I awaken to cobweb pendulum
most untimely clock
my breath locomotes lackadaisical loads upon its sway
play to this beat silken strangerPithecanthropus Erectus opus to the bobbing toe
erecting us erecting me to the music
Romeo is Bleeding, so dance a little more
ignoring not calves in motion
hubris hubris hubering
Hora Decubitus ehya Eric?
Dolphy Dolphy dolphin aflutters past viewthe body, my body a shaking mushroom
flinging Mingus spores as fungus do
but not you silken one
I declare sodden through with spider glue
you lack any semblance of rhythm
so then adieu dance partner
adieu adieu
chiiiiiiiiiiiiiiils aaaaahhhhmmmmmmmmmooooooooo through me
this man blind dead to the world
courses seeps through living veins
a pain heaped slides strained
this ghost this spirit
Have you ever come upon a sense of musical preposterousness - frown furrowed nearly into nose (or alternatively mouth going so lax that you jolt back into awareness due to drool slopping down lips) – yes a question so meticulous has very little questioning value, it is in proper sense me telling you of my experience in a circumlocutory manner … still still, it happened and Howard Levy caused it. I saw him playing a harmonica with a contrapuntal approach (think of archaic piano – Bach sort of stuff – single bass notes hopping around as harmony rather than chords whilst the right hand aflickers upon the high end). You … can do that on a harmonica!!?
I feel this sort of amazement with Carnival of Souls. Not from its technical aspect, but its ability to … well it's a musical fireplace, ready for cozying up to, smile ablazing. So here you go....
(Oh and the aside to Howard Levy is applicable, he's the harmonica player here, along with Eugene Friesen on cello and Glen Velez percussion.)
And for all the chills and shivers coursing through my body from the dissonance, I never felt any sense of fear. WHY!!!? Why would these composers disregard the most poignant aspect of their music?
But then comes Toru Takemitsu, and my new love for horror music. I'm serious about this … treat it like a horror film. Sit in a dark room, turn up the volume, and enjoy the fright. The western orchestration churns out a fair few petrifying moments, but that's just the shrapnel from the Shakuhachi and Biwa duel. In awe I hear Takemitsu employ the entirety of the Shakuhachi's timbrel might – and yes all of those strange air sounds come from this one instrument.
Inner turmoil eases into an babbling urgency - frothing like a crab gurgled swaddling garment of bubbles which encompasses consciousness; each opus's pellucid glint hidden from sight, appearing for fleeting instants: each moment's realization of non-reality smudged by a globule's traipsing movement. Wariness? Ever present. Ever grasping for attention. Yet ever obscured into a nonentity. Ever clawing to escape from its dream imposed dungeon.
Mountainside parking spots. A gradient so steep, the parked cars caressing peripheral vision, creating a looming corridor up the hill, groan under gravity's strain; the incessant pull, pull, pull ebbs at their resolution. Onward towards beach. Onward to the dilapidated wreck. How does the decrepit house draw us near, we travelers blissfully unaware of the journey's true means of locomotion? The beach glistens ahead. Just an alley remains. And dogs
wwwwwwowowohurryhurryoooooowoooorunrunrunrunoowooowooooomoveyouimbeciles
woooooowoooffffhhhrhrhrhhrmmmrhmrhmaccckkkkghhwooooowoowofoof.
Sand cemetery. Wood beams chafed coarse by the swirling wisps of sand – little centimeter tall tornadoes twist round their torpid companions, endeavoring for each excruciatingly elongated ellipse to grind the planks further into their gritty graves. White paint flakes hang like jagged hangnails on the drowning fence, though no grubby teenager's gob shall tear the protrusions bare, instead, like a wave of hands limping 'round an elementary school's basketball floor, the wind's languorous lift coddles out the sole sense of movement in this barren scene. Vacant lot. Vacant beach. Vacant sea. And indeed specters we are, suspended in motion, susceptible to the dreamweaver's macabre undercurrent; and with one swift inward gulp, the looming sea-side mansion yanks gaze into Her deplorable wreck.
Sand permeates even here. Islands of objects. Bookcase. Vase. Diaphonous haze – so pristine, no, no, no, too pristine. The surrounding atmosphere beyond rarefied: not even alloted an environ of air, we too become islands, awaiting a frozen froufrou fate.
Loiter here, among the austere, and from the rear, you'll feel her leer.
Woman is this your house?
The moment's glimpse faded, escape thwarted, entranced now by preoccupation. Hammered windchime harp. Well go at it, reach for your ax, let each heave intoxicate perception further, unleash flurries of inaccessible notes – no matter the tones hide from ear, no matter the mallets move of extraneous volition, 'tis but a normal occurrence, 'tis but a trivial matter of incoherence, pour away existence into focus, pour without heed to the GREY PASSERBY she's nothing to note, nothing but AGE INCARNATE. Dizzy, hypnotize, enrapture, submit to her command. The witch's house gloom now stains the room, brewin', and stewin' the tincture of doom, no dust in this flew, nor midnight dew, start anew, ha! you bafoon, group baboon, estranged loon, cry a croon, fresco festoons,
ululate undulating utterance:
TARRY NO MORE
FRANTIC FANATIC ANTIC TIC
SHE INHABITS HERE
SHE INHABITS HERE
SHE INHABITS HERE
SHEEN RABBIT'S HARE
SHIN RABID HAIR
The sheen of rabbit's hair fuzzily covering her shins snakes all the way up to the top of her head, adorned with a veritable umbrella - sparkles and strands of every color shimmer under the glistening sun, distracting from the javelin long appendage of a cigarette holder directing us to be seated. “I can quit at any time you know, the chemistry depends entirely upon your hair, so if I wish to abstain, I'll just shave it all off,” wisps fall from their follicle holsters to land daintily on the ground. “Oh good heavens have you before spoken of the wonders of plant made wool? The little strands plucked from the ground,” instantly materializing as a yellow polka dot upon navy turtleneck-skirt embracing the lovely woman who scampers away into dreamland's obfuscation.
a tulip to ease the mind,
or perhaps some ruffled shrubbery,
states the rhododendron galloping behind.
What of oaks and thistle
nestled neath wreathes of pine?
Such thoughts make me bristle,
I haven't the time.
Speak with precision,
of thoughts and visions,
loosed fervently,
not frequently.
Vast cascading hills of green caress the sight beheld, though venture a glance in feeble stance, and topple over you go. Surf down the vermilion vortex to meet fluttering fangled fancies – great delightful drifting petals of crimson, sanguine scorched salmon, jaundice jaded June jubilee gems of multifarious function. The butterflies too await a command: tiger striped moon drenched white splotched upon a shade of blue appearing only as a jutting mountain range strangles a deep summer dusk's sun into twinkling abatement. The cascading ridge roosts no birds of a feather, for one finds the wily aviary beasts far too fastidious to share any neighborly semblance. But when commotion arises, what colorful fog! Slicing through layers in dire jawbreaker fashion yields squawking beaks drilling holes of brief vacuousness soon filled with ruffled quills. The butterflies swerve in acrobatic adroitness yearning to stave off the storm beneath regaling blooming flowers. Would you care to sit amidst this brouhaha?
These tunes mandate scrupulous attention, else Tom Waits' monologues pass by as habituated road noise's dull roar seeps into the background of our thoughts. His stories immerse the mind as should a verbosely descriptive book, yet tis much easier to swipe eyes cross page than understand what Mr. Waits just spoke. The music and instrumentation, though wonderfully wildly varying, (sometimes ripe with emotion, other instances bare, base and blundering) should not hold focus, for it functions as a mood setting device, adding depth to each account unmatched within the confines of written language. But taken with Tom Waits' specific vocal timber for the piece, each composition holds full propensity to usher sensation bordering audio induced hallucinatory journeys upon the mind's eye.
