the pear and the fig

dreams of faces and names.

dark hair and pale skin. you were always out of reach, always one step beyond my own, but we both know it is i who has been elusive.

like a master painter, my dreams elicit colors from memory fragments and swirl them together. the unconscious mind is a blank canvas for all manner of masterpieces both beautiful and frightful. fear becomes a color; entire scenes once experienced but now only barely remembered become mere details of larger scenes that have never actually happened.

not while awake, anyway.

hiroshi yoshida - ten views of fuji: yoshida village

once again i find myself in a place of relative upheaval...

loss and regrowth, all over again.

kōshirō onchi - 湯上り(after the bath)

the biggest conclusion i have made from this is that i have been searching for the wrong result.

there isn't going to be a day when i wake up and magically have found my personal reason for being alive - at least not in the sense that i had been imagining. i was thinking that some career choice, or some other person, or any external factor was going to prove itself to be my knight in shining armor - the ultimate reason for my existence and therefore my reason to get up every day.

how i could be so naive i am not sure. but this is simply not the way.

the external will fail. it will crumble and fall apart. you cannot have as the cornerstone of your life - your life - something unpredictable, something outside of yourself.

my conclusion is that there is no grand overarching reason. there is no treasure of meaning that i have, out of incompetency, failed to find. the reason for being alive is that you are alive, and that is the reason. the meaning is in the act of existence itself. there is no real external pressure to be anything in particular, but there is an internal struggle to accept the simple complexity and complex simplicity and even simple simplicty of the concept - being unconditionally.

to will one's self to be despite external circumstances. to thrive and accept and flow and love.  

to be okay.

that is my reason.


always farewell

last night i had one of those dreams where i didn't want to wake up - i remember the complete absence of memory i had about reality (the real one), and for all intents and purposes the dream was all i had known or will ever know. to be woken up from such an experience is surely tragic. a loss occurred, and in its wake i find myself desperately grasping at threads with which i may weave myself back into the dream. here is my attempt at the reconstruction of that universe.

i will be back someday. perhaps even in wakefulness.

the sea lover (1897) - pompeo mariani

there were many people that i knew. people whose interests echoed mine, people who weren't so distant after all. i felt a kinship with them, a bond i do not usually feel. ideas were being taught, shared, and passed around. the atmosphere was one of joviality, like at a party, but it was the imparting of knowledge and the making of music that was keeping our spirits alive; not substances or drink.

feeling unusually content, i remember the paradise as one i wanted to never dissipate. however, before the dream ended, i was led on another journey, as though passing from one room to another in a house larger than can be known.

led onto a boat by someone else i knew, someone i trusted. they were concerned for me and for the knowledge i was receiving from the groups. they had fashioned for their personal use a boat out of wood that was dark and aged, yet strong - it also served as a house and, strangely enough, a makeshift library. small books, worn and faded yet once brightly-colored, lined the shelves located at the very center of what could also have been just a raft with a tiny roof. the books were primarily of western and european origin, but their contents dated back to ancient times. i remember scanning the titles, hoping to find an author with a name i could not pronounce or did not recognize. the one who had led me to their boat had begun to set sail, and along with them i was drifting away from that land of familiarity, a place i thought i would be able to grow and learn and thrive as an individual.

still, in my heart, i felt a thrill at being swept away by the promise of true knowledge, knowledge pre-selected for me...

it was soon after this that i woke up and, though i felt resentment at not being allowed to see where the boat would end up, i began to wonder what motivations were driving the one who led me away. what did they not want me to find out? what sorts of exclusive ideas did they want to fill my head? probably the exact ones which had led them in their particular journey to end up as they did - making rafts and sailing, independently, on waters in between foreign lands.


i realize that i cannot travel along the same path as another. i could spend enormous amounts of energy imitating the life of another by reading all of the same books or adopting the same beliefs but, alas, i may never be but me. i may never attain the spirit which resides inside another and only them, which instead of books is what actually extends from a person's life onto their surroundings, and this is how it absolutely must be and is. how could i have wanted anything different? how could i have believed that i would be happy being anything but myself?

like björk says, 

how could i be so immature?
to think he could replace
the missing elements in me,
how extremely lazy of me

lately i have been craving soft sounds, and the circular guitar found on this aerial m record, aerial m (1997), perfectly suits these desires.

this is the solo project of guitarist david pajo, famously from slint...

the dance

"the sun seemingly falls only to rise again. music, the laughter of children, intellectual conversation, is but the rising and falling of sound waves we interpret as vibration. ocean waves rise only to fall, withdraw, and rise again.

we fall, to the absolute bottom, only to pick ourselves back up.

it is the ebb and flow of life in its pure form.

but this motion is joined by one thing. my fingers are attached to hands attached to arms attached to my body which is governed by my brain, in the center. my fingers mirror each other on opposite sides of the body, but they are connected by a single source.

it is that which joins the polarity of rising and falling that gives us meaning. we give it names like God or consciousness or particles or life. vague words whose definition we debate, but are only arrows that point towards something that can never be articulated by language and mathematics.

rising and falling is the dance of something unlimited, microcosmic and macrocosmic, that we struggle to comprehend.

we dance while we search. without realizing we are searching, without realizing we are dancing. without realizing we are that which we are searching for."


perverted by language

i have not been able to take this album off of repeat for over two weeks.


why can i not resist the rhythmic ostinati, those somber, morose melodies, the plodding bass, the sensual waltzes, the sheer absurdity? the simplicity, the transcendental simplicity of it all?

you tell me.

the fall - perverted by language (1983)

"hexen definitive/strife knot" (peel session #6)


i actually hear a lot of coil and current 93 and sol invictus in this, some gang of four too. these influences are especially noticeable in the vocals of mark e. smith (r.i.p.) - i wonder if it's a purely british thing? the rambling madman style of speech-singing, the sheer brilliant lunacy of it all.

there's a rhythmic wonder to his vocals too - occasionally the guitar, bass, and drums will be tightly interlocked around an axis, and mark e. smith will intersperse his spoken word with such a rhythm that it acts as sparkling to the texture of the music as an extra high-hat or .... i don't quite know. 

basically, the rhythm of mark e. smith's vocals are so integral to the texture of the music that he is an instrument just as much as the guitar, bass, or drums.

of how many bands can this be said?