms of closure, I submit there is nothing elegant about it. In terms of scheduled arrivals, the ocean shows up when it wants to."
from We Used to Be Everywhere by Craig Foltz
but perhaps there is some hidden meaning to all these nothings.
“Why is the sky blue?” -A fair enough question, and one I have learned the answer to several times.Yet every time I try to explain it to someone, or remember it to myself, it eludes me. Now I like to remember the question alone, as it reminds me that my mind is essentially a sieve, that I am mortal. The part I do remember: that the blue of the sky depends on the darkness of the empty space behind it. As one optics journal puts it “the color of any planetary atmosphere viewed against the black of space and illuminated by a sunlike star, will also be blue.” In which case blue is something of an ecstatic accident produced by void and fire.”
words from maggie nelson’s bluets
…something of an ecstatic accident produced by void and fire.
euclidean geometries calling on heavens. points equidistant to a fixed point extending from a center, into a center. moving in, along, or through a curving path. located or situated on every side. to surround. be surrounded.
calling on numbers. transcendental and irrational. to attempt the impossible.
image from Persepolis by John Diosdado
the dark and the light and some new music i've made. listen to first magnitude
one lifts one’s hand across one's face
one gestures toward a wall
one extends a gift, one strokes a beard
one crosses a square of other ones
ones in white remove ones’ gowns
one covers oneself, ones come to touch
one other one speaks to sky
one paints a scene, one other scolds
one walks the sand, ones march to cover
ones hold ones’ staffs, one shades one other
one strikes one’s drum
ones play despite
one sleeps, one speaks
one strokes one’s cheek
one other one gestures toward a book
one and every one hold one’s breath
one and every one swell with signs
ones in white cross a square of ones
one lifts one’s hand
one lifts one’s hand
one gestures toward one other one
one passes food
one flies above
one after one ride toward other ones
one after one sit by other ones
one strikes to speak
one comes to touch
one kisses one after one on one’s cheek
one/thou/s/and/one- by anna moschovakis
last night a rainy drive on a country road, a mix of static and a song that cut right through.
those with strong spirits, those with strong inner lips jutting out to converse, always jutting, never receding, those with something to say, always, those not programmed but who program, those walkers, talkers, wailers, travelers, with fellows and without, those thinkers, those inventors, those who can and those who do, those who jut out in conversation, those pressing through, those who obey and who are obeyed, those finishing things and those beginning them, those turning and those touring, those touring and testing and turning and testing and turing
an excerpt from THE HUMAN MACHINE [THIRTY CHANCES]
poems from you and three others are approaching a lake by Anna Moschovakis
remains of the endangered réunion harrier hawk of madagascar. belonging to the genus circus, so named for the aerial circling movements observed during courtship. réunion hawks are known for their silence during the majority of their life cycle, with the exception of a very vocal breeding season. sounds include chattering when threatening, wailing when courting, and chuckling over food.
“i think that it is a time of our sun on trial, of all our institutions on trial. i was brought up when the sunlight was yellow, and the shadow was blue. but i see it clearly as being white light, and black shadow. yet this is nothing alarming, because i believe that there will come a fresh yellow, and a beautiful blue, and that the revolution will bring forth a new sense of wonder.” -louis kahn
there was that stack of my father's records, and cereal for dinner, and i drew pictures of Einstein. and years later there was a basement and a Nintendo 64 and an older brother's punk rock girlfriend. and years later there were cross country road trips and mixed tapes. and years later there were fires and paths through fields. the silver apples: silver apples album was there every time. for all of the heat, subtle explorations and earthly transformations. it is in a way, summer itself.
even now... weaving golden spells that run
béla tarr's reflection of a reflection of an endless cycle in the "werckmeister harmonies" based upon the melancholy of resistance by lászló krasznahorkai
"the sheer brilliance of his vision could crush him one moment and resurrect him the next, and although he could talk of nothing else his command of language was such that he could never begin, even vaguely, to explain what it was that he did see. When he declared that he knew nothing of the universe, they neither believed him nor understood him, but it was quite true... He had no sense of proportion and was entirely lacking the compulsive drive to reason; he was not hungry to measure himself, time and time again, against the pure and wonderful mechanism of "that silent heavenly clockwork" for he took it for granted that his great concern for the universe was unlikely to be reciprocated by the universe for him... being unable to detect mutability where there plainly wasn't any, he made like the raindrop relinquishing hold of the cloud which contained it, and simply surrendered to the ceaseless execution of his pre-appointed task."
in orderly movement with planets. we waltz. create counterpoint. or stumble along. make chaos. either way we are all moving through space, and it makes no difference to the universe.
Then another tomorrow
They never told me of
Came with the abruptness of a fiery dawn
And spoke of Cosmic Equations:
The equations of sight-similarity
The equations of sound-similarity
Subtle Living Equations
Clear only to those
Who wish to be attuned
To the vibrations of the Outer Cosmic Worlds.
Subtle living equations
of the outer-realms
Dear only to those
Who fervently wish the greater life
"the present is terrifying...because it is irreversible...and because it has a will of iron... time is the substance of which i am made. time is a river which carries me along. but i am time. it's a tiger tearing me apart; but i am the tiger."
alphaville, written and directed by jean luc godard as adapted from "capitale de la douleur" by paul éluard
poems. a film. a script. aim straight for those you love.
maybe it's not the drugs. or the lovers. or the wide reaching body of people you know. maybe it's not that personal sense of style or the fanciful clothes. and maybe it's not the poverty, the suffering or even the wealth of experience amassed that makes you an artist. they may be aspects of the life of an artist but they are not his or her work. i think sometimes these things get confused. inspiration comes in many forms but inspiration alone does not invent, or build, or bend wavelengths or cycle sound-waves.
this brief article What Great Artists Need: Solitude by Dorthe Nors is well worth the time, if not for it's thoughtful writing alone or for the monumental question it considers, then for the part where Ingmar Bergman likened his sense of overflowing humanness to a broken tube of toothpaste, his euphemism for diarrhea. well said.
so in solitude then, and with self discipline. could it be so simple? that when without the influence of each other we can feel each other more profoundly and when in the absence of kin, our messy humanity is amplified. it is perhaps in our aloneness when those intangible human truths are most desperate to be, given life by way of form and medium. to be commiserated with, understood, felt, ignored, sensed, misunderstood, feared, desired... art.
for the briefest moment we are not moving towards, nor away from our closest star. we are not leaning into light, nor are we bent towards darkness. in the north we bathe and bask the same as you in the south, we are equally illuminated. for just an instant we are not at odds with the merciless past nor that future of impossible promise. there is no indecision and no deciding, no looking back and no advancing ahead. it is an equilibrium and we are at the point of recovery, equal parts idleness and momentum. if only for an immeasurable instant, we hang in the balance. and it is remarkable.
to catch breaths.
and in time, in this fabric or dimension at least, the rhythm will repeat. we will keep going.
holding still. steadied yet the rotation persists, persists. static but stuck in the continuum. i am building in my half sleep, half conscious, half rational. a formation of what, is uncertain. an invisible vessel for an invisible fire, an invisible sea. it is tedium replacing trauma. a circular momentum eclipsing hidden conflict. a constant motion sickness. i am wobbly with sea legs. this mal de débarquement. disoriented by the tetris effect.
"to recognize reality as a form of illusion and illusion as a form of reality is equally necessary and equally useless."
as those before us who relied solely on the natural world and the rhythms there-in have observed, we can keep time in many different ways. the aztec tonalpohualli is one such glorious example, and to paraphrase today's significance accordingly: movement. quake. transmutation. a divine Whirlwind. in it's path the ruins of rationality, order, and expectation. "the warrior strives to be the mirror rather than the reflection." what a way to begin again. be it an hour, a day, a year, or an era... happy new.
could undo the wreckage. the casual vandalism.
then we would wait within, rush towards, hold close, here: in an architecture befittingly reflecting the grandeur of our ambitions. it's a magnificence we'll never know. but we can likely all agree. this is how you should arrive and depart a great metropolis.
"and we will probably be judged not by the monuments we build but by those we have destroyed."
from Ada Louise Huxtable's “How to Kill a City” a lamentation on the destruction of the original Pennsylvania Station
repeating gestures. silently mouthing mantras. the act of communication, with oneself or with the vast sea. creation by way of focus and intent. the need for reliable results. or those known results more undefinable- that energy we manifest. that structured universe. that sacredness. that ritual. that simultaneous act of forgetting and remembering. those words. that scent, sight and taste. the personal experience. the collective memory.
from memory for forgetfulness by poet mahmoud darwish.
"They can aim sea, sky, and earth at me, but they cannot root the aroma of coffee out of me. I shall make my coffee now. I will drink the coffee now. Right now, I will be sated with the aroma of coffee, that I may at least distinguish myself from a sheep and live one more day, or die, with the aroma of coffee all around me.
Move the pot away from the low fire, that the hand may undertake its first creation of the day. Pay no heed to rockets, shells, or jets. This is what I want. To possess my dawn, I’ll diffuse the aroma of coffee...
Take the coffee to the narrow corridor and pour it lovingly and with a sure hand into a little white cup: dark-colored cups spoil the freedom of the coffee. Observe the paths of the steam and the tent of rising aroma."
by way of archaeoacoustics, a theory exists that wheel-thrown vessels could hold within their grooves ancient languages and ghostly soundtracks, at the very least the hum of tools and embedded ambiance. quite literally a "record" of the past made by a combination of revolution and human hand. are ceramics vinyl's arcane older sister? and now, my head spinning along with laurie anderson's lp "big science" aptly playing in the background. what should we record? speak of? embed? to sing, whisper, or wail?