Thursday, September 14, 2017

Perfectly Imperfect Curtains Turned


   I urge you one last time to reconsider. You can feel the wind in the room, the curtains are moving in  the draft and a door slowly closes. Think of what it must be outside.  --  John Ashbery

 Perfectly Imperfect Curtains Winds Joined Together

 That was the title I gave to Marco Lucchi for this series of conjoined yet subtly discrete improvisations performed on acoustic guitar (which you can listen to by clicking on this text) one morning when I was immobilized by pain in the sacrum region. As it was imagined for one of Marco's many generous, open-call collective projects, this one called Some Perfect Curtains, I was wrapped up in the imagery that these words themselves provided me poetically, as some drapery or veil, some curtains my windows here do not have, and then found myself playing as if I could see these curtains forming shapes as if stirred by winds. Something of pure inspiration in that. Marco's concept for the compilation was to have the piece composed as if a perfect final track (final curtain) to an imaginary album. Then I discovered, on this day, that it was the day John Ashbery passed away. The imaginary wind in the room then took on a more ghostly character, such that engraved the sounds with different significance, although the listener is not obliged to pay any attention to such elements of self-hypnotism the artist employs to get him or herself to move forward on an uncertain path. Shortly afterward, I wrote a score to describe the ideas that had been rippling through my mind into the fingers.


                            score to play only imperfect curtains
                            seen only by the wind
                            seen only by the mind
                            that stirs them in the score
                            to play the data ripples
                            with ever the wind to feel
                            no potential moment at rest
                            seeing nothing...
                            wind that stirs (them)
                            mind that stirs
                            alone who they are 



                                  
                          I urge you to think of what must be outside...

for further "perfect curtains" check in to this 
     https://soundcloud.com/musichevirtuali/sets/some-perfect-curtains-vol-2



Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Entitled Imagery (Rubedo)

reminded one late night of the moon the voice of remaining a freak against the norm
the expression of the varieties of psyche the stories to be told an the stories to be untold in the service of personal liberation in order to help others from the selfless place of concern.

there is no god out of mind just as there is potentially mindless god everywhere we can't know and god is in the mind either with good reason or with other reasons that maybe are not reasons at all but just the facts (both western and eastern traditions recognize this). humans don't know that they don't know god because mostly they have given up trying or invented an egological excuse based on an ideology that positioned their egological parasite to make sense in the system of values in terms that works for them socially. cool. but it doesn't always work for me because socially speaking people still make really bad mistakes based on self-service ideologies rooted in the enlightenment forms of social philosophy that rely on an exploited human resource or slave economy. and they make people suffer and they waste resources. (I consider enslavement and exploitation to be linked to something more primordial than class-conflict on the human level. to this extent, I am not really a humanist while I don't have any affinity with vulgar nietzscheanism and misanthropy. people are here. we absorb nutrients from the environment. we should be willing to pay it back or lessen our withdrawal. as seems intuitive.

Sunday, September 10, 2017

About the Perpetual Motion of People into Unknown Phases

About the Perpetual Motion of People into Unknown Phases
for Chris Barron, Charles Whittaker, Stephen Ellis

I wanted to try to say something just in terms of life being put together by moments indeterminate 
in themselves growing steadily more seemingly determined by a choice of steps

Starting out how to say, just let by-gones go bye-bye, waves across the wide bay
ever so seemingly hypocritical, I can't chase and be free

It would be too great an effort to stand in this wind, 

to the plastic schrapnel, the bones that hit me
too rotten to pierce with pleistocene acuity the thoughts of flippant spanners

Browser seems like such a lazy word. Our minds not uploading apparently.
Sooner or later they will be unable to dig tunnels without encountering other tunnels

Subterranean grumblings, war bubbles, rising waters 

& wish you will the breach was not
nor within such red anthills poke your hobbling third leg of legend (had you once)

Don't fuck the with past and don't fuck futures either please stop fucking fuck with fuck
while they stiff with ears offer applause for the unruly downfallen

Our wings surprise horizons shrouded volute grain scatter and cascade
these sheets of leaves written within eras of compression open

Is there any light on in the retrobotteghe that reaching the front stores reversal
Lovely the dark so be it the sound of convertibles whizzing by

Another ambulance within who drives the winning against the clock/

 might advantage the battery outwitting energy but time itself a rock

Within my earth are many broken twists and turns rejoined to essential losses
those mending the total never seen but outlasting back and forth

Double bar double double bar loop of enduring spin
without infinite repeat the complete will remain search for one last over

Appended I, finally
begun



Friday, September 8, 2017

THE STUTTER SPEAKS FOR ITSELF ALONE


"a portable altar strapped on his back/ pure and severe"  --
-- pythagorean silence, Susan Howe



 TEN YEARS AGO, I founded this blog, stealing my title from Antonin Artaud, with the aims of a person with different aims, in a world where aims were different, where social media such as myspace, tumbler, twitter and the monolothic succubus facebook were nascent, a world where one was achieving social difference because one had a web identity, constituted by a website, a wikipedia article, a page with review links, a digital nomad tag, the signs of one aspiring redittor someone, or someone already someone YOU NEED TO KNOW, and all the attendant pretentious truffles and trifles. For many years previously I had a website under the name Orphan Sounds, kept at Noe Cuellar's futurevessel.com, until it was hacked or I became otherwise unknowable. And while some of my aims have shifted in perspective, one aim be yet true, the true itself, named (variously) after the affirmation of "seraphic pleasure" of consensual fucking, the arrival on the shores of Artaud's text of the bodily truth, that remains the song forever changing through ceaseless modulations of silence, the word that repression and oppression might end within. Artaud's Transparent Abelard being a surrealist's celebration of libido had to my mind that link to the search for truth via dialectic of the 12th century theologian (Pierre Abelard) and the love(r) of literature (Héloïse d'Argenteuil) and their tantric union, a myth to herald the end of the Dark Ages. So it's an eternal incipit, let's say, both selva oscura and vita nova, tangled up and blue...as if I had known... The stutter speaks for itself, alone...

"And he said:
"Oh, Abelard!" as if the topic
Were much too abstruse for his comprehension..."


That this blog-basis in the Transparency of an Unameable Ecstacy, what my friend recently called Bewilderness, which remains true, (even if he didn't say it), that this was not only about the carnal but also about the celestial, cosmic, the post-coital & quantum entanglement, the end of excluded middles of all sorts, only goes to say that it's all about what it cannot be about. Ever. Yet strives to be. Authentic, even falsely (as Fernando Pessao might have put it). Moreover, the continuity of my writing this blog remains in the notion of truth Olson wrote of which consists in standing more revealed but, with the new perspective, that the most revealed is also the most flat, unprepared, unadorned, naked, even without scandal, at times. So bold and potent that it passes for banal. In Jim Jarmusch's recent film, Paterson, this character, who remains the city, the almost Blakean eternal one of the dream, the great figure, the anonymous rock (WCW) Paterson: a poet and no-one, a listener. When his girl-friend urges him to publish, and even speaks to him about the trumpet image in the Ohio Bluetip Matches in the poem she has never heard him recite, and he knows. Maybe the poems are all cribbed from things there no ideas but within. The poet knows only or only knows the sources of the real and that the only thing standing in between is some nameless illusion we can't fathom.
Strike anywhere, they say. Water Falls. "Hey, what's that from?"

  So he stood on the island— over the sea
Until creation was a cone with polished sides."
-- George Oppen


















                                             


 final photo: Park Wilsona, Poznan
  all others internet archives
I believe the far left an image of
Père Lachaise, Paris 
but I've never been to the alleged tomb
of Abelard & Heloise. It is believed
by many they are not there, or not both
& yet one hears the pilgrim letters
of forlorn lovers
litter the stones











Thursday, September 7, 2017

Preview Of Hyperions, Upccoming Album by Ossowksa & Gburek

https://soundcloud.com/jeff-gburek/hyperions-4-bialowieza-ossowskagburek
                                                     hyperions full audio coming soon
plus a few concerts in Warsaw

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Staggered out from under the Pole-Star: a text designed for digital stutter.

I would like to say
 Simply that I love you
Hung within my night sky a stutter
  The winds begin to gather
Hollow as a chimney's throat
    The days go wandering
  On the feet of destiny
Driven divers directions
    And words adrift
   That dare to lift the voice
       Of the leaves meeting at
     Distant cross-roads
        Bundle silently like tangerines
            In a wicker-basket
          Woven by we know not who
        But follow broken
          By the terrifying weakness
        Of our Western-Eastern self-conception
           That we beg any agency
               Intercede and distract
           Against inevitable
             Uncontrollable gravity's wanton
          Grasp of solace measured
               By a single feather
            Stuck sullenly in a drain-pipe
                Somewhere and nowhere (simultaneously)
                     Stirred in the grains
                  Between the grains of the griot's
                     Gourds transforming
                   Seasonal emptiness into
                       The full figure fathoming
                      The thrust of her snow-blind thighs
                           Dancing on the eaves
                         As Cinder Ella
                             Her tennis sprung
                           By tarry lumps
                         & rabbits hidden
                            In the hats of the Sweeps
                        Who swoop down
                     & pull her up
                        Into the cool grip of the dwarf star


21.12.14

When I was alone. And then suddenly more alone. Reflections on Derek Bailey. And playing with quanta..



Derek Bailey remains, remained, something of a myth, one of those great legendary figures, a basilica on a gigantic toadstool outside of time, titanic Hendrix or faustian devil-may-care Robert Johnson or Manitas de Plata cross-eyed by Webern, even while he, the good Derek of Sheffield, was yet breathing among us, even  -- after I had met players like Jack Wright & Daniel Carter, Oxley, Parker -- and started to learn that musicians were (some of them, anyway) approachable human beings. But I never approached Derek Bailey, despite his tremendous influence on my life. After listening to him on tht album with Braxton I felt the game-change. Back in the rehearsal space, I tried to depress notes with my toes, to bend feedback without touching strings, to avoid "scales", to interfere with and otherwise try to get different sounds address another order of disorder.

 I entered "the game" a bit late in life-- but there were certain tectonic shifts in the aesthetics (and therefore the politics) of the younger musicians, when lower-case, onkyo (as quiet school) berlin reduction, london silence, the fresh and ascendant blooms --- it also seems clear that of these many players, he impressed a few of them who later wanted perhaps to get over this influence and establish new musical identities & explore another vocabulary, rather famously Taku Sugimoto's distancing from Derek after what appeared to have been some happy years. That Derek's playing might have become symbolic of the fast-paced, bristly and busy, grand-central-station-on-fire-alert school of super-chops improv sqwonk is however for my own sense of things almost un-noticeable, without severe import, because he was after all a master of great compressed silences that he fit into, that gapped, the space, between as on the album with Music Improvisation Company,1970 where I just had to start thinking differently again. Which brings me to the day that Derek died, 9 years ago, when I was in Berlin, on Christmas Day, when I was alone. And then suddenly more alone. More alone than ever because alone in Berlin. I read the news. I closed the web-browser. I went to the guitar on the table and picked up a violin bow, pressed record, and started a great throbbing drone chord that tapered and thinned as I bowed back and forth gently detuning until the sound ultimately dissipated into vapor. When I returned from my trance, I looked at the time-line and saw 59 minutes had elapsed. And I had had no idea what had happened.  Ritual prayer for his travels through the chiasmos of the bardo. Or any better opportunity.  

 Derek Bailey weighs in, at least for me, as one who plays the guitar both vertically and horizontally, all the time, deconstructing and re-membering, and his manipulations did involve almost every imaginable creative abuse (aka extended technique) of the instrument and about the only thing he didn't do a great deal of remains in the field of protracted buzz blanket click drone and Tammenesque processing, for which the guitar on the table seems quite logically placed. 


There are perhaps also, I must admit, many things that I imagined that Derek must have done first and better because, as I said, he's partly a myth and some the sounds I thought he made were something else entirely not his fault (maybe-- those squeaks, string rubbings, percussivities). Mythical beings have the capacity to do things most other people can't do but they also are the site for the projections of the polymorphic magma inside our psyche. So, every once in a while, when I'm playing, entering into some kind of deja vu (as when you look at you hands and see them acting almost without thought-control), I stop myself and I say, ah, that's something Derek would do. But I am never actually sure he did anything even remotely like that. In this sense, however, Derek was always playing with quanta, has always been right by my side. Like my fingers' fingers. Perhaps always will be. Until I'm too late, one day.