Synaesthetic Monk's Blues

Phantasmagoria, magic lantern shows, spectacles without substance. They achieved complete sensory experiences through noise, incense, lightening, water. There may be a time when we'll attend Weather Theaters to recall the sensation of rain.

My Photo
Location: Ithaca, New York, United States

The main thing a musician would like to do, is to give a picture to the listener of the many wonderful things he knows of and senses in the universe... I'm using the insides of sounds to move around in a very subtle way which, I think, ends up being inevitable. I feel it's the only solution to that particular problem that I presented myself.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

I have traveled a long road in search of the fever dream. I lost the stars and the planets to an unyielding cosmos of electric lights and sparkling billboards. The road is always constant, the mysterious ingredient of some forgotten ceremony. The shapes are always blurred, the lone hitchhiker, or the unfinished gothic cathedral... the cars always fly by me, in some twisted linear fashion - their faces and colors change... yet always they appear ghostly - mechanical spirits of the road - questing for some final destination they will never reach.... looking through the fogged glass window - they appear to be in another world, not mine, strayed out of time and place...

All those who seek to find the last word of the mad prophet, follow me... I will lead you across the hot deserts of the pale night and fly you over the blue oceans... guide you through the shadowed alleys of pleasure and I will stay with you through the carnival of horrors... we must make for the shoreline... the glittering beaches... the hermit's cave...

Ride with me to chase the dawn's newborn light, and catch the weeping moon's falling tears...


Back and forth in time, we are stuck in this divine loop, a bit of old film played forwards and backwards - but say the magic words and cast the stones... you'll be free, follow me...

and then you see, the ghosts of you and me, unborn and blind, whispering behind the veil - they wait, forlorn in silence... the fading sound of some obscure piece of poetry the only residue, and the ringing of the telephone...

here at the crossroads of twilight, the ceremony begins... etched on the bark of an ancient oak - "rewind"

Thursday, December 08, 2005

A Brief Note on the Realm of the Senses

"We live together, we act on, and react to, one another; but always and in all circumstances we are by ourselves. The martyrs go hand in hand into the arena; they are crucified alone. Embraced, the lovers desperately try to fuse their insulated ecstasies into a single self-transcendence; in vain. By its very nature every embodied spirit is doomed to suffer and enjoy in solitude. Sensations, feelings, insights, fancies - all these are private and, except through symbols and at second hand, incommunicable.
We can pool information about our experiences, but never experiences themselves. From family to nation, every human group is a society of island universes."

Thursday, December 01, 2005

"O children of the night,
Who among you will run with the hunt?

Now night arrives with her purple legion
Retire now to your tents and dreams.
Tomorrow we enter the town of my birth
I want to be ready ... "