The History of the Mod/Selections From
I thought I turned you off. Such a historicizing of the echo. I don’t know what reason to give, why I was so aggressively cerebral. Geoffrey, his legs spread, wearing my underwear, for once. A contempt for the flesh overrides attachment. Remember him, Geoffrey, for his drum sounds, his drum samples, not this. Here, in the radio station. Adam is leaving the apartment. The attention paid to ongoing experience. It’s time for a change of image, soft as spiral honey, brass drums, white noise, and bassheart, laughing, moving to Berlin in a month. He wrote in pencils, both sides sharpened. You, you darling in a puff of lemon smoke—the movement homage to limitless possibilities of digitized sound, the aeolean harp hung outside in a tree and the wind rustling through. The first time you heard her voice in the kitchen. “Yeah, yeah—yeah, that’s 2-2-73, yeah, yeah—yeah, that’s 2-2-73,” Kathryn’s ear to the phone two sevens, two sevens painted on her legs, her stockinged legs.
“The people’s heads Tim, the people’s heads so full of holes.” Or, there was Dad in the deckchair and Mom making sandwiches, making sandcastles with the children when the 1964 boys took over the beaches, the boys in their anoraks and haircuts. Couldn’t find anything else a week later. Satie’s nickname, excuse me, “Satie’s nickname was ‘The Velvet Gentleman’ for the twelve grey suits he owned and wore.” The numbers of the electronic machines, the electronic music machines, the electronic music machine numbers:
Who’s it was, the ballet pressing infinitely long. Opera is a shoddy refuge for emotional dishonesty. “I’m not waiting till I grow up to be a woman, the musicians evolve,” Kathryn, in the kitchen stringing the cord, the yellow cord through her fingers, twirling the cord through her fingers, the yellow cord twirling through her fingers, the yellow cord, the yellow cord twirling through her fingers, the yellow telephone cord twirling through her fingers, the yellow telephone cord, telephone cord, cord twirling through her fingers, the yellow telephone cord twirling through her fingers heatwave hurricane running through my head, it’s a question of love? NO! It’s a question of temperature! Geoffrey will be remembered for his drum sounds, she does not claim encore. The commodification of experience is not a metaphor played out at the level of ideology and combatable with ideological means, but a concrete neurological reality. This is the meaning of the last instance. It’s because them change the board, so them get fucked. To elucidate the searchin’ thang, the fabulous Johnny Cash. I want to raise my arm because I want the bus to stop. I was gonna set my alarm so I could get my username Tim. You end his book with the husks of burnt out stars. Spirituality is a congeries of modalities, not an it. Inventing rhythms from pre-recorded tape. The lesson that happens in defense of prodigality / who never was a momentous occasion. Here, in the radio studios:
First Episode of Dr. Who
The Last Bugs Bunny Cartoon Produced For Theatrical Release
Rock is essentially modal.
Hovah’s New Single, The Death of The Autotune-“Like wearing throwback jerseys, back in the day, rewrite history without a pen, Sinatra at the opera—bring a blonde.”
The first voice is saying, Tim visiting Japan / internet persona of a white male from New Hampshire. “The world of techno music is anonymous,” Kathryn thinks to herself, standing, pressed back against the counter in the office, waiting for her fax to come, waiting on her old fax machine, her old fax machine. “It’s time for a change of image, soft as spiral honey / brass drums / white noise / and bassheart.”
“We had two two-track machines—Leah, the girl next door, found, recorded with no logic, no particular song in mind; the logic of the ready-made! What many associate with our language, Leah, the girl next door, resorting, sometimes, to concrete imagery. The drums and the saxophone recorded onto magnetic tape. Leah, the girl next door, Leah, the girl next door, Leah, the girl next door, recorded, saying “I’m right here in your picture-frame, I’m a million miles away,” she said.” It’s not really my habit to intrude, in the “no there, there” places. Cranes resembling radio towers or a ready-made (pretension of a futurist Margaritaville!).
“Less mirror than lamp.”
“The man-eating Isolde.”
Or, Kathryn, lounging in her slip in the living room, talking on the phone to Tim, “All objects Tim, all objects.” Tim in boxer briefs on the other end, zebra-striped watching prisoners perform a Don Juan play on YouTube. “Temporary stabilities Tim, temporary stabilities,” and she gestures at you with her glass and you dump ice and scotch into her glass you dump ice and scotch into her glass you dump ice and scotch into her glass.
The strangeness of that blooming iridescent corpse / when book covers speak / that bullish maleness the men in flip-flops complain they’ve lost / a self-effacing cataleptic.
Also in the mix is a self-effacing cataleptic.
“They are strict with me, please…”
”I love you.”
Just a look at her as God, oh just a look at her as God, can’t you see it baby, wanna get together, wanna get together, wanna get together—the intimacy of music, between the social as symbolic project and the disruption of the face to face wanna get together, it’s always hot magic, it’s always we are champions my friend,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, One often dreams, or often, fantasies, you’ve got a super wicked style, show it to you baby, if you get down and you quarrel everyday, like saying prayers to the devil everyday, make it much easier, the genre is of course well suited to explore the (moral, existential, theological) problems posed by “odious deaths; the deaths of those who have met their selves prematurely, whose death is not the proper conclusion of a life but its violent curtailment; and as they moved away from the uneasy combination of genre trappings, period signifiers, Angry Young Man homage and brutality, the drum sounds were simultaneously drawn towards actuality and theology, as if the proximity of the one entailed the other. All we are doing is exploring the two faces of what remains a face to face—like a coin which only know its obverse. How is one to interpret an ancestral statement? It cannot be anyrhing else, since its referent, taken literally, is unthinkable. That which is given in the present retrojects a seemingly ancestral past. It carries out repeatable experiments with a view to external referents which endow these experiments with meaning. A necessary condition for the contingency of every entity. Thought episodes are “in” language—using animals as molecular impacts are “in” gasses not as “ghosts” are in machines. This is not to be maudlin or macabre but at least I do; these audio/visual clips are profoundly excellent sources of research. I guess I got to find a new game to play. Magazine is slightly more moody and not as sunshiney as the first record, but it is still fairly light, approachable West Coast-ish psych/folk/pop. You can’t have me, you can’t have me, you can’t have me.
Recall, guiding star, lost and someday words and music. We watched our old friend on the internet and she laughed like her mom did when she met us with the family Kathryn asked to be apart of. He wore white pants I could see him wearing in church, on an off day. There is a room in the house where she lives that I’m not sure she knows about. I lay there watching vampires on television, not sure I should go out, remind me students of the myths to be inherited. Sharply, her voice in the kitche, with Tim, and their band, their band you will never be a part of, except in Maine in fourteen years. Touch my face. Who is time?? Slow as it has been to obtain the recognition it deserves. A microphone wails across the room and a spotlight hits the heavy red curtains at the back of the stage. The man in front of the doors with blinds who needs a better microphone, introducing the speaker for today, on the video, on the internet.
“Then you will know that that frontier can be a cold and inhospitable space,” you must have noticed how full of exageration his introduction was, smashing onto the cement mound that held the clothes, tree, pole, falling softly onto the snow and making black pitmarks, he could hear the music of a Peter and the Wolf orchestra of icicles, icicle flutes and icicle oboes, icicle violins and icicle bassoons: a fragile glittering transparent world of icicles melting, falling, dissolving, dripping away, pierced by the sadness of icicles! “What guests come to your dark room? she said and the next thing that happened a car went over my backpack and tore everything apart. Voluntary acts are initiated by myself. I am interested in the moment when the rubber hand becomes your own hand—we are living in an exciting time.”
Everywhere officially disavowed
but to pastiche and retrospection, the nostalgia mode
a single gesture remaining, “I’m a duppy conqueror”
we invent you / look a ghost / decmber / treachery / terminus / demons sing love songs / off this century / one lick less / scarlette / october all over / summer freeze / radio gra / below the salt / whpo cares
I wanna show you the different emotions. It can suppose being as a condition. However, to rely on a philosophy of language at this point tends to mystify what has happened. Such a historicizing of the echo. I don’t know what reason to give why I was so aggresively cerebral. “Drinking electricity” vs. “Drinking beef,” here in the radio studios:
“Opera in a garden,” the strangeness of Geoffrey’s blooming gestures, his tan, his dark tan, his dark, dark tan, his dark, tan, his dark, tan, his dark tan, tan, tan, his tan, his dark tan, his dark tan, his dark tan tan, tan tan. “The elusive Tim,” I’ve a shooting box in Scotland. Some found, others recorded with no particular song, or even kind of song in mind. Kathryn, on the phone in the living room, “I raise my hand when I want the bus to stop.” Now we are back here. Resorting to concrete imagery; the drums and the saxophone are recorded on magnetic tape. You tell me I am practicing terror? Kathryn, on the phone in the living room, “I raise my hand when I want the bus to stop,” Kathryn on the phone in the living room. The sun’s trumpet, the spiral honey, our ears asking fr bigger acoustical sensations—zooming closer through cranking your rushing waves. All your rushing waves.
The ritual of disconsolate remembering,
“I was on my way to the chapel one day,” she says, “I was on my way to chaple one day,” she says, “For teenagers only, falling behind in a capacity to disturb. Tell me how you know, tell me how you know, tell me how you know me.”