A few words
So here we are. Again. In the same but different place, where we belong.
It takes time for one to accept, and love, one’s fate.
We embrace ours and this is the place where we will share fragments of it, music, words, ideas.
Things and spirit. Things in spirit, macerations, old flames, new cuts, surgical and messy.
Multiples versions of our multiple personalities : a vaguely defined chaos.
[All edits are made with love not for profit. If you want your music removed, please let us know]
Master Of Ceremony
“Il eut été tout à fait faux de prétendre, cependant, que je passais aux yeux des autres pour une personne expressément hostile aux fêtes. Celles que je donnais moi-même m’avaient tout au contraire valu une certaine renommée. C’est à la faveur d’un hasard que j’avais il est organisé la première d’entre elles. J’avais en effet été invité à une fête qui, pour certaines raisons, n’avait pas pu avoir lieu, et, me sentant de l’audace, j’avais proposé que les réjouissances se tinssent en remplacement chez moi, c’est à dire dans la maison de mes parents. A ma stupéfaction, l’offre avait recueilli tout les suffrages. Stupéfait, je l’avais été au premier chef parce que je n’aurais jamais pu m’imaginer que prendrais part un jour à une fête comme celle-là. A l’époque du lycée, il était encore tenu pour évident que je ne devais pas considérer ce genre d’évènements comme une chose à laquelle il m’était fait obligation de participer. Et voilà qu’à présent, en raisons de circonstances défavorables -ou propices- , je me retrouvais à revêtir moi-même le costume de maître de cérémonie, et me demandais si j’allais être capable de réussir ce difficile examen, pour la plus grande satisfaction de tous”
Two Places At Once
"He was worn out by his lifelong need to be in two places at once: in his body and out of his body, on the bed and on the curtain pole, in the vein and in the barrel, one eye behind the eyepatch and one eye looking at the eyepatch, trying to stop observing by becoming unconscious, and then forced to observe the fringes of unconsciousness and make marges visible; cancelling every effort but spoiling apathy with restlessness; drawn to puns but repelled by the virus of ambiguity; inclined to divide sentencing in half, pivoting them on the qualification of a 'but', but longing to unwind his coiled tongue like a gecko's and catch a distant fly with unwavering skill; desperate to escape the self-subversion of irony and say what he really meant, but really meaning what only irony could convey."
E. St. A.
Objet à Saisir
"Saisir ce que les gens disent, par exemple, peut être un signe de complicité, ou vous désigner comme un zélateur de tel ou tel culte; ou indiquer que, si vous établissez une connivence avec quelqu'un, c'est pour éviter des expériences non souhaitées; ou que vous préférez l'entente au remaniement, ou encore au conflit. Dans ce contexte, cela pourrait équivaloir à ne pas toujours présumer qu'il y a un objet à saisir; vivre comme passant à côté de la question-avoir le courage de sa naïveté. Ne pas présumer (comme je crois que c'est le cas le plus souvent qu'on en a conscience) que le mot d'esprit-après le dessein providentiel de Dieu, si on est croyant, et après les lois de la nature-soit notre modèle le plus achevé de la façon dont les choses fonctionnent, particulièrement entre les gens. On pourrait dire, pour faire court, que la femme ou l'homme de vos rêves est la personne qui a la fois vous saisit et ne vous saisit pas de la façon dont vous préférez être saisi. C'est à dire quelqu'un qui ne se contente pas de vous traiter comme son jouet favori".
To The Addict Of Memory
"He thinks: I lie at a margin beyond which no man can see. But who have I been for 86 years, for all this time? So much still to be completed. The melancholy of the incomplete coincide with no certainties. I will not sleep easy in the dust. I join all that is ramshackle and tossed away. A cruel God to destroy the beauty of the song. My work, interrupted, marked ' Unfinished due to Death'. The mystery upon the streets is that the visible exists. Drains away the dancing mind. The panic-stricken skeleton cocks a bone ear. That is the sound of the senses wagging their wings to flee. Who partitioned me from me? I know that colout corresponds inexplicably to changes of mood, that there intuition beyond reason and that everything is plainly audible to the addict of memory."
The State of Exile
"May be exile was a kind of regression. At their age, they may well have been gainfully employed and bringing up children, yet here they were hiding behind school desks. The state of exile had brought all kinds of deeply suppressed childish fears to the surface. Suddenly the sight and touch of Mother were no more. It was like a nightmare. We could be in the street, in the market, on the beach and, wether through out faults or hers, our hands would disengage and Mother would vanish into thin air. We faced a world that seemed terrifyingly large and hostile. Gigantic shoes advanced menacingly towards us as we made our way through a jungle of human legs, our panic growing..."
Confusing Individual Performances
"I'm afraid I may begin to confuse the individual performances. So in my mind I erase the blackboard and cover it, as it were, with a film that's completely opaque and impenetrable. I take this off the board and listen to it crunch as I gather it into a ball. That is, after each performance is over, I erase the board, walk away from it, and mentally gather the film I used to cover the board. As I go on talking to the audience, I feel myself crumpling this film into a ball in my hands. Even so, when the next performance starts and I walk over to that blackboard, the numbers I had erased are liable to turn up again. If they alternate in a way that's even vaguely like the order in one of the previous performances, I might not catch myself in time and would read off the chart of numbers that had been written before."
An Inversion of the creation
"So it was that for a long time I lay upon my side through the night and thought my way into that singular event, the origin, and initial combination of nothing but elemental particles, which given only time, yielded an entire planet. It was only then that the formula "dust to dust" which appears so incontrovertibly terminal, does express also beginning, the first gathering of the planets in making of themselves, and that without knowing it, many had said what they did not know but certainly felt: in my beginning is my end, in my end is my beginning. Every little mote, we must admit, declares: I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last".
Lost is found
"Here, then, is the pattern in my carpet, the sense of eternal mysteries, the eternal beauty hidden beneath the crust of common and common place things, hidden and yet burning and glowing continually if you care to look with purged eyes [...] I think it's easier to discern the secret beauty and wonder and mystery in humble and common things than in the splendid and noble and storied things. And it is utterly true that he who cannot find wonder, mystery, awe, the sense of a new world and an undiscovered realm in the places by the Gray's Inn Road, will never find those secrets elsewhere, not in the heart of Africa, not in the fable hidden secret cities of Tibet. 'The matter of our work is everywhere present' wrote the old alchemists, and that is the truth. All the wonders lie within a stone's throw of Kings Cross Station."
"Un fait est certain: le fantôme - sous toutes ses formes est bien l'invention des vivants. Une invention, oui, dans le sens où elle doit objectiver, fût-ce sur le mode hallucinatoire, individuel ou collectif, la lacune qu'a créée en nous l'occultation d'une partie de la vie d'un objet aimé [...]. Ce ne sont pas les trépassés qui viennent hanter, mais les lacunes laissées en nous par les secrets des autres. Si le fantôme n'est pas lié à la perte d'un objet, il ne saurait être le fait d'un deuil manqué. Tel serait plutôt le cas du mélancolique ou de toutes les personnes qui portent une tombe en elles."
It's All a Blur
"S. did not attempt to deny that the experience of memory existed. However is entire body of work was predicated on the idea that what we experience as memories are in fact confabulations, artificial constructions of our own design built around sterile particles of retained experience that we attempt to make live again with infusions of imagination - much as the blacks and whites of old photographs are enhanced by the addition of colours or tints in attempt to add life to a frozen moment. S. believed that long-term memory was illusion but similarly questioned short-term or "immediate memory". On a number of occasion, he wrote, "there is only experience and its decay" but which ne meant to suggest that what we typically call short-term memory is, in fact, our experiencing the decay of an experience. Interestingly, however, he employed the term "true memory" to describe the process of decay, which he held was, in actuality, no memory at all".
The Heat Was On
"It can be read as an extended reflection on the conundrum of how it is possible to conceal something from ourselves, how a single entity can be simultaneously the one who is hiding something and the one whom the thing is hidden. This can only happen because the unity and transparency which we ordinarily ascribe to our minds are illusory. Gaps and inconsistencies are constitutive of what we are. What covers these lacunae are stories - which therefore possess their own agency. Memory is already a story, and when there are gas in memory, new stories must be confabulated to fill in the holes. But who is the author of these stories? The answer is that there is not so much an author as confabulatory process without any "one" behind it. This process isn't a pathological deviation from the norm, but the way in which identity ordinarily functions. However this functioning is usually obscured, and comes only into view when something goes wrong - when the stories fail, and the question about the machinery that produces them becomes unavoidable"
How The Other Half Lives
"Only half of us is sane: only part of us loves pleasures and the longer day of happiness, wants to live to our nineties and die in peace, in a house that we built, that shall shelter those who come after us. The other half of us is nearly mad. It prefer the disagreeable to the agreeable, loves pain and its darker night despair, and wants to die in a catastrophe that will set back life to its beginnings and leave nothing of our house save its blackened foundation".
Cheers then. And in the meantime, let's do some...
"They were not, our neighbours-to-be, the kind of families whom the break-up statistics comprehend. They were not the sort for adulterous upsets, for drunken fumbles, for spring folie, for subterfuge and lies. They were grounded infotec folk, hardware or software people, bright philistines, sharp and intelligent. They were mobile in their habits till their children fixed them; keen, pragmatic, willing to defer gratification; committed to their offspring, investing in them. Men and wives met each other halfway, gentle fathers and defined, energetic mothers. They were a new sort of people who didn't feel the need of history, personal or collective. They seemed to have sprung straight from a pot in Homebase, putting our glossy, polished leaves; they had parents, but they had them as weekend accessories, appearing on summer Sundays like their barbecue forks. In this part of the world each family unit runs like a model small business and the account, you may be sure, are squared at the end of each quarter; and if a quarter is wanted, a small measure is granted; and if a quarter is granted, the favour must be returned; and when the columns are totted they must balance, I think, husband to wife, wife to husband, with none of the shocking deficits that are incurred in the wilder parts of the world."
There are counter-measures to an overdose of blissful order: noise pollution, shoplifting of non-luxury goods, glue, letting your cat roam freely. Bless the ever-expanding street gangs, feral kids lead astray by irresponsible never-wanna-be adults. May they,-V. included,-all feel at home, at night, on empty streets.
"That unstoppable noise, that torrent of sound, was entirely of their own devising. XXX was helpless, powerless [...]This deluge of noise was filling the space where his stern sermon was supposed to be. He was like a man shouting into the face of the Niagara Falls. He was being drowned out. Because he was adept enough as a performer not to show a flicker of annoyance or anxiety, because the sound that was reverberating around the racecourse was filled with ecstasy and exaltation, it seemed like this was religious reverence" F.O'T.
Resurrected from a long gone London, from the dead almost, a ghost of empty discos. Although we live in the past for now, these are not the memory of a smile but an actual smile.
and there was a birth, the daughter of love and of hate, another soothing smile for those who can see.
Born in iniquity
“It should never be forgotten that, in the struggle between the nations, it is in the interest of each one of them that the other should be weakened by internal struggle. Hence it is always possible to pose the question of whether the parties exist by virtue of their own strength, as their own necessity, or whether rather they only exist to serve the interests of others.”
In remembrance of 15th of June 1988, un autre amour fou like only teenagers can get, a double time loop on ourselves.
I was in Paris again, another time, the same story repeated.
Well St-Derech Jaffa pt 2
"Am I the last poet left singing in Europe? Am I making song now for corpses and crows? I'm drowning in fire, in gunk, in the swamps,Imprisoned by yellow patched hours as they close.
I bite at my hours with the teeth of a beast by a mother's tear strengthened. Through teardrops I seeThe heart of a million rise forth from the bones of long-buried brothers in gallop toward me.
And I am that heart of a million, one chosen to guard the songs they left behind as they fell, and God, whose estates Man has put to the torch, goes hidden in me as the sun in a well.
Be open, my heart! Know that your hallowed hours shall bloom in posterity's mind. Check their fear, and lend all your strength unto their mighty will become in your sorrow, their herald,,their seer.
Make song from down under, make song from the swamps As long as a mother's tear lives, let the breeze Bear your voice to the ear of your bone-buried brethren to the ghetto in flames, to your folk overseas."
Well St-Derech Jaffa pt 1
"Time does not permit paradoxes. The Morphail theory specifically shows that once a time traveller has visited the future, he cannot return to the past for any length of time; similarly, any stay in the pas is limited, for the reason that if he did stay there, he could alter the course of the future and produce chaos. The Morphail effect is my term to describe an actual phenomenon, the fact that no-one has ever been able to move backwards in Time and remain in the past".
May be, may be not.
"The Horse in Motion is a series of cabinet cards by Eadweard Muybridge, including six cards that each show a sequential series of six to twelve "automatic electro-photographs" depicting the movement of a horse. Muybridge shot the photographs in June 1878. An additional card reprinted the single image of the horse "Occident" trotting at high speed, which had previously been published by Muybridge in 1877. Stanford also had an interest in art and science, in which he looked for illustration and for affirmation of his own ideas and observations about the horse's motions, but got frustrated with the lack of clarity on the subject. Years later, he explained: "I have for a long time entertained the opinion that the accepted theory of the relative positions of the feet of horses in rapid motion was erroneous".
This does not explain how you record horses at an accurate speed. The two below do not either.
First rave (e)motions. Big fish-little fish. This red herring could be Dutch but memories can betray you.
"The only true way to eat herring is vertically; with certified Netherlanders dangling the fish above their mouths as they take generous bites from this pickled treat"
Hence the French "gober" (to swallow whole) being slang for dropping a pill?
Doubtful but we are still allowed to dream.
more next week.
So we agree on the "where we belong". but blessed the ones who can precisely set themselves on the axis. They'll probably live forever in a very dull heaven.
Are we presenting elements of definition? May be. Though we'll then make it as we go, shuffling the deck of cards along.
Here's a x, a y and a z. some blurred coordinates in space and time.
X: turn of the century escapee, collision of long gone babble: trip hop, post punk. Lost words.
Y: the sound of now. fuzzed up disco simply tweaked. today reminding us of when party lines less mattered.
Z: late addition to the VU, encountered at the French old rose club. First extract from a lost 1995 album. May be we come back to it at some point.
This should set confusion nicely. More soon.