“Invisible nearby sea. Inaudible. The entire surface under grass.”
– Samuel Beckett
The dark expanse of the cosmos. In the gaslit semidarkness: sparse, mineral-rich, craggy, moss-covered scrub. Inside the adobe walls, the domestic nocturnal environment reveals itself.
Lantern-like, a vortex of ghostly corpses. The cramped chaos contains a powerful sense of solidity, like a wet, disfigured insect. From wispy lines to dense deposits, the music unclothes itself. It dematerializes the world through its shrinking.
No time for unsparing introspections. No time for even spacetime. The sound of one hand clapping, a.k.a. The Big Bang. Optical sensations materialize as sonic debris, velvety, iridescent, favoring atmosphere over pure topographical reproduction. The vanity of the human desire to comprehend the infinite.
An almost abstract series of daubs, here, there. Melodies submerged in machinery. Pounding trances. Acid, acidly. Machines in machines in machines. Endlessly, an endlessness. But it does end. A so-called sound. A so-called album. Occurring in a dim pipe in a dim matrix. Inside, where it shouldn’t be. No hands, no face, just a shade-ridden scene.
Dimly-heard blurs, in the skull all gone. In the void, of long searching lost to longing, wishing something, the same nothing, a nothingness blurred. All there is when there are no words, but not wordlessly. Into the hell of it all, blurred.
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