‘The Radiant Child’ & Fascist Fonts (See ‘Fallout’ for the visual meme)

–”The Radiant Child”

Thoughts after seeing the “movie the radiant child”.

Usually, when I write, I wish to write something good.  Something that looks deeper.  Maybe it’s some American trait, but writing simply for the art of complaining does nothing.  It simply perpetuates what is already bad and vulgar about society.  The thing about writing something bold, is that is should be loud and proud, and as audacious as the statement needs to be.

So, where does complaining change into something more potent?  Where does having a clear and well guided statement bring everything into a much more important message, and smashing the underlying repulsive context?

When it makes a point, when it’s found that one thread of villainous that rides through theme after theme, after work after work.  When it crushes the seedy taint of worthlessness that robs a work of its vitality.

For the most part, ‘The Radiant Child’ was a beautiful movie.  Sound, sights, everything that makes one feel alive and like living art.  For this reason, I tip my hat to it.

All the thoughts that it gives, all the questions about the meaning and value of solitude in a world where everything and everybody is connected.

It seems that there was something very odd about the way that life works in the mind.

All the ambition that a society goes through to have an artist at the top.  Or a top, for artists.

I remember reading something like, “What would we do if the value of a da Vinci was suddenly zero?”

What would we do indeed?

Well, we would certainly do something more…and we would come back there again.

The thoughts, the feelings, the shapes, the words.  The idea that “influence is not influence” it is simply the same idea entering a new mind.  This was a valuable point in the film.

For this alone, it is worth much.

After the film I felt extremely emboldened.  Another Basquiat quote that comes from this film is “Boom for real”.

Boom for real meaning, explode everywhere, take those elements you have and plaster them on the wall, as you like, as you see it, as it needs to be done.  As your breath takes you away.

Is the world so different from the 80s?  Maybe, maybe not.

A drunk man called me a racist the other day.  But, it had the sound of Burroughs.  It went like this:

Racist, patriot.

Is that where we are?
I think not, I think everybody everywhere these days is facing something quite more real.

An annihilation of convenience.  Languages everywhere, disappearing.  Life everywhere becoming the same boring thing, with trains and cars and telephone poles.

The internet, the sounds, the same music videos, all of it somehow all the same bland thing, with the same cultural values everywhere.

You can see the difference between then and now in one video that somehow manages to be everything horribly campy about the “new wave” movement of the 80s and yet cross cultures.
Love Glove, by Visage.
‘What the fuck is he doing in Egypt shaking a glove and shaking it in front of the natives’?

Yes, it’s ridiculous.  And it’s piggish and flaunting and nasty.  But at least there’s no nasty fonts inside of it.

If this is the truth, well, it’s a depraved truth.  Maybe, it’s just an arrogance disguised as truth.  That seems like the more difficult question to answer.

Maybe that’s the point of the war in the Middle East.  That’s the point that many don’t understand, it has to do with money and values.  Not just money, and not just values.

Pretending that it’s one or the other would just be too convenient, for everybody.  So that’s what everybody pretends…

***Money, values, art, life, sex, drugs, rock and roll, hair-styles, fashion, wigs, Warhol-Basquiat vs. Fascist Fonts.***

Seeing Warhol and Basquiat together, their works together, meant that something had been achieved-something at a level of meaning, at a level of aesthetics.  The destruction of the medium of the 1950s trash-heap of Bowling Alley-Ice-Cream-Parlor, Cupcake Betty Crocker-lies fed to every man woman and child until they were old enough for Margaritas.  All the parts of the font collection that Europe and South America and Asia and Africa had chosen to throw away.
The most sterile and Stay-puff marshmallow man fonts you could imagine.  Nothing Noir and nothing Duffy.  Because when I think of the energy that was robbed from America, I just think of the simplistic fonts that represent nothing but fascist-home-cooking.  It’s funny, because fast food, in a way, rebels against it.  Fast food fonts work for you.  They’ve evolved beyond enslaving you to your home.  They are somehow clobbering the beast of the mundane life in a different way.  They are the beast, but they’re not a beast of the spirit.  They’re merely the devil.

The kitch of bad fonts-worse than the devil.  So difficult to name, without experience in typeface it becomes a boor.  But still you can see it’s disgusting spirit hiding in the sugar and the refined flour.
Call her cupcake, then make her one. And then make her eat one.  You eat one too.

The problem with ‘the radiant child’ was just that: the animation in the beginning was fascist.  It was so anti-themical.  The film itself was an homage to Basqiat, but whoever made that animation fell into the same trap of the aesthetics of the “re-vitalized 1950s” that suddenly are so en vogue in places where…….souls are not pushed to the edge.

What was really disgusting, was to see that the radiant child was put on the small screen at the “Northwest Film Forum.”

It should have been in their big theater.  They had this shit “film made for nothing” homage to Godart in the main place.  That film was a waste.  I don’t care how bad it looks, just make it big, and we’ll deal with it.

When you see the Warhol stuff you can see the aesthetics as they moved away from , that whole thing with Roy Lichtenstien, and Ed Ruscha.  They took the status quo and moved it forward by exploding it. Everything from that pop-art world was something that had been zesty once, had lost its flavor, until MSG, speed, coffee, and inspiration could make it live again.

So zesty, salty, even sweet.  And then, with Basquiat and his t-a-p-e d-e-c-k 1980s electro hip-hop literati aesthetic, and everything changes, again.  Everything pushed onto the envelope, everything made more plastick and alive, everything made absolutely loud and free.  Tons and tons of energy.

“immediate content” was another phrase that came to the forefront from the film.  That came from Annina Nosei.  That was a beautiful line.  “His paintings had immediate content.”

That line did indeed make everything beautiful.  It explained the purpose of even the simplest potent work of art versus something that is, for lack of a better term, boring.

Especially when you think about how he let himself go…

But all that comes to the side in the end.When you see what’s been done these days everything they did does look like Da Vinci, Leonardo.

The things these days that mass consumer culture implies: the sterile, the harmless, the false friendliness, the shit-without-the-anal, the simple, the reusable.  (just think of what Fallout 3 mocks in it’s intro)
The most disgusting part of everything that’s ever been designed, put forth anew.
It’s amazing how they can ever do it so badly, but they do.

I saw an ad for hotmail in Seatac the other day.  It promoted hotmail as “the new busy.”
Slaves.  Hotmail is for slaves.  That’s what they’re saying.  When you’re the new busy, get in line, slave.
And when I see their marketing working this way, I see them hunting for nothing but slaves.
Slaves to the god-damn TV, cupcakes, vegan-bacon, the Espn macho aesthetic for nerds.
Why not put the new busy signs as decoration for Les Schwab tire stores?
The aesthetic is complete – black rubber and yellow and red.  Eat popcorn, drink shitty coffee, and drive fast, new-busy.
Sometimes you need a little pressure to keep moving.

The rest of the time every other piece of design is so clean, you wonder how they can manage this tightrope for long.  They design something cleanly, and then they make it as opaque and useless as possible.

“The new busy.”
FUCK the new busy.

The old busy was always busy because they knew they were going to die.

“That’s the best thing about life, keeping busy.”

A quote from Warhol’s “Angels, angels, angels.”  The most disturbing and yet wonderful book of quotes you could imagine.  The whole book might be imagined.  Apparently, the book about him was.

But it was real enough to make people think.  Basquiat did the same.

In essence, outside of some films, and some journalism, nothing makes people think these days.  The aesthetics all do the same thing, they mildly entertain but lack inspiration.

IN-SPIRATION.  Inspiration.  INSPIRATION.  Whispered over, and over, and over in the tiniest and grandest of spaces near and far, echoing in your ear.

Take it where you can.  Smoking cigarettes.  Drinking.  Booze.  Marijuana.  Sex.  Whatever.  It all seems so bland when the background is nothing but this ever-present drone of bad design, bad aesthetics, bad un-original Helvetican monstrosities.  Mind numbing ALL CAPS writing that just screams idiocy.

It is a sad thing that Kubric and Orson Wells are dead.

Everything aping a past which is worse than any of what the “mad men” episodes can imagine.

Most art out there disgustingly nostalgic for worthless pieces of shit.

At least for Warhol and Basquiat they had something radical.  Even Kieth Harring with his odd weird stick figures had something to push for.

Now, everything just seems like sad aping in bad taste.

I feel that is what Basquiat and Warhol were fighting for — the right to be free of bad taste.  The right to be surrounded by energy in it’s truest forms, to be surrounded by creation, by life.  The right to push themselves into new horizons of imagination and bliss.  Not only the right, but the freedom, the liberty, the creation of a life where they could find meaning not because it was fed to them, but because they made it.  Always careful to see what they were really seeing, and always careful to say what they were always saying.

It’s a terrible thing to have good taste around so much bad.  No wonder they both felt used.  Warhol by the commercial establishment and their bad taste, and Basquiat by the ignorant and the politicians.  Bad taste and bad manners.  Always so silly, and so terribly, frighteningly real.

I remember confronting bad taste and bad humor as well.  It’s always such a frightening thing.  Taking the most energy every.  But then in the end, you become used to it, at looking for the cracks where they exist, at ignoring the completely ignorant.  AND, at leaving people room to think for themselves.  It’s a habit, but one that’s hard to cultivate.

Now I think it’s all a balancing act.  Julian Schnabel talked about having the “tools” to deal with success and paranoia and money.  I think he’s right.  It does require tools.  Very real ones, but tools of the mind and heart.

Those of generosity, of faith in the awe of the universe.  Faith, in the awe of life.  Those things will always bring you to good taste.

In this era there is nothing more awe-inspiring than success.  Nothing more awe-inspiring than joy and happiness.   Nothing more awe-inspiring than nature.  And we all still wonder where we came from.

To ponder to think to dream to love.
“Boom for real.” was another quote that came from Basquiat, from the film…

Tear away the clutter.  Tear away the hatred.  The insidious ignorance of the past, present, and future.  Tear away the greed and the stinky, stinky loathing that just turns a party…
into a frown.

There is beauty everywhere.

When I think of this city and the things that make it exciting, the only thing is really the stars.  Here I feel closer to them than I do in many other places, even though, in the city, I only see one or two in the evening.

Those stars, this planet, and the future to be make me very excited.  There is going to be something far beyond all the bad ridiculousness of this age.

Dave Chapelle uses the word ridiculous far to often.  But again, those are the times we live in.

DESTROY THE BORING FONTS!!! DESTROY THEM NOW!!!!!!

The one place where the Basquiat movie fell to the floor was in the beginning.  With the “Cool Jazz” fonts that were dropped onto the screen in the introduction.  The beginning starts out with everything so slovenly nostalgic–using Jazz as the introduction.
But when you look at any of Basquiat’s paintings, not one letter, not one piece of font is wasted on being nostalgic.  It’s all his own.  He started with words, he used them, he had his own font.

SAMO.

The introduction of his film was nothing but “SAMO”  That’s what SAMO was…

Give me something real, something sensitive, something alive.  Drops of ink with words that are meant to do something to INTENSIFY.

That ink, that paint, that spirit.
The ink, the paint, the spirit.
It all goes so quietly into the night.

It was all beautiful.
And old man and his cigarettes.
A young man and his complaints.

I was happy when I realized I could see the same verve and swish in  Basquiat’s paitnings….as I had seen in those of Raul Duffy.

I guess they were both, “Booming for real.”

Intergalactic FM, and, Orient Express

Now – that was a moment to be heard.  One that restored to full power, my faith in the radio station that once was the CBS – the cybernetic broadcasting system, and is now, Intergalactic FM.

The track Orient Express, a song written for a presumably Italian 70s rock opera, by the remixer-re-recorder’s father.  The track won the contest.  About a 1:100 chance.  But he won.  Based on the votes by the members of the intergalactic collective.  But it was a amazing moment.  For two things, first, the uncanny fact that it won, and the even more uncanny fact that the DJs could not believe the back story on the track, at least, it sounded as if they were checking their own pulse, to make sure that the excitement that they shared in was true.

After 16 hours of on air contest time, and countless more hours spent collecting the first 100 tracks, getting everybody together, the tension was high as to see which one would win.  More refined, smoother, housier, more disco-esque tracks were played, more industrial, more darkened drum-n’-bassy tracks, but none would conquer the elegiac “Orient Express.”  Obviously, the registered listeners and I shared a similar happiness as one posted after the contest was over, *This Reminds me of the old CBS days*

This was indeed, the first, or second, I’m not sure, time the Demo Contest had been held.  Usually it was the new-years count down, which I was not informed of this last year, in fact, I skipped it, because of the sheer pain of missing the old Cybernetic Broadcasting System.  They were gaudy, loud, 70s, 80s, 90s, 2000s, campy, x-rated, horror-ific, steeped in coffee and fog, druggy, sober, slap-happy and seemingly could shrug off any criticism by simply yelling the word *ROBOT* out loud. They even had a sexy *Robot Player* that danced as you streamed the station.

But they were always, and have always been, reggae-soul-disco-house-techno-italo-fan-tastic.  Too cool for the likes of everybody who wishes for the smooth-over-produced sounds of the clubs, they sampled Star Trek, Taxi Driver, and Scarface, and ride the Netherland-ish line, keeping a sense of chaotic order that can only be described as Cybernetic.

To hear about them and their death/cred, check out http://www.splicetoday.com/music/west-coast-knows-how-to-party

And so, when the Cybernetic Broadcasting System died, a part of me died.  Nothing sustained me but their strange spaced-out ethic, their un-ending tribute to music which can only be classified as that which pushes forward *The drive of life* and their respect for artists on the basis of the context of the times in which their tracks were released, put them close to my heart.  Pure energy.  Plain and simple.  They’d drive you high, space you out, and then keep you going with some deep techno or house, none of it cheezy, unless it was meant to be.  Their rainbow colored “CBS” logo and Dancing Robot gave them the flair of finally taking to the nerds out there the pride of a clandestine liberal politics which was only mysteriously re-enforced by their eclectic and esoteric taste in music.

But more than anything else, it was that driving, perhaps violent sense of humor that made them precious.  To hear a CBS Top 100 year end countdown was to be blessed with a real DJ, playing tracks that, when good, were truly gems that you would never be exposed to without the link of a human, or the CBS.  For all their robot rhetoric, they were commenting more on the medium of sound production — their medium of transmission.  Nonetheless, their sound and live broadcasts were infinitely personal.

Their main DJ, was titled RobotDJX.  What MORE can you ask for!? The pseudo interaction of normal Dj listerer relationships was subverted.  Now, listeners not only had a DJ, they had a super-robot that sounded just like a real DJ.  Their system truly was *systematic*.  This was fun.  Anytime you wanted an escape from the earth bound reality, to the freescapes of Pan-European and Global Listening – centered around something where you found people who wanted more life, out of their beats.  Sometimes they got it wrong and ended up sounding like can openers, for sure, but, for the most part, they were making the party.

Literally, nothing else can give you disco like they do and keep you in the year 20xx.  Rooted firmly in tradition, and in outer space at the same time.

Which, is why 2009 was a fundamentally important demo contest year.  The Sci-fi sybollic importance of the 20-09 years. 2099, 2999.  Hell, even 1999, made it into sci-fi movie titles for a while.  Back before the internet reminded everybody that historically 20 years is a short time span.  Some great apocalypse was bound to happen.  One that would shake the bones of the dead CBS from the Intergalactic FM radio station.  And it did.

In the year 2009, a man from Malta won the contest, on his father’s track, made for a Rock Opera, in the 70s.  Yes, a ghost from the original past to which the CBS, and intergalactic FM, and bring down the house.  Operatic, is indeed a very good way to describe his track, *Oriental Express* which sounds as if it came off of the Vangelis soundtrack, with a little bit more swing inside.

Arriving, back home

this could be the last night on the Orient Express

arriving, back home.

The sound of the locomotive was clearly evinced in the beat and the pacing of the percussion, which, in turn, is where the track so much resembles the soundtrack to Vangelis, on top of this, a trance crescendo from some synth that I cannot as of yet describe, and in the end, it was pure cheese.  But the good kind, that means to be cheese, and bring tears to your eyes.

This track literally rose from the dead – as did the CBS.  Recently, the Cybernetic Broadcasting System was re-instituted as Channel 4 on the Intergalactic FM.  Which, perhaps, was another cosmic sign marking the arrival of more slow, synth, juiciness.  The tension when the moment came, when they felt a winner had been found was wonderful.  Nobody could identify the author of the track.  In fact, he was mis-identified, and then, the tension rose, as during the playback of the winner, the announcement was made that it was not their accountant Hans who had made the track, but soembody else.  Hans was nothing but an impostor, incorrectly given the title of winner by the DJ rude 66.  Neither was it Taro.  And finally, after asking for calls, the winner, called in.  It was Rudi.  And they finally had cheers around the room, when it was found out, that he was from Malta and could be properly identified as the winner.

He had entered another track, “Miami Girl” that had also placed within the top 15.  But the track that used the work of his father, won.  To have this tension, the tension of the false victor claim a prize, even if this was not due to his own circumstances, the drama of the pretender was there.  The lie waiting to be stripped away to reveal the truth!  Ah-ha! Yes!  It is Rudi! From Malta! With this legendary track from the past, to come, and save us, in the future of 2009, to restore what has been taken away, to bring back life, to what had already passed away.  Tears, my fellow listeners, tears, for his triumph, after the demo contest marathon.

And what else is a 16 hour demo contest than a marathon! A great trial, to let us know of the battle waiting to be won.  It is only the beginning.

To the IFM and Rudi! A million thanks!  I can gladly say that the maddening bliss of those post 9-11 days is back in this, 2009, the first post-9-11 year.  Disco will keep terrorists in check.  Have no fear.  The decade of anthems that decry anthems that become anthems to dreams that once were anthems, that still are, is already here.

http://intergalacticfm.com

The Limits of Control – A look.

Well, here we are again, Jim Jarmusch, and me, thinking about the realm of silence.  The only time that you get the absolute stillness of his films, is in a dead body.  And that is what he is looking for. 

 

Perhaps the only valid criticism of his film “The Limits of Control”, is that despite is reaching for the essence of life through it’s an assertion of it’s negation, is that he only managed to get some of the vibrancy of existence.  If you ever see a corpse, cold from the freezer, painted in gay colors of somebody you have known, then you will know what he is getting at.

What Jarmusch came to tell us is the line, “The one who thinks that he is better than the others, he should go to the cemetery, to see what life is: It is a pile of dirt”.  The easiest connection to this scene, when every time it is mentioned I remember the opposite, the singer in Television’s “Marquee Moon” who says, after visiting the graveyard:

Well, a Cadillac, it pulled out of the graveyard…
Pulled up to me, oh they said, “get in, get in.”
Then this Cadillac, it puttered back into that graveyard,
Me, I got out again.
I’m in the high point of my life,
I feel so impressive,
life,
All this time with the Marquee Moon,
but I ain’t waitin’,
uh-uh.

I remember
how the darkness doubled,
I recall
lightning struck itself,
I was listenin, listenin’
to the rain,
I was hearin’, hearin’,
something else……

—Hearing something else.

“Drugs?”  A diva once told me when I told her of this song.  Drugs. Yes, while the song is reminiscent of drugs, maybe there is something else, some silence, some stillness some consistency.  Silence, as spoken of by Batlthus.  Consistency, as spoken of as the basis of the Dao.  Hearing one thing, and it’s shadow too.  Seeing one thing, and dancing blue.

—The main point of this discussion being that indeed, Jarmusch is bringing something to life.  But, his main problem lies in his choice of music.  Dramatic and large, and overbearing at times, it’s meant to inspire the indie-drama of recent years, in it’s most blatant and syrupy form.  A form that was brought about by Radiohead and countless electronic pioneers who work distortion into lounge guitars, horns, with a quasi-bossa feel to them. The music was not bad, but it did not necessarily bring the film to life as it should have, as the flamenco dancer in the film does.

–Yet, what the movie does prove is that death and the underlying sensation of the meaningless and ridiculousness of society does exist, and yet, most journalists are afraid to touch it.  The reviewer from the NY Time’s didn’t mention it, viewers did, but the reviewers didn’t.  Showing that Jarmusch still has the ability to throw a black hood over them, and scare them into their defensive critical mode.

–It was during a search for a review that may was supposed to reconcile my consideration of this film, and how to interpret it’s direct assault on the absolutely typical conclusions made towards daily life, when I found that this ultimately satisfying, yet frustrating aspect of the film was completely ignored.  It is Jarmusch’s most brutal attack on the social ego, and the ego’s only defense was to ignore, or to pretend that the attack never existed.

–Which, is why the beauty of the internet is seen, to show at a moments notice, what I understood internally watching that film.  An exercise in self justification?  No - If time is spend in consideration of the direction of life there really is no more self justification, because what is being justifies transcends mere egotistical existence.  Frustration becomes fuel, bliss, a moments reward for the reaffirmation of a cosmic unity that penetrates all.

–Despite an addiction to information, there is still an intuition, a constancy, upon which it is built, and the longer one practices thinking, this mode becomes accessible.  With so many singular items of information available the forest is easier to see, as is the promise of the internet – shared intelligence.  My joy is, that despite the ways in which information is used badly, the ability of seers and listeners, and feelers to discuss their insight, to conclude that those feelings, intuitions, sensations, are, in the first place, more valuable than the information. 

This is where I feel joy, that people will only re-affirm their intuition.  That it will arise despite any technological uses, and that, now, that technology and information are more prevalent, it should encourage people to feel more.

“réalité est arbitraire! “La vida no vale nada!” says Jarmusch.

Memento mori, say the wise.

Remember your life, we all say, or wish to say, but sometimes, we don’t say it, as we should.  All those moments of alienation, of being separate from body and soul, or feeling nihilistic at the prospect of things which make humans happy.  Love, sex, life.  This is a feeling that exists, but it is a poison.  Jarmusch, in the end, makes one only hope that he is commenting on the poison, not attempting to be the poison of nihilism that is affecting everything right now.  Nihilism
towards capitalism, nihilism towards life, nihilism towards nature and faith, and science, too.

The problem, and the greatest risk of Jarmusch’s film is it’s association to this alienating nihilism.  Of an arbitrary reality, that is arbitrary to the point of madness.  Reality is not arbitrary, and their is consistence in the universe.  If you do not think so, merely watch….anything related to self-organization….as a
principle that hints to the fact that the sum, may be indeed greater than the whole of it’s parts.  Of course it is, that is life.  And the only way to approach it in it’s totality, is through an admission of a lack of control, or an admission, of history.  To divide the world not into arbitrary sections, but to treat is as one, undivided whole.  To see beyond the myth of incremental, developmental increase, to see the entire symphony of life, without separating it in terms that are merely self serving, or convenient.  This is challenge, where interpretation and acceptance, are arbitrary, and those are the terms of life.

Sounds of the day.

So, new sounds. Sound comments?  I’m not sure about that.

The Wii has great sounds.  Whoever figured out how that system should sound should get an award.  It makes the machine feel right.

Also, there was the sound of bagpipes and drums today on 3rd or 4th avenue for St. Patricks Day. The sounds of Anthony B about a week ago were absolutely amazing.  Like hearing one of those club reggae records, live.  His show reproduced that sound impeccably.  There were no errors, no faults, pure energy.  To be honest, he had more energy to his show than David Byrne could muster at his, at the Benaroya Hall. You can see at the venue, the Columbia City Theatre, that the place was made for non-main acts.  The kind of second-stage acting that comedy gets aside from Drama.  It’s a truism, if you give comedy the same stages as the dramas, they become serious.  The stage sets the tone.  But for Anthony B, his show rocked me enough to keep me going on only 3 hours of sleep.  Seriously, if you ever here the fly girls from Kingston sing out, if you ever hear the bass player, the keyboardist, the drummer, set those Reggae tones on fire, you feel alive again.  And, for his show, he truly deserved a serious stage. Reggae can remain pure, even on a stage set for dramas, the love and peace of reggae does transcend typical, categorical binaries.  I would pay to see such a show…

But, this city, for some reason, makes me think of Jean Cocteau’s comparison of Paris and Vienna.  He called Vienna a city of sound.  As opposed to Paris, a city of eyes.  Accordingly, the air here is so light that it seems that it can accommodate a lot of sound.  Is it possible that this lightness somehow empties the air of sound?  Whatever it is, the city welcomes sounds with a constant feeling of quiet.  Almost celestially so.

Geographically, Ballard, however, has a buzz to it.  But Squire Park and Lake Washington do not.  For some reason, Belltown has a Buzz to it, too.  Downtown/Pioneer Square has a dual drone/siren aspect. Wallingford, a horn.  The U district seems to be screaming.  For some reason, Leschi seems to be incredibly loud, almost like the deafening silence of a Jarmouch Film.  Out by Rainier, Jenkins Park, you get the feeling that asphalt rules the waves….not a good sign.  Perhaps that’s what’s going on in Ballard too.  At least people here seem to have ears.  Perhaps that’s why the musicians stop by.

Speaking of sound, and sinus issues, it seems that the aspect of breath worth focus and control is the exhale, according to a tai chi practitioner I met over the weekend…  I can imagine that when one exhales correctly, sound can travel smoothly through the head to all parts of the brain, instead of sticking inside of some shallow depths of the ear canal.

But today, rain again.  This near silent rain.  Just enough to make things peaceful again.  There is something primordially soothing about this slow and calm rain that happens so frequently here.  As if the water itself was not in a hurry to reach the ground.  Water always goes to the lowest point.  An inch of water can hold up a battleship.  The wisdom of Tai Chi is also the wisdom of sound.

Sound-off?

Well, here we go, the sound files of the century have arrived. If anything else they should somehow try to prove that audio, as it is, is an aesthetic, as thick as the paint on walls, or the smog in LA. Around, everywhere, penetrating everything. Tesla thought the world was just one big vibrator, of sound, that is, and well, he was probably right. So, every once in a while, I will sit from my post out in the -ether-net and send something down the pipeline to those that know the way here….

So, I leave you with the question, what sound does your head make? When you hear nothing, when you’re in the midst of silence, and you hear some ringing sound, what is it? High, low? Just what is that? And well, when does it feel the best.

Right now my mind feels like 10,000 unanswered questions ready to come forward, one after another, waiting for the pure ray of light to touch down.

Here we go.

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