1. |
gloaming
07:24
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I sleep and unsleep. Behind me, on the other side of where I’m lying down, the silence of the apartment touches infinity. I hear time fall, drop by drop, and not one drop that falls can be heard. My physical heart is physically oppressed by the memory – reduced to nothing – of all that has been or that I’ve been. I feel my head materially supported by the pillow in which it makes a valley. My skin and the skin of the pillowcase are like two people touching in the shadows. Even the ear on which I’m lying mathematically engraves itself on my brain. I blink with fatigue, and my eyelashes make an infinitesimal, inaudible sound against the felt whiteness of the pillow’s slope. I breathe, sighing, and my breathing happens – it isn’t mine. I suffer without feeling or thinking. The household clock, definitely located in the midst of the infinite, strikes the half hour, dry and void. Everything is so vast, so deep, so black and so cold! I pass times, I pass silences; formless worlds pass by me. Like a child of Mystery, a cock suddenly crows, unaware that it’s night-time. I can sleep, for it’s morning in me. And I feel my mouth smile, slightly displacing the soft pleats of the pillowcase pressed against my face. I can surrender to life, I can sleep, I can forget myself … And as incipient slumber wraps me in darkness, either I remember the cock that crowed, or it is the cock itself that crows a second time.
Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my imagination and its contents, my personality - it's all evaporating. I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else. What I'm attending here is a show with another set. And the show I'm attending is myself.
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2. |
sunset eyes
08:37
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("Je revues de toucher…")
I’d dream to touch the sadness of the world
the bog of unenchant upon the eaves
I’d dream the waters’ grave from I’d retrieve
the lonely channels of your mouth’s inter
I’ve felt to hand corruption’s caudal fur
the night of harrow wood to had elide
and saw this were the sinister you died
I limn it laughing sadness of the world
lucific crack in mad a thunder scree
your limit licking laugh long nudity
immense in splendor last illumine me
I saw your sad as if a charity
in radiant in night long morphic sheen
and tears the tomb of your infinity
("je mens…")
i lie
the universe is tacked
to my dement mendacities
immensity
and I
dement mendacities from one the next
the truth dies
I cry
that way truth lies
my confectionery head
the draws the cup of fever
is the suicide of truth
("le neant n’est que moi-meme…")
the nothingness is Selfsame me
the universe is tomb to me
the sun is solely death
my eyes blind lightning
hearts the sky
there thunderstorms ignites
in me
at the bottom of abysm
immensity of universe is death
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3. |
nothing
05:19
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“Yes it sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger. Then I see the sky different from what it is and the earth too takes on false colours. It looks like rest, it is not, I vanish happy in that alien light, which must have once been mine, I am willing to believe it, then the anguish of return, I won’t say where, I can’t, to absence perhaps, you must return, that’s all I know, it’s misery to stay, misery to go.”
“Let them be gone now, them and all the others, those I have used and those I have not used, give me back the pains I lent them and vanish, from my life, my memory, my terrors and shames. There, now there is no one here but me, no one wheels about me, no one comes toward me, no one has ever met anyone before my eyes, these creatures have never been, only I and this black void have ever been. And the sounds? No, all is silent. And the lights, on which I had set such store, must they too go out? Yes, out with them, there is no light here. No grey either, black is what I should have said. Nothing then but me, of which I know nothing, except that I have never uttered, and this black, of which I know nothing either, except that it is black, and empty. That then is what, since I have to speak, I shall speak of, until I need speak speak no more.”
“Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.”
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4. |
liminal
06:21
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“Where lies the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead to share with the worms that gather in the darkness and surround the world with the power of their lives while from the dimlit halls of other places forms that never were and never could be writhe for the impatience of the few who never saw what could have been.
In the black water with the sun shining at midnight,
those fruit shall come ripe and in the darkness of that which is golden shall split open to reveal the revelation of the
fatal softness in the earth. The shadows of the abyss are like the petals of a monstrous flower that shall blossom within the skull and expand the mind beyond what any man can bear, but whether it decays under the earth or above on green fields, or out to sea or in the very air, all shall come to revelation, and to revel, in the knowledge of the strangling fruit—and the hand of the sinner shall rejoice, for there is no sin in shadow or in light that the seeds of the dead cannot forgive. And there shall be in the planting in the shadows a grace and a mercy from which shall blossom dark flowers, and their teeth shall devour and sustain and herald the passing of an age. That which dies shall still know life in death for all that decays is not forgotten and reanimated it shall walk the world in the bliss of not-knowing. And then there shall be a fire that knows the naming of you, and in the presence of the strangling fruit, its dark flame shall acquire every part of you that remains.”
(From the Southern Reach Trilogy by Jeff Vandermeer)
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5. |
haunting
10:32
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Joy in the memory and in the moment, but always passed over. The eyes start to spread apart, to look back without turning the head. This lack of coherent sight stemming from the body defying itself. Devoured by intracranial pressure. “Where I am not is the place that I am myself”
Some days not able to escape bed. in the sheets, nerves run high. static amidst fiber, temporary or permanent, overwhelming, all of life a small space. Not a time, compressing everything. Compensation for immutability. Strip everything away and dress it back up, stroke a face and let the friction rub it away. When everything glows with just the same radiance. Pulling the sheets over me like a child scared in the night. Fear gestates but doesn’t resolve. Binocular vision failing, no point in looking anyway. I begin by remembering, the absences tell me where I am.
Always in between, there is no end just the knowledge of it. To reach complete equilibrium. Everything is fabricated, an aberration; Interacting all versions of you. It’s not being blood, flesh, skin, hair. Assume that eventually everything is purposeless and purely accidental.
Maybe it can happen to you, one always slips away into it. Corresponding to some physical event unseeable. Trying to unexpress myself through this. Life was but a feeling or a look at battle with me. Now, the void, emptiness fills everything. To be a ghost is to be traced, a copy with no fidelity, but immortality, the long arms of forever wrapped around me. Safe here amongst the grey coiling nothingness. I will never be found, rending learned by rote. All plaster, wood, and carpet, a manufactured breeze. Everything torn away is built back up, everything fabricated beaten down slowly. Life isn’t so different, simply accelerated aggregate stasis against this flatline.The spinning of the world, vagaries of winds. Orbits, eating of flesh, absorption of sun. All mimic the void, all approximate nothing. Small imitations on a downward trend toward home. Where the heart is, for the haunting. One always slips away into it.
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Vera Cruise Minneapolis, Minnesota
I also make music at painritualmn.bandcamp.com
fuck fascism
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