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.

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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, May 07, 2006

Arriving Somewhere, Not Here

Unknown faces and hostile authoritarian figures.
Fleeting streams of consiousness.
Black polished shoes and a crumpled suit, raised collar and black shades,
The tropical weather rapes him mercilessly...

Trapped in this glorified prison, this time capsule
Amongst the stock-brokers, the tourists, the businessmen, the pushers, the hustlers...
The Watcher is hopelessly out of place.
Destination anywhere. You never know what comes next.
He's confused - he's waiting for escape...
I meant he's trying to escape the wait.
The agonizing slow passage of time bothers him more than anything else.
The drunk and the junkie desperately seek shade and sanctuary, and the next fix.
The poet seeks solitude & cool, love, sex and death.

The sleek aircrafts take flight one after another out by the window.
The sight strikes him as hopelessly mundane
(as a child it would have filled him with wonder at how these massive machines could ever fly away into the blue skies)
He's a vampyre.
He's comforted by the soft velvet anonymity which binds everything here, an ancient sarcophagus;
The people, the planes, the cheap beer, the flashy designer accoutrements on display - sophisticated machines designed for the zombies which crawl around this vast temple.
It's beautiful... sublime...
Watching the ghosts busying themselves within this inanimate soup of glittering diseased jewels, he allows himself a smile.

Before he leaves,
He catches the whiff of an exotic perfume, and turns around a minute too late...
He misses that flashing chance at divinity again, salvation.

Bubbling golden spheres, black rubber skid marks on the tarmac, slow decayed tuna sandwiches;
all the signs show Kronos' unending trials and tortures - poor bastard is ripped apart into pieces everyday...
by all of us.
How does he deal with this trip?
Is it because he will ultimately sing that mysterious lullaby which puts us to the deep sleep?
Soft buzzing of flies and people, stale cigarettes and Elizabeth Arden -

Last words man:
Consumerism. Confusion. Chaos. Climax. Coma divine.
See you on the other side of morning...