10 Minute Walk From Solitude
I didn't have wi-fi so I started to paint
Exit, stuttering & nebula
Qu'est-ce que ça peut faire tout ça
A Guide to Making a Genie
I/O. Without Enemies
w/ Marta Trektere
by Kaspars Groševs and Marta Trektere
Hear me out.
I see textures and retinal forms, yet it's not at all opposed to the smooth muzak playing in the background. My vape is running dry and it rains heavily. Dizzy and confused I merge with the surroundings. It's very unclear where all of this is going, but it should be way more exciting once we get on the other side. What other choice we have? Other than spinning until we fall. Like a dreidel. I'm not sure what the future holds, but it seems that the paper is still stronger than scissors and rock, no matter what you've been told. The past is all we have. Yet for some there is no stopping.
You will never swim, you will never see. I'll do both at the same time. You're half blind, I am half sane. So it makes us one. Please, forget about everything. And Vice Versa. Smooth insecurity that holds us together. All forces that are not mine. I will hold my breath. My eyes.. we drowned.
Reversed drum beats and a small knocking on a teapot of some sorts. I try to grasp an essence of the last year. I hear underlying velvet drone as if John Cale was still playing with La Monte Young. Hold B and F# for a long time, a really long time. As long as Kenny G.
The other day we ate at Himalayan place, sounds of some sacral music mixed with Scatman John, that seemed to be the essence of the whole meal. Paneer ambient. Rice drone. All that with a speech impediment.
There are too many images and too many sentences - one lifetime is not enough. Yet we produce and consume without a break. Day or night, we try to kick back.
Last night I dreamt about that laurel leaf garden in Venice. We were rowing through Venetian lagoon as I heard ''ты смотришь назад'' and now I reminisce. About детство, каприз, долженствование и зависимость. I listen without looking and so I see. I don't need much, really, but I have some preferences like major and minor thirds , tongue sandwiches and fully charged iPhone battery. Someday I'll meet Dorian Corey and we're going to throw the biggest ball New York has ever seen.
Have you heard Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 without C note? To me it was all the same, yet some said it sounded wrong and ugly. In 2001 or so I heard about an electronic musician who didn't use bass drum at all - googling doesn't help finding him. You can't shazam your memories. I guess it was just a mirage. A defect. Musical Instrument Digital Interface lets you remove anything you want and drive Patrick Bateman mad (as if he wasn't already cuckoo) by crippling the best of Genesis. In chapter one of the actual Genesis God invents the word "land" - I wonder what they called it before? And if a man comes from humus, can we eat it? Om. Listen to the Hieroglyphic Being. Nubian energy. It's one of those things where you don't see the beginning nor the end, just like a night at Berghain (not that I’ve ever been there).
Yesterday I had cabin fever. In a dentist's chair. One of those full moon things, you know.. Now, Tony, tell me all about it. I know all about cannibalism, I saw it on TV. Lots of ideas. As you can see I'm writing this in my Texas accent. From now I'm going to sleep less and write more. I heard that it's all just a matter of settling a habit of a writing. Everyday for six months. Abler. Until I feel the smell of failure. Over and out. Dead end is just the beginning.. ''and then I'll huff and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in.''
I just really don't want to continue.
Let this be a self help book of sorts. First, start with a line, than draw the rest of the thing. Remember Gary Gilmore's last words: Let's do it. Full of Jack Daniel he was ready for his execution. Swoosh! Five shots. Five was also unlucky number for John Lennon on December 8th, 1980. Should I be scared from the five icicles hanging from the roof of my house? You never know which one will trigger your senses. Chewed up industrial spikes just picked up a whisper from Damien Dubrovnik: The experiment is vital, even if that means you end up failing sometimes, even it means you end up with terribly embarrassing work. Again and again I stumble on pieces that fall into places. Words scattered around in a giant Legoland of meanings. Even if it turns out to be a Chinese bootleg it's still something - the inevitable poetry of RobertCop or Ninja Hero Rider Frog, for example. At a certain age it's all the same to you.
And then there are those days when nothing happens. Time stands still. Refresh. Refresh. F5. Lights are out. Listening to broken sounds from Fantazia merges decades - 1993 seems yesterday. I was bitten by a dog in 1993. The scar is still there if you need a proof. Past years can be played in any sequence, each year may be performed either side up, the instruction says. A bad year is a good material, good year is even better. Made to feel good.
''You're the devils gateway. "On account of your desert [i.e., punishment for sin, that is, death], even the Son of God had to die."
William James once said that the stream of our thought is like a river, on the whole easy simply flowing predominates, but at intervals an obstruction, a set-back, a log-jam occurs, stops the current, creates an eddy, and makes things move the other way.
''Hohohoho, Mister Finn, you're going to be Mister Finnagain! Comeday morm and, O, you're vine! Sendday's eve and, ah, you're vinegar! Hahahaha, Mister Funn, you're going to be fined again?''
He once dreamt that he was overpowered by some men who stretched him out on his back on the ground and drove a stake into the earth between his big toe and the next one. She once dreamt that her lips and the tip of her nose were tickled with a feather. She dreamt of a frightful form of torture: a mask made of pitch was placed on her face and then pulled off, so that took her skin off. I once dreamt about chauffeur that had made his way into my house and forced me to walk on a hot coal, then with a violent sound chauffeur’s car broke and my dream was torned throughoughtly. It was my alarm clock.
When I was 20 or so every night I tried to read this thick old book, words didn't fit in my head, it was all nebulous and vague. Paper smelled of time. I struggled. I knew someone was waiting next in line for the book. Do I remember anything at all from that time? No, but I have a sense that crawled up inside me that hasn't left since. Like the dark matter that swallowed agent Alex Krycek alive. The book had a dried leaf left in it by someone who perhaps struggled as much as I did. Let this be the epitaph...
With blueberry bubble gum colored tongue I said farewell to the last remains of black and white scenes from the free banana giving politician era. I welcomed fictional characters that occupied gardens and barely visible pathways. I welcomed inevitable descent into shattered blue glass of southern beaches. Amber and phosphorus. Retired soldiers and bilingual children. Spacemen from Congo and dancers from Alsace. I decided to invent myself and become a taxi driver (hi, Laura!). And while the next episodes were loading with a terrific rumbling noise I began to lose calculable bits of knowledge replacing it with running thoughts. Sipping wine from Mulhouse, listening to magnetic fields, mumbling in French, eating kebab from downstairs. Marcher dans l'inconnu. Now and never.
it's been a month, you know. sorry, i was somewhere else, but i was there, with you, all the time.
WATCH your STEP!
the sea air did us no good. they did not get along in the world. when they will have given rise to suspicions in his mind they will not be so well treated. you will not be so well treated, you understand..
we had better write to him. we would do nothing of the kind..
to hurt his feelings.
footsteps on the dancefloor, remind me, baby, of you
have it told you that i had made his mouth w a t e r
i am delighted you have got on in the world. please, do not hurt him and why don't you offer me something, now that you made my mouth w a t e r ?
I recently had a dream where I knew how to do circular breathing. I try it every now and then without any success. Than again - what’s the point, I don’t even own a saxophone. Water is another instrument I don’t know how to play. I once measured the limitations, I must have some photos lying around. When Matthew Herbert wrote down his personal contract for creating music, I realised I don’t need much, because there’s too much of everything. Sometimes even logic is excessive. Welcome contradictions. Shifts and slips. I suppose that’s the reason we’re writing in English. I don’t know what the word “conscientious” means - does the spell-check know that? We’re both in deep waters, blue, salty and pressurized. Krill swimming in International Klein Blue not being able to remember what they ate this morning or anything. Maritime art only cares about the surface, but what does the vampire squid have to say about it? Or the black swallower? Perhaps the bearded heart saw it coming, but who knows. Maybe my digestive system knows as it has consumed for years with no hesitation just like a spambot from Asia. Shrink this, enlarge that. As if we weren’t good enough.
Dust on my keyboard muffles the evening sun, it’s time to go. Making sense might be like a duck’s quacks echo. Or like a box of chocolates. Or...
While we chatted the seasons have changed. The playlist plays its last song. Your turn to fold the paper.
San Serriffe (2016)
San Serriffe (2016)
Guests are always welcome here. The smell of the skin is mixed with the boxwood and the nasal notes of palm trees. Safe from the pointed gaze of Google, the thirsty will find a cool tranquility. The phone is switched off, the background fills with the murmur of the aboriginal Flongs, the parrots repeat incomprehensible words. Cemented poetry here echoes like a distant song, verses coiling along the serpentine twists and turns. “Promenade of wine perfume opens slow bottle,” wrote Burroughs, probably unsuspecting that he is describing the serene San Serriffe evenings more precisely than a stenographer. Why should we keep repeating the same old words, if it is possible to invent new ones, an old Flong saying goes. “The land of opportunity” here gains a new interpretation, breaking the beams of light like a broken kaleidoscope. The air is muggy, a slow wind tosses washed-out hair, while atonal bird snorts pierce the ears. Following the horizon, an idle traveler may accidentally find himself in point Thirty, at the very end of the semicolon. Adorno wrote that “visually, the semicolon looks like a drooping mustache; I am even more aware of its gamey taste’. Let us stay with the semicolon at this moment.
Viesi šeit vienmēr tiek laipni gaidīti. Ādas smarža sajaucas ar bukšiem un palmu nazālo toni. Paglābušies no Google nomērķētā skatiena, izslāpušie te atradīs vēsu mieru. Telefons ir izslēgts, fonā skan iezemiešu flongu čalas, papagaiļi atkārto nesaprotamos vārdus. Iecementēta dzeja šeit skan kā tāla dziesma, kuras pantiņi izlocās pa serpentīnu virāžām. “Vīna parfīma promenāde atver lēnu pudeli,” rakstīja Borouzs, šķiet, nenojaušot, ka apraksta San Serriffes rēnos vakarus precīzāk par stenogrāfu. Kādēļ gan atkārtot vienus un tos pašus vārdus, ja iespējams izgudrot jaunus, teic sena flongu paruna. “Iespēju zeme” šeit iegūst jaunu nokrāsu, laužot saules starus kā salauzts kaleidoskops. Gaiss ir piedvindzis, lēns vējš pluina izbalējušos matus, ausīs duroties atonālām putnu sprauslām. Sekojot horizontam, dīkdienīgs klejotājs var nejauši attapties punktā Trīsdesmit, pašā semikola galā. Adorno rakstīja, ka “vizuāli semikols izskatās kā nokarājušās ūsas; vēl vairāk esmu uzmanīgs par tā riskanto garšu”. Paliksim pie semikola šajā brīdī.
INFINITE JOURNEY, INVISIBLE ISLAND (2016)
INFINITE JOURNEY, INVISIBLE ISLAND (2016)
I got your letter. Thanks a lot. I've been getting lots of sun. And lots of rest. It's really hot.
Days, I dive by the wreck. Nights, I swim in the blue lagoon. Always used to wonder who I'd bring to a desert island.
Days, I remember cities. Nights, I dream about a perfect place.
I saw a plane today flying low over the island. But my mind was somewhere else.
And if you ever get this letter.
Thinking of you.
Love and kisses.
(Laurie Anderson Blue Lagoon)
I got your letter from the Blue Lagoon House on the left coast of Daugava. How are the neighbours in the Lightning House and the Rain House? Are they from the Cloud House still walking with their noses in the clouds? Hardijs would have loved it. With the basements of Louvre soaking in water, I don't know where to escape the swelter. With the nine eyes of Google I walk on the island Capri till the end of Faro di Carena street, I notice the horizon and a scribble We are the best, fuck the rest. It will always be sunny here and somewhere in the distance Vesuvius will always be threatening. But this is not the right place. The tongue of Picabia becomes a snowy road before I get the chance to put the skis on. Somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, in hypnagogia, the ghost busters live, their feet crack like the bones of a running deer. Do we live in a place where noone ever gets to take photos of daily sights? Are we the indigenous Tahitians cunjured up by the fantasy of Gaugin, while filling the air with the smell of noa noa?
Have you met the man who sells the air for the crisp packets? I saw his profile recently – seems like Apollo could be traced in it but maybe my sight was foggy that day. Maybe I mixed him up with Guillaume Apollinaire with a blind man's glasses. But the blind man also has to see the sunrise in a Saturday morning when the ball comes to an end.
With some smoke in my face I am writing to you to find out how the bear in Ruhnu is doing. Seems like noone has seen him for a long time. You can see anything you desire in the shreds of camouflage. While dancing in your own head you will notice that within the musical notes of Coleman the memory revives swarming from Do to La and so on. And Stockhausen fumes about the stutter (but at least he is not interested into the reason why Richard D. James's hair ir long). I look for the bubbling of a parrot in the words like heaps of cement, remembering the time when Milli Vanilli were painters. Wow. Why do I always remember it? Perhaps because it seems like a good idea.
Seems like no day passes without wondering about what hides behind the invisible. I was late for the Le Géant flight to look at you from the distance, although we were not even an idea then. I was late for the flight in Rome to visit you in the clouds. I was always late. It appears to me that we will never meet.
NEBEIDZAMAIS CEĻOJUMS, NEREDZAMĀ SALA
Es saņēmu Tavu vēstuli. Liels paldies. Man tiek daudz saules un daudz miera. Ir ļoti karsts. Dienās es nirstu dzelmē, kur guļ nogrimušais kuģis. Naktīs es peldos zilajā līcī. Arvien mēdzu domāt par to, kurš gan tas būtu braucējs man līdzi uz vientuļo salu.
Dienās es atceros pilsētas. Naktīs es domāju par ideālo vietu.
Es redzēju lidmašīnu lidojam zemu pār salu. Bet manas domas bija citur.
Un ja Tu jel kad šo vēstuli saņemsi
Domājot par Tevi
Mīlu un skūpstu.
(Laurie Anderson Blue Lagoon Hardija Lediņa tulkojumā)
Es saņēmu Tavu vēstuli no Zilā Līča Mājas Daugavas kreisajā krastā. Kā veicas kaimiņiem Zibens Mājā un Lietus Mājā? Vai tie no Mākoņu Mājas joprojām staigā ar deguniem mākoņos? Hardijam tas būtu paticis. Kamēr Luvras pagrabi mirkst ūdenī, es nezinu, kur paglābties no tveices. Ar Google deviņām acīm es Kaprī salā aizeju līdz Faro di Carena ielas galam, ieraugu horizontu un skricelējumu We are the best, fuck the rest. Šeit vienmēr spīdēs saule un kaut kur tālumā draudēs Vezuvs. Bet šī nav īstā vieta. Pikabijas mēle paliek par sniegotu ceļu, pirms esmu paguvis uzvilkt slēpes. Starp nomodu un miegu, hipnagogijā, dzīvo spoku mednieki, kuru pēdas krakšķ kā skrienoša brieža kauli. Vai mēs dzīvojam tur, kur neviens nekad nenokļūst, lai nofotogrāfētu ikdienas ainas? Vai mēs esam Taiti iezemieši, kurus uzbūrusi Gogēna fantāzija, gaisā iesitoties noa noa smaržai?
Vai Tu esi saticis vīru, kurš tirgo gaisu čipšu pakām? Es nesen redzēju viņa profilu – šķiet, tajā varēja saskatīt Apollonu, bet varbūt todien mans skatiens bija apmiglojies. Varbūt es viņu sajaucu ar Gijomu Apolinēru akla vīra brillēs. Bet arī aklajam vīram ir jāredz saullēkts sestdienas rītā, beidzoties ballei.
Ar dūmiem sejā es rakstu Tev, lai uzzinātu, kā klājas lācim Roņu salā. Šķiet, sen neviens viņu nav redzējis. Kamuflāžas driskās vari saskatīt visu, ko iekāro. Dejojot savā galvā, tu pamanīsi, ka Koulmena notīs atdzīvojas atmiņa, spietojot no Do uz La, un tā tālāk. Un Štokhauzens niknojas par stostīšanos (bet vismaz viņu neinteresē, kadēļ Ričardam D. Džeimsam ir gari mati). Vārdos kā cementa blāķos es meklēju papagaiļa mutuļošanu, atceroties reizi, kad Milli Vanilli bija gleznotāji. Wow. Kādēļ gan es to vienmēr atceros? Iespējams, tādēļ, ka tā šķiet laba ideja.
Šķiet, ne diena nepaiet bez domām par to, kas slēpjas aiz neredzamā. Es nepaguvu uz Le Géant reisu, lai apskatītu Tevi no tālienes, lai arī toreiz mēs vēl nebijām pat ideja. Es nepaguvu uz lidmašīnu Romā, lai apciemotu Tevi mākoņos. Es vienmēr nokavēju. Šķiet, mēs tā arī nesatiksimies.
Fat Gnomes (Ears
of New Jersey)
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A Very Small Window
Demons and Ashes