mattress wonders where the epiphanies of yesterday have gone to. he remembers being electrified by many a concept. then various and sundry activities. then he remembers waking up, that pressure from the work-life collapsing his options for expression, and going through a routine set of motions that start the day most efficiently and comprehensively. fortunately, work has ended and that compression can be sloughed off for a few sequential days. would that weekends could be anytime.
he needs to clap the colander over the fleeting mouse of curiosity, to be able to control and focus it enough to serve his purposes. he had it trained well during college; it wouldn't wisp away unless he gave it license to. there was at the time so much new information, so many electrical currents flowing his way, that it was easy to find a capacitance to store and juggle them around for a time. prototyping personality. but now the information isn't flowing so freely, or at least not as forcibly. it does not stream across the ground in grids as it once did. people carry around their buckets of it, sloshing to and fro, and perhaps you can get a cupful from your neighbor if you ask a correct (but polite!) combination of questions to spark their discourse. people all have their passions...but it is more difficult than one would assume, to get someone to peel off a surface later and express something deeper.
and it can be the same sometimes with someone in their own presence; that is, alone. sometimes it is easier to just be surface; sometimes the depths have some notable spots that could stand to be avoided for a time. sometimes retreating into oneself entails denying a large portion of what you would consider to be your 'own' personality...there are myriad reasons why that might be the case. but, one has to be able to remember themselves after the fact, has to leave breadcrumbs to follow back. retracing one's own footsteps can be so rewarding~ to return with a fresh mind to places and problems that once had no escape, no freedom. the interest in them is still there...it seems now like at certain times in one's life, the recipe changes to express different flavors more poignantly. whereas once m was 20% immersed in literature, he is now 8%. the 12% differential is currently being occupied in other activities and areas of thought. it's a good thing, even though he can certainly say that he misses the degree of focus that he used to have in the area. certainly he will try to fade back into the habit, that's really what the point of this post is. but he is not saddened that his perspectives shifted noticeably for a few months or years. one could probably actually consider him mentally unstable had they not changed - the human mind needs to be refreshed with unique experience; it thrives on newness, life, just like any other organism on the planet.
in particular, though, one element that he wishes to recapture is the philosophical, burn, for lack of a better word. the searing deconstruction of the mind, due to a new and unstable idea. for whatever reason, matches has always been fascinated with the building of a person, the wandering through experiences, the tearing and the reconstitution of the mind. it comes back stronger, it does....'builds character', he would say were he calvin's pop. he thinks his is ready for crisp challenges, new pages of words constructing sentences constructing thoughts, new vertigoes to nudge him into unexpected orbital patterns. he was saying: for whatever reason, his mind has always throttled all the more fully when his current conception of the state of things in the world, the universe, was in absolute jeopardy...when the framework, the structure that his ideas of the world hung upon, was being cracked and hammered at. you can think that curious if you will....but there is an almost unbearable, bursting freedom that smiles directly at you in such times.
so, he will go on the task of recapturing, grasshopper-hunting as it were, and even attempt to take a concept or two further once he re-enlightens himself. if that's possible. he is very excited for the next year of his life...including tomorrow~ which is the most crucial point, of course.
" no more of that sittin' in a slump and uh,
no more of that coulda-woulda-shoulda junk
no more of that waiting for the inspiration, innovation
or a green light--now begin
no more of that lettin' all your time pass
no more petty illusions of the mindless
it's time to expand, power from within, you're takin' over this dominion
green light, now begin"
~ blackalicious - green light: now begin
peace ; )
March 28, 2008
March 21, 2008
glowing screen / familiar faces
hooray for the iranian new year....matches has today off, courtesy of it~
here is a riotously enjoyable piece of media, via the onion:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OGxdgNJ_lZM
and chuckles aside, this recent trend of wariness towards technology certainly has some fair ground to it. no, m isn't frightened by the thought of robot police trammeling down his door to arrest him for being 100% biological (yet). that future is a distant one, he thinks. aside, it is strangely disconcerting to realize a future prospect that you will likely not live to see. in the case of pollution, or resource misuse, it is fair to say that we will probably not feel the full effects of these problems in our lifetime (not their full implications, at least...obviously things are already heating up). but we have a responsibility to our future generations, don't we? even though it's possible that we won't feel the squeeze of the problems that we are potentially creating, we still feel the need to mitigate them for our next generation. that's not just a courtesy....that's a faith. a faith in humanity, in the gravity and importance of our existence, our ideas, our ability to thrive and achieve beyond what has been seen thus far.
but how dependent, in other avenues, have we started to become? technology drives us; it facilitates communication and networking, research and learning, exposure to the previously unexposed. it has so much value, and yet usually lacks that final drawing power of reality whereby one is fully immersed in the event, the thought, the scene....whatever it may be. it can only transmit on certain levels, certain frequencies, and our ears are trained for so much more. so, we could call it simply a resource; we could belittle it and make it secondary. this is probably the most common perspective upon the matter, that there is an inescapable artificiality inherent in these transmissions.
this is the way that mattress is used to contemplating the matter. yet simultaneously, he feels a little bit hypocritical for resigning it to such a small stage....the reason being that it tends to play such a large role in his life. whether he would admit it or not, most of the people that he really cares about are only reachable through secondary communications. most of the exposure to the distant world that he glides upon is due to the efforts of others, using this marred medium. is the internet an art? is it around to ensnare certain aspects, amplifying a sense or two and discarding the rest for all practical purposes? matches has been awake and alive for the most part of to-day, but perhaps a third or one half of that time has been spent in inadvertent worship of this glowing laptop screen (for what is worship at its basest than a commitment of time and energy). that said, technology is beginning to encapsulate a lot of his waking time.
is it purely by faculty of pride, then, that he wishes for technology to attain some more validity than he currently assigns to it? he could well be hiking right now. isn't. perhaps in thirty~ but you see, this is a dilemma....he does not want to admit that perhaps he is not 'living' fully, simply because perhaps too much time is being allocated to the vast applications of technology. think of it as a large online game....one creates a new identity, explores a new space. but it cannot possibly have all the intricacies of real time, spent in real life. it can be considered an escape, a sheltered and mitigated application of the mind. for the most part, it is looked down upon by the common person...this 'online' life, this breaking of ties with actual sensations in favor of virtually-induced ones. note; this certainly is not meant to rip upon the casual gamer....m knows that there can be a lot of justification and legitimate worth found in such occupations of time, even though he may not choose them much for himself and his time, anymore. no, rather this is to brace against the rift of the real vs. the virtual; to expose the sides of the schism a bit more so that the light can trickle down and help us to make decisions more clearly.
if both his internet (lappy) and his phone (cellular) were simultaneously to be thieved from him in the midst of a crowded streetcar, his first sensation would probably be an anger, a distaste about the loss of financial investment on things that he will most certainly need to make purchase of again. this sensation would be first, but not foremost. no, over the course of the next three or so hours, he imagines that he would start to feel his thoughts slipping toward that intangible arena of virtual communication....knowing that based upon an extension of time, he would certainly be missing out on some fleeting communication from someone he knows, somewhere distant. anyone, it does not matter whom. his hand would twitch, and in moments of distraction would trail its way into his pockets in search of a phone to dispatch a text message on. he would not find it, and would again be frustrated....but this time it would feel much more like the loss of touch, than the loss of an apple pie-slice of paycheck. it would grow and grow, immeasurably (for who can gauge such intangibles without some sort of ECG analysis); it would stack to heights of unbearability. it would drive him to a momentary sort of madness until he retained his grip on that actual, fairer and more complex side of life....the operatic immersion of reality.
you see the point, he presumes. there is a duality being experienced in life....some degree of time being spent engaged in an intangible tornado, swirling with code, words, and mathematics. should this be thought of like sleep (to some people! matches certainly finds merit in sleep and, more to the point, dreams), a 1/3 reduction of the amount of time that we have alive? m wonders, if he ceased with the trifling communications that he has with most people online (not all, some are very interesting) whether or not they would still be just as good of friends. chances are that they would, they would just have to wait for actual face-time to catch up and engage in the classic witty banter. he finds that most of his true friends are just as cordial and engaging as always, no matter how much time has slipped since he last spoke to them. so perhaps he could completely do away with that time online, and be the better for it~ tough to say with any certainty, as he does enjoy keeping up with his peoples.
he supposes it will all be sorted out in time. it's just a question of current application that is bothersome~
here is a riotously enjoyable piece of media, via the onion:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OGxdgNJ_lZM
and chuckles aside, this recent trend of wariness towards technology certainly has some fair ground to it. no, m isn't frightened by the thought of robot police trammeling down his door to arrest him for being 100% biological (yet). that future is a distant one, he thinks. aside, it is strangely disconcerting to realize a future prospect that you will likely not live to see. in the case of pollution, or resource misuse, it is fair to say that we will probably not feel the full effects of these problems in our lifetime (not their full implications, at least...obviously things are already heating up). but we have a responsibility to our future generations, don't we? even though it's possible that we won't feel the squeeze of the problems that we are potentially creating, we still feel the need to mitigate them for our next generation. that's not just a courtesy....that's a faith. a faith in humanity, in the gravity and importance of our existence, our ideas, our ability to thrive and achieve beyond what has been seen thus far.
but how dependent, in other avenues, have we started to become? technology drives us; it facilitates communication and networking, research and learning, exposure to the previously unexposed. it has so much value, and yet usually lacks that final drawing power of reality whereby one is fully immersed in the event, the thought, the scene....whatever it may be. it can only transmit on certain levels, certain frequencies, and our ears are trained for so much more. so, we could call it simply a resource; we could belittle it and make it secondary. this is probably the most common perspective upon the matter, that there is an inescapable artificiality inherent in these transmissions.
this is the way that mattress is used to contemplating the matter. yet simultaneously, he feels a little bit hypocritical for resigning it to such a small stage....the reason being that it tends to play such a large role in his life. whether he would admit it or not, most of the people that he really cares about are only reachable through secondary communications. most of the exposure to the distant world that he glides upon is due to the efforts of others, using this marred medium. is the internet an art? is it around to ensnare certain aspects, amplifying a sense or two and discarding the rest for all practical purposes? matches has been awake and alive for the most part of to-day, but perhaps a third or one half of that time has been spent in inadvertent worship of this glowing laptop screen (for what is worship at its basest than a commitment of time and energy). that said, technology is beginning to encapsulate a lot of his waking time.
is it purely by faculty of pride, then, that he wishes for technology to attain some more validity than he currently assigns to it? he could well be hiking right now. isn't. perhaps in thirty~ but you see, this is a dilemma....he does not want to admit that perhaps he is not 'living' fully, simply because perhaps too much time is being allocated to the vast applications of technology. think of it as a large online game....one creates a new identity, explores a new space. but it cannot possibly have all the intricacies of real time, spent in real life. it can be considered an escape, a sheltered and mitigated application of the mind. for the most part, it is looked down upon by the common person...this 'online' life, this breaking of ties with actual sensations in favor of virtually-induced ones. note; this certainly is not meant to rip upon the casual gamer....m knows that there can be a lot of justification and legitimate worth found in such occupations of time, even though he may not choose them much for himself and his time, anymore. no, rather this is to brace against the rift of the real vs. the virtual; to expose the sides of the schism a bit more so that the light can trickle down and help us to make decisions more clearly.
if both his internet (lappy) and his phone (cellular) were simultaneously to be thieved from him in the midst of a crowded streetcar, his first sensation would probably be an anger, a distaste about the loss of financial investment on things that he will most certainly need to make purchase of again. this sensation would be first, but not foremost. no, over the course of the next three or so hours, he imagines that he would start to feel his thoughts slipping toward that intangible arena of virtual communication....knowing that based upon an extension of time, he would certainly be missing out on some fleeting communication from someone he knows, somewhere distant. anyone, it does not matter whom. his hand would twitch, and in moments of distraction would trail its way into his pockets in search of a phone to dispatch a text message on. he would not find it, and would again be frustrated....but this time it would feel much more like the loss of touch, than the loss of an apple pie-slice of paycheck. it would grow and grow, immeasurably (for who can gauge such intangibles without some sort of ECG analysis); it would stack to heights of unbearability. it would drive him to a momentary sort of madness until he retained his grip on that actual, fairer and more complex side of life....the operatic immersion of reality.
you see the point, he presumes. there is a duality being experienced in life....some degree of time being spent engaged in an intangible tornado, swirling with code, words, and mathematics. should this be thought of like sleep (to some people! matches certainly finds merit in sleep and, more to the point, dreams), a 1/3 reduction of the amount of time that we have alive? m wonders, if he ceased with the trifling communications that he has with most people online (not all, some are very interesting) whether or not they would still be just as good of friends. chances are that they would, they would just have to wait for actual face-time to catch up and engage in the classic witty banter. he finds that most of his true friends are just as cordial and engaging as always, no matter how much time has slipped since he last spoke to them. so perhaps he could completely do away with that time online, and be the better for it~ tough to say with any certainty, as he does enjoy keeping up with his peoples.
he supposes it will all be sorted out in time. it's just a question of current application that is bothersome~
March 18, 2008
papyrus
on the trials of writing:
matches wants to take the scraps of himself that have experienced, that are saturated, and billow and billow them into lofty clouds, colorful when the sun of the eye hits them. float them like kites, running alongside a hill and chasing momentum. he wants them like water particles, each reflecting back some stance or perspective of the reader in some way or another, each mirroring or sieving some self-same sediment collection in the basins of thought pools. he wants people to find, by way of random foray into flipped pages, some shells, sand-dollars, and shards of sea-glass moving at scintillating speeds but polished so as to be solid, silken bubbles, brushing against the ridges of a fingerprint. if a thought, a reflection of one, can be possessed...how interesting a phenomenon! how noble to be an object swathed in memory, to be inert matter and to interact with the feathered fingers of a dawning perception. matapult (a recent domino name; snicker) can think of no better purpose for a tree (aside from the serenity of a natural existence, combing winds in the rainforest) than to be sheared into a piece of paper....not one to be casually timestamped and submitted to the HR department, but rather one that engages the colors of the mind....a painting, a poem; a paper-mache donkey, an origami hippopotamus. to be inbued, flagged, commissioned with the development of a mind must surely be an aspiration of even the most hard-hearted of the rocks.
it is admittedly odd to be typing such a treatise on a keyboard and internet connection, but surely these optic fibers and plastics and magnets came from some location other than the factories, initially.
matches wants to take the scraps of himself that have experienced, that are saturated, and billow and billow them into lofty clouds, colorful when the sun of the eye hits them. float them like kites, running alongside a hill and chasing momentum. he wants them like water particles, each reflecting back some stance or perspective of the reader in some way or another, each mirroring or sieving some self-same sediment collection in the basins of thought pools. he wants people to find, by way of random foray into flipped pages, some shells, sand-dollars, and shards of sea-glass moving at scintillating speeds but polished so as to be solid, silken bubbles, brushing against the ridges of a fingerprint. if a thought, a reflection of one, can be possessed...how interesting a phenomenon! how noble to be an object swathed in memory, to be inert matter and to interact with the feathered fingers of a dawning perception. matapult (a recent domino name; snicker) can think of no better purpose for a tree (aside from the serenity of a natural existence, combing winds in the rainforest) than to be sheared into a piece of paper....not one to be casually timestamped and submitted to the HR department, but rather one that engages the colors of the mind....a painting, a poem; a paper-mache donkey, an origami hippopotamus. to be inbued, flagged, commissioned with the development of a mind must surely be an aspiration of even the most hard-hearted of the rocks.
it is admittedly odd to be typing such a treatise on a keyboard and internet connection, but surely these optic fibers and plastics and magnets came from some location other than the factories, initially.
March 14, 2008
shadows of ourselves
"you should write about some of the things hiding in the back of your mind."
so it is. matches is rather bad at hiding his emotions...he has never been the type to distance his mind from his feelings and be able to truck on through an entire day without feeling those tensions pulling and pushing upon his insides. it always seems like the stomach, doesn't it? that sinking, depth-charge of a feeling, which can quite poetically be accompanied by a large scoobydactylic (scooby-doo-esque) swallow, a throaty bass note that plunges down into the darkness (like, zoiks, scoob). it does feel like dropping a large weight into the body of water that composes your consciousness~ being chased by some phantom with a chill touch and the happiness-wraithing vacuum of a dementor (from those most popular of novels).
but those times, those aren't really the back of the mind, are they? those are dispersed like a packet of sugar in iced tea; swirling around and clinging to large clumps of concentrated coldness. which could be said to be a problem of matches'....the inability to set aside these personal concerns and focus on the present. but those still are not the sediment that must be scraped from the back; the forcefully ejected thoughts that clutter the floor of one's unconsciousness. no, those feelings are all too conscious, and thus they are a world apart. how does one dip into the well of the unconscious, scavenging for sparklies in dark caves with no light to bring out their natural form?
normally in such a case, antimatter would find the best recommendation to be, meditation. letting all the thoughts breeze through and past you, without judging them, and then finding out what remained once all the winds had died down. but there's no time for that....no time! at least not at the moment, because this was supposed to be the beginnings of an epic writing session in which some sort of storyline would be conceived. must. not. stop. he would rather keep his fingers flying on the keyboard; hashing through these thoughts like an explorer ravaging the jungle with various bladed and sun-flickering tools. these thoughts, archaeological, are ancient relics...only to be navigated to by way of savage temples and winding corridors. what a word, corridor.
here; there is one. death. the most-and-least revered of thoughts; the grand poobah of them all. every so often, when m is drifting cozily off to sleep, this thought will rush upon him like michael turner trying to prove his mettle whilst the big man is out with a fracture. obscure, admittedly. frenzied, is the point. it causes a panic, a peril; matches wants none of the peril (but can't he have just a little peril? no, it is too perilous). for some reason, sleep occasions the downing of mental defenses. this can be observed in any dream, where one imagines oneself to be an age that is already bygone. mattress, age 8 or 9, is a common dream theme...and it is not a jarring situation, not a dislodging thought, not in the fuzziest. foggiest? certainly it is foggy. that's the thing, though; it seems just as likely to the sleepy mind. there is no connection between reality and the dreamscape. and because of this, the rational approach that we would normally have toward many things, well....it absolutely vanishes.
pondering death when awake is heavy, but not overwhelming. in dreams, it brandishes its full intimidation...it becomes present, apparent, saturating. dreams where death is impending due to anything, but most notably sickness such as cancer, are ab-solutely terrifying. they slice right to the heart of the matter, they expose complacency for what it is...a stance that is only based upon its remoteness from the actual matter at hand. you, in a hospital bed; that is the reality of the matter. and that is what is most striking about death. you just never know~ there is an assumption on m's part, probably on most people's part, that they will live to be 80. it seems a safe assumption, does it not? it can disappear, like *that*.
the timeline is also an interesting facet of this idea residue...the idea that we have a few cups-full of life to spend, and that the quality changes over time. does it improve? does it degrade? ask matches in twenty years. but even now, sometimes a demon comes to him in the night and whispers to him that he is already a quarter-of-a-century old. he is only 5 years away from being 30. 30! that seems quite a benchmark, doesn't it? things, up to this point, have been assumed to be figured out once one is thirty. now the mark nears, and the mystery shows no signs of drying up~ if anything, it complexifies. if we can admit that to be a word, because spell-check has placed a red line beneath it. he knows the point comes through; stop bringing him down, spell-check.
he wonders about the quality of the timeline, from an aged perspective that he has yet to attain. are these really the 'golden' years? should he be more, less disreputable and carefree during them? what of after thirty? after fifty? will he still really want to cling to life with this same tenacity, when he is seventy? will he wish for it to end, if he is ninety? there are some devastating consequences of long life; most notable the deterioration of the body and the mind, and the, unmapping, to be kind, of friends around the globe. the death of a significant other, of 50 years, would seem impossible to endure. the passing of all of one's friends would be excruciating. how much can the heart, the spirit, take? what would the world be like, to a mind handicapped by something like alzheimer's? these things are perpetual mysteries, and they do not really gain power enough to touch us until either we or someone close to us experiences them.
so they get shoved back into the clutter of the mind, and there they lie in wait. there; that is one thought lurking in the shady corners~ have with it what you will.
so it is. matches is rather bad at hiding his emotions...he has never been the type to distance his mind from his feelings and be able to truck on through an entire day without feeling those tensions pulling and pushing upon his insides. it always seems like the stomach, doesn't it? that sinking, depth-charge of a feeling, which can quite poetically be accompanied by a large scoobydactylic (scooby-doo-esque) swallow, a throaty bass note that plunges down into the darkness (like, zoiks, scoob). it does feel like dropping a large weight into the body of water that composes your consciousness~ being chased by some phantom with a chill touch and the happiness-wraithing vacuum of a dementor (from those most popular of novels).
but those times, those aren't really the back of the mind, are they? those are dispersed like a packet of sugar in iced tea; swirling around and clinging to large clumps of concentrated coldness. which could be said to be a problem of matches'....the inability to set aside these personal concerns and focus on the present. but those still are not the sediment that must be scraped from the back; the forcefully ejected thoughts that clutter the floor of one's unconsciousness. no, those feelings are all too conscious, and thus they are a world apart. how does one dip into the well of the unconscious, scavenging for sparklies in dark caves with no light to bring out their natural form?
normally in such a case, antimatter would find the best recommendation to be, meditation. letting all the thoughts breeze through and past you, without judging them, and then finding out what remained once all the winds had died down. but there's no time for that....no time! at least not at the moment, because this was supposed to be the beginnings of an epic writing session in which some sort of storyline would be conceived. must. not. stop. he would rather keep his fingers flying on the keyboard; hashing through these thoughts like an explorer ravaging the jungle with various bladed and sun-flickering tools. these thoughts, archaeological, are ancient relics...only to be navigated to by way of savage temples and winding corridors. what a word, corridor.
here; there is one. death. the most-and-least revered of thoughts; the grand poobah of them all. every so often, when m is drifting cozily off to sleep, this thought will rush upon him like michael turner trying to prove his mettle whilst the big man is out with a fracture. obscure, admittedly. frenzied, is the point. it causes a panic, a peril; matches wants none of the peril (but can't he have just a little peril? no, it is too perilous). for some reason, sleep occasions the downing of mental defenses. this can be observed in any dream, where one imagines oneself to be an age that is already bygone. mattress, age 8 or 9, is a common dream theme...and it is not a jarring situation, not a dislodging thought, not in the fuzziest. foggiest? certainly it is foggy. that's the thing, though; it seems just as likely to the sleepy mind. there is no connection between reality and the dreamscape. and because of this, the rational approach that we would normally have toward many things, well....it absolutely vanishes.
pondering death when awake is heavy, but not overwhelming. in dreams, it brandishes its full intimidation...it becomes present, apparent, saturating. dreams where death is impending due to anything, but most notably sickness such as cancer, are ab-solutely terrifying. they slice right to the heart of the matter, they expose complacency for what it is...a stance that is only based upon its remoteness from the actual matter at hand. you, in a hospital bed; that is the reality of the matter. and that is what is most striking about death. you just never know~ there is an assumption on m's part, probably on most people's part, that they will live to be 80. it seems a safe assumption, does it not? it can disappear, like *that*.
the timeline is also an interesting facet of this idea residue...the idea that we have a few cups-full of life to spend, and that the quality changes over time. does it improve? does it degrade? ask matches in twenty years. but even now, sometimes a demon comes to him in the night and whispers to him that he is already a quarter-of-a-century old. he is only 5 years away from being 30. 30! that seems quite a benchmark, doesn't it? things, up to this point, have been assumed to be figured out once one is thirty. now the mark nears, and the mystery shows no signs of drying up~ if anything, it complexifies. if we can admit that to be a word, because spell-check has placed a red line beneath it. he knows the point comes through; stop bringing him down, spell-check.
he wonders about the quality of the timeline, from an aged perspective that he has yet to attain. are these really the 'golden' years? should he be more, less disreputable and carefree during them? what of after thirty? after fifty? will he still really want to cling to life with this same tenacity, when he is seventy? will he wish for it to end, if he is ninety? there are some devastating consequences of long life; most notable the deterioration of the body and the mind, and the, unmapping, to be kind, of friends around the globe. the death of a significant other, of 50 years, would seem impossible to endure. the passing of all of one's friends would be excruciating. how much can the heart, the spirit, take? what would the world be like, to a mind handicapped by something like alzheimer's? these things are perpetual mysteries, and they do not really gain power enough to touch us until either we or someone close to us experiences them.
so they get shoved back into the clutter of the mind, and there they lie in wait. there; that is one thought lurking in the shady corners~ have with it what you will.
March 12, 2008
♫♪♫♪♫
this dj at the camellia lounge is kickin' out the jazz jams...it is top notch at the very least, and believe me, we're not talking bottom-rung here. allow a backwards recount of the playlist: lauren hill, tribe called quest, LMNO, digable planets, moka only, and it all began with bahamadia. ooh, del is coming on. matches is diggin', audibly.
not too many people take their music seriously these days; have you noticed? does it upset you? aside from the pop that dominates the radio waves, and apparently people 'vote' for in whatever manner that happens, mattress doesn't get the sense that humans are really engaging with their albums anymore. everything is track shuffle...everything is disjointed. there is no time taken in this day and age for real musical appreciation; a consciousness sitting down solely with the intention of being swept away by a series of melodies and rhythms. there is no commitment to music, no dashing home through the rain, grinning sugary, grainy smiles in anticipation of putting on a simon and garfunkel LP and sinking into a bean-bag chair. matches misses the bean-bag chair. o where have you gone.
so there is a phenomenon of people not taking their music seriously. it has become auxiliary, secondary; it only gets a nod of recognition when combined with other activities. and granted, one of the seductions of notes are that they slide so silkily into anything you want to mix them up with....what else do you know that can be appropriate at any time, any place? those things are the transcendent things, like smiles for instance. if music can be compared with smiles, then perhaps it really has achieved that pillar of 'emotion' that it so richly deserves. that classiest of classifications, most minute of magnifying-glass meritoriousness. but m gets the slinking feeling that he is in the minority with this opinion~
do you not command your full attention upon a book, upon a painting, upon a sculpture? music is nestled firmly into these ranks, and to top it off with a cherry, it is the most transitory of them all. a note bursts into existence, hangs in the air for a moment like a lingering scent, and is gone. not to return ever in precisely the same form, if you want to take into account the smallest of acoustic deviations (which is admittedly a little snooty; play it as it lies). this phantom thing should require more attention if anything. and it is fine to treat it casually; obviously there are certain genres which are catered specifically towards that end. the main problem with most popular music is that it just doesn't have the architecture to hold up under the weight of a heavy listen~ and that's alright, but it certainly also perpetuates this cycle of music that isn't up to snuff. it is disappointing, nonetheless, when music for non-thinking people eclipses the popularity of a thinker's music. what statements can we make about the general population based off of that? best perhaps not to venture into hostile waters.
tonight, take an album that has stood the test of time and commit to it...even if only for a few tracks. let it shred your mind and paper-mache it into whatever its purpose decides itself to be within you~ it's one of the most exquisite joys ; )
not too many people take their music seriously these days; have you noticed? does it upset you? aside from the pop that dominates the radio waves, and apparently people 'vote' for in whatever manner that happens, mattress doesn't get the sense that humans are really engaging with their albums anymore. everything is track shuffle...everything is disjointed. there is no time taken in this day and age for real musical appreciation; a consciousness sitting down solely with the intention of being swept away by a series of melodies and rhythms. there is no commitment to music, no dashing home through the rain, grinning sugary, grainy smiles in anticipation of putting on a simon and garfunkel LP and sinking into a bean-bag chair. matches misses the bean-bag chair. o where have you gone.
so there is a phenomenon of people not taking their music seriously. it has become auxiliary, secondary; it only gets a nod of recognition when combined with other activities. and granted, one of the seductions of notes are that they slide so silkily into anything you want to mix them up with....what else do you know that can be appropriate at any time, any place? those things are the transcendent things, like smiles for instance. if music can be compared with smiles, then perhaps it really has achieved that pillar of 'emotion' that it so richly deserves. that classiest of classifications, most minute of magnifying-glass meritoriousness. but m gets the slinking feeling that he is in the minority with this opinion~
do you not command your full attention upon a book, upon a painting, upon a sculpture? music is nestled firmly into these ranks, and to top it off with a cherry, it is the most transitory of them all. a note bursts into existence, hangs in the air for a moment like a lingering scent, and is gone. not to return ever in precisely the same form, if you want to take into account the smallest of acoustic deviations (which is admittedly a little snooty; play it as it lies). this phantom thing should require more attention if anything. and it is fine to treat it casually; obviously there are certain genres which are catered specifically towards that end. the main problem with most popular music is that it just doesn't have the architecture to hold up under the weight of a heavy listen~ and that's alright, but it certainly also perpetuates this cycle of music that isn't up to snuff. it is disappointing, nonetheless, when music for non-thinking people eclipses the popularity of a thinker's music. what statements can we make about the general population based off of that? best perhaps not to venture into hostile waters.
tonight, take an album that has stood the test of time and commit to it...even if only for a few tracks. let it shred your mind and paper-mache it into whatever its purpose decides itself to be within you~ it's one of the most exquisite joys ; )
March 10, 2008
footprint
whata whata weekend.
it is funny how simple it is to overlook the path to happiness...how easy it is to become caught up in things outside of yourself, to divide your consciousness so many whichways and never really commit to any individual moment. m is at a very turbulent time in his life, when things are getting praised one day and tossed out the next, and it is difficult to get a grasp on oneself when the sands are shifting under your feet.
it seems like sometimes, the consciousness gets completely pulled from the body; extracted towards other things, other concerns, other ideas, other futures. scattered....feels like distance. how hard to maintain, when everything is remote. what happens when the you that you used to be, does not translate into the next frame? how do you feel about yourself? do you like chocolate-chip-mint ice cream in that hour? do you turn right or left, when resolve is whittled down to a whim? these are things that one trusts to a back-story for, a running dialogue to order the points of chaos into constellations.
"made a note of it
did you write it on your hand
put a name on it
to help you understand
well do you see
the futures holidays are for me
just let me know
where we go after the fall"
~ zero 7 - futures
in a new space, however, a distant place, the strands connecting you to those old ideas are stretched thinner and thinner; finally they are down to a filament that you can easily break with if you have no reason to hold on. they might even be nuisances, and you may be eager to brush them off. it is an interesting state of affairs.
the weekend was mentioned foremost for sound reason....it has helped matches to archaeologically recover some semblance of his past, an echo that bounces warmly off of this new city's corridors. having good, old friends in a place that has allowed you the freedom of choice regarding your personality is a profound experience. it allows you to recapture old decisions, old feelings, but now with a measured and compassionate perspective towards the basics of what and why and how. it is invigorating to be re-exposed to oneself, and also to play with, to bend and contort the notions of what someone thinks they may have known. life is chaotic, and thus it will always necessitate choice....a freedom that can be either cozily comforting or tormentingly frightening.
"how curiously one is changed by the addition, even at a distance, of a friend. how useful an office one's friends perform when they recall us. yet how painful to be recalled, to be mitigated, to have one's self adulterated, mixed up, become part of another. as he approaches i become not myself but neville mixed with somebody - with whom? - with bernard? yes, it is bernard, and it is to bernard that i shall put the question, who am i?"
~ virginia woolf - the waves
but, a useful office is indeed what matches' friends have performed this very weekend. they have given him the greatest of birthday presents - the past, present, and future. in his opinion, one of the greatest resources is the past...it is a deep well to draw strength and hope from. it is undeniable and locketed away, nestled layers deep and closer to the heart than the outside infringement of the day. it is not there to be feared; fearing the past would be a silly and wholly un-darwinian concept. it is to be understood; to be learned from. it aids us in our aims. and though we may glance at a faded picture and think, 'why would i possibly have worn that monstrosity?", the real question to be chiseled at is, "what self can this stir within me, which has lain dormant and yet has value?" never be embarrassed for your past~ it sticks up for you when all other support is vanished, like the truest of friends. it founds you; and to be misplaced from one's foundations is surely a sign of a degree of loss.
anyway, this weekend was brilliant in multiple respects. but most importantly, it has allowed antimatter to bring up a cool, clear bucket of himself to dip his hands in, to draw reflection and insight from and to douse the fires of his eccentricities (those that are negative, at least; he has a whole bushel of 'tricities). the places one can draw strength from...they really do depend on the personality, don't they? it seems that it can be found anywhere, it just takes the patience and precision to craft it into a reflection.
it is funny how simple it is to overlook the path to happiness...how easy it is to become caught up in things outside of yourself, to divide your consciousness so many whichways and never really commit to any individual moment. m is at a very turbulent time in his life, when things are getting praised one day and tossed out the next, and it is difficult to get a grasp on oneself when the sands are shifting under your feet.
it seems like sometimes, the consciousness gets completely pulled from the body; extracted towards other things, other concerns, other ideas, other futures. scattered....feels like distance. how hard to maintain, when everything is remote. what happens when the you that you used to be, does not translate into the next frame? how do you feel about yourself? do you like chocolate-chip-mint ice cream in that hour? do you turn right or left, when resolve is whittled down to a whim? these are things that one trusts to a back-story for, a running dialogue to order the points of chaos into constellations.
"made a note of it
did you write it on your hand
put a name on it
to help you understand
well do you see
the futures holidays are for me
just let me know
where we go after the fall"
~ zero 7 - futures
in a new space, however, a distant place, the strands connecting you to those old ideas are stretched thinner and thinner; finally they are down to a filament that you can easily break with if you have no reason to hold on. they might even be nuisances, and you may be eager to brush them off. it is an interesting state of affairs.
the weekend was mentioned foremost for sound reason....it has helped matches to archaeologically recover some semblance of his past, an echo that bounces warmly off of this new city's corridors. having good, old friends in a place that has allowed you the freedom of choice regarding your personality is a profound experience. it allows you to recapture old decisions, old feelings, but now with a measured and compassionate perspective towards the basics of what and why and how. it is invigorating to be re-exposed to oneself, and also to play with, to bend and contort the notions of what someone thinks they may have known. life is chaotic, and thus it will always necessitate choice....a freedom that can be either cozily comforting or tormentingly frightening.
"how curiously one is changed by the addition, even at a distance, of a friend. how useful an office one's friends perform when they recall us. yet how painful to be recalled, to be mitigated, to have one's self adulterated, mixed up, become part of another. as he approaches i become not myself but neville mixed with somebody - with whom? - with bernard? yes, it is bernard, and it is to bernard that i shall put the question, who am i?"
~ virginia woolf - the waves
but, a useful office is indeed what matches' friends have performed this very weekend. they have given him the greatest of birthday presents - the past, present, and future. in his opinion, one of the greatest resources is the past...it is a deep well to draw strength and hope from. it is undeniable and locketed away, nestled layers deep and closer to the heart than the outside infringement of the day. it is not there to be feared; fearing the past would be a silly and wholly un-darwinian concept. it is to be understood; to be learned from. it aids us in our aims. and though we may glance at a faded picture and think, 'why would i possibly have worn that monstrosity?", the real question to be chiseled at is, "what self can this stir within me, which has lain dormant and yet has value?" never be embarrassed for your past~ it sticks up for you when all other support is vanished, like the truest of friends. it founds you; and to be misplaced from one's foundations is surely a sign of a degree of loss.
anyway, this weekend was brilliant in multiple respects. but most importantly, it has allowed antimatter to bring up a cool, clear bucket of himself to dip his hands in, to draw reflection and insight from and to douse the fires of his eccentricities (those that are negative, at least; he has a whole bushel of 'tricities). the places one can draw strength from...they really do depend on the personality, don't they? it seems that it can be found anywhere, it just takes the patience and precision to craft it into a reflection.
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