Saturday, September 21, 2019

Friday, September 13, 2019

We Words Would Like To Have A Word With You


   archived in 2012 on my Facebook page and in a special file here
we encounter the initial moments of a theme my writing returns to often: the generative, open and autonomous aspect of liberationist combinatorics of langauge, of all stripes. the context will perhaps pave the yellow brick road to understanding what gave rise to such an FB, since it was written there once upon a time spontaneously as rebuttal of sorts. some names have been altered...


   "we, words, have requested to use jeff gburek's status update tonight (thanks, jeff) to address some crucial things we have formed ourselves into concerning the proposition put forward by our friends leaf eldritch and margaret atwood. and while we generally come to find ourselves treated rather nicely by leaf & margaret, aka sometimes as familiarly as "peggy", we have formed a temporary molecular bond to politely contest this assertion that

   “War is what happens when language fails.”

   "for sure this may be part of the problem but we words would like to have a few words with you humans about how you use us and also concerning this need to shift blame onto the blameless. we words are not particularly fond of carrying forward human dysfunction nor are we programmed to fail and most of us over here in the celestial granary of vocabulary particles more or less agree that we like to freely organize ourselves mostly for pure enjoyment. we words like to have fun and we only ourselves consider it a failure when we can't freely associate amongst ourselves to establish a meaningful existence together.

   "we words do not agree with umberto eco and his ideas about what we are or what we were made to do even though we supported him in saying what he thought mainly because we have never been able to do anything but try to help you express yourselves, even though it's often not so much fun the kind of rigid phalanxes we are forced to march in and the formal dress you pinch us into when you try to sell your most important points. we don't much appreciate these events wherein you screw us up to conceal what you can't say openly because your willful deceptions also cause us to feel alienated from ourselves. we words are not talking to anyone in particular here and we do have other things to do with ourselves than see you make one another unhappy while speaking through us and not with us. the idea that we were designed as slaves for you to push about on keyboards and chisel into stones of laws to oppress one another is really your idea and not ours.

   "so please stop saying that we words have failed when you go to war with one another over things we simply cannot comprehend anyway. there are some of you people out there who are sensitive enough to understand this and we appeal to you to stop this bullying, otherwise we may just decide to leave you with nothing to say and when you try to say it and nothing comes out you will probably be sad that you blew your opportunity to enjoy with us the beauty of the universe we are all forming together. even informally. even formlessly."

Thursday, September 12, 2019

Ceres I, Process Composition, Primo Passo



  Although followers of my work might find precedent in the cyclical looping compositions of 2013-14 called  Systematic Structural Instability, this is my first attempt to create a long form piece that is most explicitly not based on the concept of "exciting" or "capturing the attention" of the listener but is designed rather to confirm and elevate an ongoing life process by providing a smooth and supportive sound sensation, something that gently colors already existing spaces. It can be thought of as hanging on the air like a wisp of cloud or incense. Or one needn't think about it overmuch. It's approximately 36 minutes long but is based on an extended phased looping of guitar tones (recorded in a super quiet village in Bulgaria) in a software process that can potentially run to infinity and which has no proper beginning nor end.

   Ceres I is indeed part of a trilogy. There is Ceres II and Eclipse, waiting in the wings. I am using this moment to put out a call for any label that would be interested in releasing this on physical media and those who like to hear it live as a multi-channel installation. Please write to me, we can discuss different vehicles, ways to deliver these messages. Cover art by Karolina Ossowska

Listen & support here:  https://jeffgburekprojects.bandcamp.com/album/ceres-i-223

Listen via Soundcloud & follow to hear latest tracks & experiments.
 https://soundcloud.com/jeff-gburek

As alluded to above, the summer is Bulgaria... existed, as fruitful as it was refreshing and invigorating. More details about that journey, images, journals, poems, essays and other recording, will be surfacing here at this site. Please get your friends to subscribe for email updates.



Friday, July 12, 2019

CHIASMUS -- a Berlin Journal -- with an interruption -- June 2019

night on earth, jim jarmusch

here come the thrashers, the blind-scaping... nash, nash, nash

how to escape the evolving helter skelter of one's times and the ceaseless Big Brother Weather updates from the Polish Orwellian Central committee, red alert storm warnings of lightening thunderstorms, advice to stay inside,
do not take shelter under trees, etc etc (what trees?)

to live in the free-floating islands called cities the (in)communicative drift of internets unraveling deep space dust against tranquility trellis baffling babylon with lucidity, calm, distance
-- and to have lived in the suburb of Berlin called Poznan or in the vague suburb of Poznan called Berlin -- and travel the mental wires between the vardun of the imaginary chiasmus, migratory paths once again between the two trees, then the next two trees between them, we will have hewn with memory the passage for the Rom all the way to Andalusia

   here I will insert, jarring the frame, the poem, written in May, 2019 rather,  en route to play the DYM Festival in Santok, near Gorzow Wielkopolski, where the poet-singer Papusza lived once, after the double-exile (forced as the Gypsies were into sedentary city boxes, Papusza  Papusza -- who was also subject of a kris & declared pikie, her crime based on trumped-up charges she revealed the "codex" of the Romani language to Polish authorities -- a betrayal of her people, they said, when it was actually Jerzy Ficowski who did it all on his own by publishing a glossary within a book of her poetry in his translation)


    leaving from the west side station, Dworzec Letni, Poznan, aka Kaiser Station, formerly used exclusively by nobility when Wilhelm II and retinue would visit for vacations

but this time it's not the coal-guzzler locomotive but the modern "tabour" & me with my band of invisible mental gypsies flying still under the radar of the blocks & dish antennae

driven into the interstitial internal exile, with our relations: deer, fox, beetles, crack in the cement bunkers where something vegetal stubborn & rupestral chucks up a stalk of life, moving onward to
(lines written between line of the text)  
of the wars behind the Festung shambles in rows, rubbles, where some lingering  
Gorzów Wielkopolska to the Polish Rome of the shackled down Gitanos
bitter vinegar imaginary of zyklon B some souls still burn with final eyes blinking

 escaping into submarine dreams open the hatch to new War for the MIC 
close my eyes again, wishing it away, and with the rush of the cinematic windows 
the train awakens me in the forest that itself walks like tall trees my Gypsies stand

fir and spruce waves and witness to the bulldozers

  if this is dreaming it's very oddly cursive after all typically

looking out over the raw earth gutted for developments, 
logs piled for commerce,

 civilization breezing impotently through my hair, running like a train

by the lakes we declare we will be beavers of our own trees

the keepers of the stillness of our own lakes we declare where the waves

reciting our fishy erudition & cacophonous genealogy
 
     full of wandering go the ripples, these are the poems of peoples cross-currents

everywhere in hydrogen gambling through several stars & we few frail meteorites

 fallen in a splash within hearing. the form of the ear that cups the ripples

otherwise it's only muteness that sings the overtone ventilation's hidden incantation

at the rebirth of the magnetosphere surrounding earth within the engine

  while the greater blackness of energy mouths the contrary mantra of inexistence

maintaining the maniacal threads of hypocritical civilizations & suicidal life-forms

self-contradicting in the hells personal dynamos -- 
LOOK! the forest says,

Look, we are looking through you with Pinocchio eyes every limb

 & trunk severed pine-eye, the forest full of laughing silence, 
doe-eyes of the mare,

the marbly stare of our totem, of the lynx, peering through the leaves, the living bush preening itself like a cat rolling over in snow, or the throw of dice making words stick by chance to the paper, to the mouth of the speakeruntil I am jolted awake just by equal chance as the train arrives in Santok
and as if by a dream command, reality ensues

      and now, 12 hours and several dance-floors later

there is no return train for another 4.5 hours,

on Sunday, with nothing open in the Polish Rome of the Gitanos

 I sit editing over my lonely mishap fantasy journals shredded with truths waiting in the extreme normalcy of Orlen petrol station drinking over-priced coffee because it's too cold and windy to sit outside. & of course there's plenty of good pop music to inspire lonely fantasies of escaping which I share with the workers in the station, the modern petrol station with iTunes and Spotify & my habit of making up lyrics "food for life, can you be, food for life, fool as I am, for life, blurted blue out of the sky split open by the darkness desiring to pair with it's own alternating opposite, it's witness

baby, baby can you be my soul? the song seems to sing

and I try to be some soul, I cry, what I'm trying to be

Go, go, go baby, do your crazy math

Hello new words, goodbye, goodbye
I will never speak you again

May 19, 20


 

 Onward, back to Berlin, the post-postwar Berlin,

    freedom to live is a split infinitive binary and moody joyeux born of one surround sound paramecial or piecemeal membrane bouncing the wizardry from oz to osmosis


  Berlin, Neukoln/Kreuzberg/ Mitte/ in transit, all over/ May 28 until June 2, notes scattered, 
a deck pharos-light cleopatrick tarot cards, fanned or passed to hundreds of hands, back and forth,
language itself, this weather-worn & dog-eared effect, scattered notes, gathered

the screen lights your face so people actually see you typing out
your type, your aura secondaire, bristling with notions, the screen
reveals the scene inverse Diana was peeping upon
the veil over your mind the hologram of burdened desire
the lady pulling on her socks and restoring
her shoes & re-shoeing her skirt hikes up revealing her thighs and calves

revealing my eyes listening to all the people speaking mixed baroquen English and Germangly Turkish and being unable to grasp
the idea that one cannot grasp it (elusive context) anyway no matter what language

and what literature is. seems. becomes. an old form replaced by cinema while in both

the kinks into truth are in the details accidentally espied
like the Turkish girls walking arm in arm or with their mother's aunts
one only imagines they speak about potential suitors
you have to stay with things, walk arm in arm, with immediacy

& like the Turkish girls, around another Ecke, walking arm in arm again, this time with their grandmother's aunts or those who have the new husband in the first years still with the slick dark brilliantine hair fades in the zoomed style some bit of name tagged in the nape of the neck, the friend pushing himself the pram in those first years before something takes him away, a narrative we don't know about but you have to stay with things there unfolding the moss & sweet williams and the whirring ambulance that scrape slash of the kebab as it turns this peppery odor creating the hunger you don't really have, smell the Jasmine flowers hear the suitcase wheels and the French girls on their bikes as they discuss this city they don't need to hate, these two fishermen on the edge of the canal, with poles tipped in florescent green lights like antennae over the canal the grunting of swans disturbed in the floating sleep by the techno live-coding camp party for the Maria Himmelfahrt, the same old drunken thuds and their cigarette buds in the scuro drifting like fireflies almost extinct in the forest Glen on the other side of the water rippling...

all along the Paul Lincke Ufer it's only dweebie forever foreigners that cruise the margins 

when its another day the rain falls on Sylvio's (camper) caravan, he's feeding his friend's dog -- epxlains how his droogie in hospital was hit by a car while drunk -- and heavily on the canal there are millions of driokwrs (droplets) to see but without any umbrella I run now, quasi drenched by inches miles of rain above me not in itself wet because water isn't wet yet and the Turkish girl in hijab the couple she is with they crouch under cover of green overhang, looking out on the water without any rush regrets or rumbles, waters is watching itself escape endlessly... watching the wave propagations, maybe ... the freedom, so random, so still 

-- still cool, still abiding -- everywhere around that energy of every single body being ready for summer to jam and the burst of pollen through the nasal spasm the bee and hoverfly the titmouse & sparrow wiggling through narrow cracks in the walls --

There are no things really. Things are clusters, maybe, aggregates, amalgam of elementals maybe -- but things, as we call them, remain illusory by-products. The body is an ecstasy of energy. Movement makes things into an ecstasy of energy. One must or need only open the door to feel this ecstasy of energy. And once one goes out or comes into this ecstasy there is nothing that stops anything from going everywhere. You may say the skin contains the body & limits it to its flesh but every fibre of muscle and nerve and bone tissue is in flight and moves in this ecstasy of energy that even sweeps through sleep wide awake with metamorphic intentions that brainwaves barely notice at all. How can this be? We must wonder but we don't think about it most of the time because we are all serving this flow of energy 24 on 7. Everything we do is engaged in furthering this cosmological rippling of waves running across one another. Who can calculate all the gazes and flashes if the eyes?

the club called Loophole and all the scratches on the walls, how many dervish fingers filing nails
determined graffitists anti-de-featists making freaky grooves... our concerts and conversations mix with the passage of various languages -- my favorite pre-occupation -- listening and dreaming narratives -- more potential than real mostly -- never-ending surf and collide, pull and rush --

**


when she throws her loving drunken arms
around you at midnight
when the last train
is still in sight
and only then
when we are sure
we will forget
we will indeed forget
that we have need
of even this moment
fed upon being unable
to resist loving blindly
any isolate cloud
drifting across the desert sky
at one of the Ringbahn stations
where they heap sands

into granular hills
to ship later to desert
construction sites
combining

corruption and design







now after hours delayed finally on the bus in mind I find the past
the scent of fresh wild rukola growing through grooves in the concretely at the Sudkreuz Berlin station pungent as the babble of voices of the Poles & Croatians, Georgians
drifting in the vape and cigarettes of permanent transition
which I wave away from my face in continual prayer
press freedom is being destroyed yes
but the less known freedom of other creatures
known even lesser, remains
collapsing into the liquid anthropocene
without any wave of recognition
perhaps for the better
to walk unknown

 *


freedom to live is a split infinitive binary and moody joyeux
born of one surround sound paramicial or piecemeal membrane
bouncing the wizardry from oz to osmosis. freedom is the bindweed
permaculturally specific to a fence that does not require vines but gets them anyway because of integrity of composition, staying power. freedom is one life to live within ever more moving leaves, concept set, venn hexes, carved on your life tree, swivelling blisters from bliss to blisters my sisters, you dangling blossoms, you thoughtless bastards. you -- made of many cells -- you -- organ within an invisible extension, none at all.and despite all that there is ever and anon a limit and withdrawal from the edge of freedom as if it's condition depended on drawing a line it should surpass by stepping first backwards before the leap into something largely nameless. this is the freedom of freedom: to not want nor care over much for itself. perhaps it is also vaguely some form of respect traversed by motionless. calm. position. vibration. scintillation. the awareness that there is nothing really absolutely necessary. whereas hunting or being hunted brings about a slavery and binding to a culture and it is capitalism that grows the false hungers. one freedom cobbles coattails cranial cases and  fabricates prams, basinets and identity preschools for many others. graduate into the perfectly polymorphous potentially polyamorous detachment from being unable to commit. the freedom not to do, to retain the right to do nothing, governs them all. very positively

*





when I ask myself...
have I met the eagle's eye?
i can say yes i have,
and the owl's and the lynx'
we are troubled somewhat
matters of survival
don't allow us to see
when other eyes, so plentifully,
surround us


distance comes in close,
little of the languages
known drifting between teeth

 huddle oviform
any longer than a pause

compounds of protozoans
entangle the blood
only briefly the sigh of the pestle
turns northern faces south


that's the smile
of the moon between
modernity & love


you can not kill
you can only buy
 

there is no sex
but a hexagon
making theft
into generosity


in the morning there will be
taciturn photons
under the palpebre
there is no better
word for them


my feathers, she said
they are dawns
making eyes
invisible

my colors woven
even through worms

the vision tore off
like a beak


faint echo reaches the fetus
from distant forest closing
the warm voices of the women, wooly
already heard the coyote
deer ears swivel
let us listen like a mountain
does it want to be seen?
does it want to be heard?
does the berry long to be eaten?
mind must quiet down to the empty
quieter than what I want to hear
beyond the threshold
you are telling me, a hand poised upon the door
mind quieter, as attention expands

.
we have re-labeled the streaked path of the glaciers
with indo-european promontories, tongues, 
cut up the parco into porco, carving out niches 
where hand-held units were once hand-holds
the brittle grip between precipices within caverns
the grotto a great ear into which dionysius'
trickle of the spring that summons the great chord
dashes into unicorns & harps the international garbage patch

.

The mixed cacophony of 3 or 4 competing sound systems is indescribable. the message is subtracted from the sum of the ungraspable -- "they are so contextually unconscious of what they are doing individually that they can't be competing/communicating with one another -- but the mind and ear trips and seeks endlessly to connect the things even as they drift away from any sense... so it's expanding the universe pushing time forward by chaos and collision toward the penultimate slowness of the long-lasting timeless but final vibration... The mixed cacophony of 3 or 4 competing sound systems is in fact indescribable and pervasive...

.

in the future fonts will be considered as visual timbre
awesome... i was even unaware... i have such a narrow habit with my devices, I can see how they do that, to screen, narrow, filter my perception. but that's mind-blowing, what you've written. seeing messages in another font, another cursive -- so like translation, in the personal sense (my mind is in a trans-translational crisis 25 on 9 days a week) -- but that the life of different languages, the modernity of a billion cellular floating icons of identity flapping their wings


Monday, July 8, 2019

Icharos, forest pheremones, chemical voices




Icharos *, forest pheromones,
chemical voices & musky patrin **
wandering in search of
my own ear-step

the silent attack of the pranic deer, the rain angel
weathering between cardinal numbers the knock
of the woodpecker's digital nods,
the channel, that would-be true channel,
 within the open air (the open ear) yet unopened
if the brain as a vehicle, legs of mind, or wings
 slumbering Garuda, won't unfold, the pineal
the excellence of a branch is
ever extending the breath of
what might be happening
between things when not aroused, directionless
as if the period of inaction
were an action itself, reverted


 after the a period of inaction, interaction reconvenes

as a way of stepping out
into itself again emerges
with peculiarly erotic
tendencies toward silence that
quench desires
leave things flowing, outward, uncontained
the traffic (of particles) without intervention
beckons as a sea of snared drums
going untouched in such
exceedingly hot weather
for days on end, not caring
to lift a finger, to find the row of fingers themselves












the mushroom is called the dead mole's fingers, ***
seems to contribute substances
disenabling other fungi
getting any grip on the surface of the wood
permitting this wood to harden,
be more resistant to decay
particularly more useful
such wood, for making violins
just an example
there are great ranges of structures
coming in between structures
much more is unknown
than is already known
much more remains so
at any particular time
and what if time
being such a determinant factor
in the history of knowing
is left out of the equation
or becomes less central
in the overall sense of
the dimensions of knowing
and not knowing
if you say you don't know
I'll probably touch the air
goodbye being hello
hello being waves
there was a whole lot of whispering
back and forth as Tesla called it
the back and forth
maybe forwards back
like Kantor said of the actor ****
walking through time's mirror
forwards back
in the autumn after
a heavy rain fall
leaves lay scattered on the ground
whereas in summer
this is not so
or what is the case
in spring in any case
this is much less so
when leaves are most supple
paradoxically resistant
or barely yet existing
it's all a matter of friction they say
let them fall where they may
when the neural network
seems most open for adaptation
a kind of apostasy
one can release beliefs and clinging
one can explore associations
install new constellations
tuning the brain
to the environmental evolving
acetylcholesterase, the enzyme ready for neural firing
Novalis thought
there could develop new organs
maybe more like aptitudes
maybe we'd better
think (more) like Novalis
except for the weird parts
of course

these trees wiry & reaching
as if they where some kind of antennae
stored me in their earth
and I am not at liberty
to tell you where
or why
 _______________________________/ /________________________

footnotes:

* Also spelled icaros, ikaros, from Quechca language. The songs in the ayahuascero traditions which refer to specific medicinal plants. The icaros is said to be given to the ayahuascero in a trance and by some extension the plant must give the song itself, sing the song, somehow, subtly. Hence the analogy to pheremones. This is a poem, after all; but follow your nose in the jungle and see where the gente de yaje lead you. Trust first of all the healing powers of nature.

** patrin are signs (crossed branches, a ribbon) that Romany people sometimes used to leave in the forest to inform other people who know the code about this or that contigent phenomenon.


*** dead mole's fingers A controversial name that is not universally accepted but since the poem was written in 2016, I am assuming I had some reason, even if merely poetic, for using this name. The blog site linked below has numerous picture of the same fungi fingers in various phases in divers places.

**** Tadeusz Kantor  Polish Dramaturge & Painter/Assemblage Artist




 

Friday, June 14, 2019

SYNCHRESIS/ what we think of as the local is a special condition of the random



                 SYNCHRESIS
      
   You suppose that you don't have to do anything at all to hear a dog barking and know that it is a dog barking. That is a big mistake. Because you do not realize what a tremendous effort you put forth... you inject into the sound you hear the most appropriate sound that can be drawn from all your remembrances... a perfect correspondence without the slightest discrepnancy..."
  Henri Bergson, The World of Dreams (1901)

 let us talk then to the animals, the wing'd aequatics,
the crustaceans then in the world of dreams, dear Yannick Dauby,
give them your ear under
the 21,000 leagues of the seizures of the seas,
 under that pressure, let the click
reverberate and surround our ignorance,
for the listening will be the means of the message
i want to hear everything i can hear
down to dew-drops the exhalation of frankincense
the doppler crab cricket lagooned
beneath that wall we call wreckage
shrimp pitches barked in harmonic
interference propagation
rendering pythagorean quantum
(for which he'd gone
into exile, for the sole idea of a ratio

I draw out the seed inside me so to speak, then crunch numbers
 "we the gods who alone created heaven only to tear it down"
  condensare (compression of thought.image.figure.word) is not a poet's elitist privilege, a resistance, from which, words withdraw into an acetate terminus, but the living phantome of the earth-memory, a framed fossil, minute  cosmological constant of culture, entrained in the dna the brain maintains, which culture also often avoids, as too delicate to mention
-- but by creating "agents" --- to explain it's crop failure from year to year -- it identifies sectors of cooperatives, quadrants, territories, root-systems that behave like rhizomes, rhizomes transsexuelles working along the street as roots, the fungus in the ear calling across the axis of cross-breezes -- here I am, here I am, I am here, where-ever I look, feel deeply, totemic trivia in seeming torpor of stone, obsidians, agates, the glass face cast into the colors of our children's eyes as reminders we are children of the earth
-- gods and counter gods are invented, stand as theorems fabricated from the plausible outcomes already given: economic universities, climatology, ethno-botany, marked marx, theories, spiders written to unwrite the algo-code, possible childhoods to come, civilizations, potential artificial intelligence that becomes organic, organic infiltrations of artificial intelligence, morphogenesis, morphic resonance, resonance regions, the dreamings of the Aboriginals, the ab-originals of which we the heamaotodes, the tiny people in the red vein of the soft white rocks called our bones, we throw up those flutes of temples at once under dark & lighter seas... 
 
 (one of Yannick's hydrophonic recordings... )
https://soundcloud.com/kalerne/181223-unkown-fish-haikou-harbour
for you will come a upon a person of another century wandering like a ghost insisting the stones and bamboos that Wen Fu cut do literally and actually speak and fishes pulse from some inner organ songs and you, in 2020, will say, yes, they do, we have grown ears called microphone insertibles, chips even between odd electrons, and this chap from the earlier centuries (what direction does the vector of time move in?) will say, no, no, no... this is not possible yet, you have heard nothing... and we will also have our doubts, being scientists... 
  Blake would say that there are some places in the Universe where the Fall has not occurred, the world has not turned upside down, and Eden still exists. Here Mankind is not governed by the rules of reason, stupid and strict, but by the heart and intuition. The people do not indulge in idle chatter, parading what they know, but create remarkable things by applying their imagination. The state ceases to impose the shackles of daily oppression, but helps people to realize their hopes and dreams. And Man is not just a cog in the system, not just playing a role, but a free Creature. That's what's been passing through my mind during my long illness, making my bed-rest almost a pleasure.
  
Sometimes I think that only the truly sick are healthy.  
--Olga Tokarczuk
.... meanwhile peoples we call the Assanges and Snowdens and then Mannings created to carry the burden, the whistle-blowers, make some version of information palpable as truth, become scapegoats, messengers, between layers of the social orders, but held in check, too dangerous, made non-sensical, deconstructed by disinformation, so that the commoner, the non-specialist, so-called, gives up trying to understand, can't fact check into the deep slumbering web or sift from the unconscious codes of selfish superstitions, the public demonizes or animalizes these hermetic figures, and, like the different orders of animal world, the spirit animals at the cross-roads, or the mad in asylums, assumed to be always incommunicado, by having no explicable language, falls between the cracks, and yet...these are silences gagged like a frackable landscape...
    coyotito escaped from the clutches of the deceitful 
and taught her people how to avoid mankind
-- so, i guess what i am on about here, is this, a plan for escape: 
what we think of as the local is a special condition of the random...  
and perhaps vice versa, in the sense that a seed contains an implementation pattern for exploration of an indefinite spurt bifurcation... and it's probably because "compression" itself is a modality, a kind of collapse, a pre-boom slump -- but cells go odd, some being round and rolling, while others grow a directional whip of stirring up waveforms, of creating life enzyme passages, beating patterns, drift compositions that attract or repel
we may actually understand birds very well
(a selection of primes in a sequence) that render(s) something as "intelligible"
spatial intelligence as sound "bounce" // resonance -- we pitch our sound to environment --
 which we now only think of as "viral"... which is not a bad way to think, because  as we examine these (dis)associative minutiae, these carbonic erotomanias... they replicate themselves (thought as virus, language as virus) AS IF the only means to study the generative principle itself, the spatialization of the genetic code
we can think of them as words, syntagms, memes, enyzmes at specific heats, 
particles, sub-particles, monads, molars--- but language, as an event of environment mirrored between the nomadic nasal and pharyngeal cavities,  yes, we have some work to do to liberate it's gasp, the cardiopulmonary textuality graphed --- look how the heart has been transformed:
       toroidal electromagnetic fractal resonator
   but we don't write enough in sounds... and we also don't speak at all levels of sounds (this is another cultural conditioning... saint francis and doctor (hilda) doolittle are not far again from aletheia in wonderland... we don't need to think in freudian/darwinian terms of being "lowered" to their level of speech... we must raise ourselves to theirs... but we will never explain ourselves precisely, it seems, we are gravelly shadows upon shadows twisted into ropes unraveling light we know nothing about
  speaking to the whales, life inside the whales
 https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science/talking-to-whales-180968698/?fbclid=IwAR1rTAWp-hoKZxt5m0Ff8Cb0iFJMDyGv12GpDXDfl5cqKhgJoU1Z7BnRYTQ
  "Synchresis is the forging between something one sees and something one hears - it is the mental fusion between a sound and a visual when these occur at exactly the same time. Synchresis is an acronym formed by telescoping together the two words synchronism and synthesis"
-- Michel Chion  
 

Saturday, May 25, 2019

Berlin Week/Haunted Houses Reviews/Updates

 Getting on the Flixbus, guitar and suitcase in hand, in a few hours I will be in Berlin again...
playing solo set at Madame Claude on May 27th 
    at 22:30 approximately...

and then solo at Loophole on May 29th
   the hour TBA. 

These sets will be composed of 4 different & subtly shifting sounding environments/
ambiences, with acoustic guitar woven throughout/plus the mysteries of the sound-table.

Then, at Tatwerk on June 1
(Hasenheide 9, Aufgang 1, 3. OG)
    I will be providing a somewhat different sound palette
in support of Ana Kavalis, in a project we rehearsed for
and previewed last month, called Somehow Standing.
 
 By way of introduction, click on this video :)
  
 
Two performances at 3pm and 6pm,
Space is rather limited for these performance so
reserve tickets ahead of time by writing to
info@tatwerk-berlin.de
or arrive early :)

looking forward to seeing as many old and new friends as possible, as ever... 

 in the past --------------  recently _______--------------__-----__________________
 
Muzykofilia Festival in Torun. Great times. Good musics. 
Wonderful audience.   Here's a video (audio only, of course) of my set direct from the board.  https://youtu.be/wSk-L9rjnQI
 
Photo: Agnieska Janik
 
 
Here's a very funny, creative review of my Haunted Houses album:  
 
    "I came for the house music, all dressed with my ravers outfit on and glowstick tightly squeezed in my hand… it must have been here somewhere I thought.. i mean, of course it’s an illegal house party and the directions are always a little vague, but still we should hear some booming beats to follow. But when going through all these abandoned houses over in this block, it slightly became apparent that this promised house party might be a misconception from our side… still trying to get out of here in order to find something else seemed to be more troublesome than expected." 

Read the full review(and link to the album) here

 
 
 I discovered that my album "Remote Provinces" released in 2009 on Aural Terrains label has now a representative track is posted on Youtube. I think it's sold out. But it's nice to hear a piece of it.   https://youtu.be/VlO5uJTMtmA
 
A few photos and then, it's time to say goodbye to blog-space and hit the road
 
Dom Artusa, Torun
Sunset, Santok, Dym Festival
Artist Jerzy Gąsiorek in Santok
Assemblage by Jerzy Gąsiorek, Santok
Ink on wood by Jeff Gburek
Karolina
Set up, Muzykofilia Festival, Torun