there are quiet places also in the mind, he said meditatively. but we build bandstands and factories on them. deliberately – to put a stop to the quietness. …all the thoughts, all the preoccupations in my head – round and round, continually …what’s it for? what’s it all for? to put an end to the quiet, to break it up and disperse it, to pretend at any cost that it isn’t there.
so said old huxley.
this? fair feart of hush too.
it’s harsh, aesthetically. first side intense like cancer shriek. a senseless trigger twitches and migraine violence flares, white hot and absolute. a willful fidelity, recorded in cave or ribcage. head pressed to amplifiers, a psychic squall, and hippocampal disorientation takes hold.
it’s cacaphony, like huxley’s bandstand and factory, but one that’s as much contradictory as complimentary. scraping away at foolish notions of quietude, constructing a harsh (de)composed rumble, it’s a liminal thing. ray brassier’s anomalous zones of interference, where
noise: silence: oblivion: body: mind: are intertwined and indistinguishable, if not arguably the same thing.
decay and disease are often beautiful, like the pearly tear of the shellfish and the hectic glow of consumption.
so said old thoreau.
this idea of things becoming other things. the shell, decayed. the body, disposable. untitled. disappearing. it’s factory AND zen garden. flesh AND virus. dementia AND muscle memory.
make of the implied putrefaction what you will. i’m choosing the transformational thoughts of munch – the apocalypse as an unveiling rather than an end:
from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and i am in them and that is eternity
consider it a becoming.
the flip’s an inexorable tonal mutation. buried: claustrophobic. voices as (oc)cult smears. spectral creaks and moans swollen a hundred fold but still subsumed by the roar of a broken thing fixing itself, or dying trying. then then then teasing out odd harmonics, a struggle to find a voice, a state.
astrally maimed. transcendentally fucked. it’s the corporeal, wired. electricity and ectoplasm. coaxial phantoms and dna spirals. a haunting or trepanation or immolation.
all descends into feedback and when you think there’s no coming back it finally relents. breathing space. panic calms. there is revelation here. beta waves align. some celestial light cuts through the murk and fug. third eye detuned and blanketed. bones crack and knit and crack and knit.
there are things we won’t see now, can’t hear again, a constant destruction / construction and nothing but a constant sense of what was and will be and i’m alright with that.