solemnland
Like sovereign island nations but ones with a common language,the music on 'To Cut Time, To Fold Time' possesses different spaces but is able to maintain a cohesive voice. Highly Recommended
Favorite track: Tristan.
There is a being out of time that everyone can sense: that is not a verse, but the cut, or a blade seeking what to scratch. Cloud bank, the acid bit of a blue gaze I make out in the lateness. It is too late now even for time—he thought, knowing he had read that somewhere. But also that the source would forever elude the permanent wave of his rings, his silences. Married before he died of flux cancer, cancer in flux.
A box of smoke, being through, vague and see-through being. Each other’s time stilled, followed by empty silent space. Roaming the corridor like a throbbing bruise. No sound in the brilliance. The brilliance was the best indicator that one was going to live a difficult life.
Money is not time, indeed. Wine-dark, vailed woman, electric foam, veiled foam. Vailed leap. Die no less. The speed of the newsreel is now harder to decipher, empty—as every effort to present the void. A bodily attack, the word. The graveyard of good-good and good-evil, evil-good and evil-evil. Everything breaks in two. Sundering can no longer seem like a good thing. I have learned hauled away and hobbled. Opened, strange, cold, below all race, and beyond any win. There is no fallen soul, no eclipse. Sex, pupils, black holes. No matter, no matter, stuck in my throat.
Observe, the people have at last become a religion. At least the people upstairs or next door—ever now, ever old. We read; we vote. Of two hearts, nevertheless, I’m afraid. Continue investing, modulating, oscillating. Life is for the touching. Windowsill face form. For keeping warm on a winter snow, behind closed doors—like a child left green with envy. The child is the father of history: a series of apparitions returns ghost-like, made to order by the doodle, the line that moves this way and that without a sense of direction. This is not so hard to understand. It is common sense: that it does not make any sense.
Communist professor breaks strike. Threatens to replace all with cheaper models. Chilled honey of capitalist desire to burry us all. The red straight-face. Always that same old story. Life and limb, head, tongue of fire—oh, educate me! Educate me again. Let your wisdom form the people in your image. Father. Time. Mother. Earth. Modulate me. Mending houses, tending to the stock market. In his “prime.” Blinding sun. Rusted bolt.
One does not side with the capitalists to the steps of no matter what. One does not simply say: I am not a communist. One is neither this nor that. No-man’s land. That is the spot it lands you. The senate of the rattiest bar. The steppes of no-matter-what. Electric form, wine-dark, veiled heart-attack a year after you finally stop drinking. The point was to win. The race was run. The people used to feel. You used to think there was such a thing as the People! Intensely. The eclipse was hard. Twin pin pupils. Black.
What if space, this infernal gathering, what me and the fire gather, which I could make for life or death, what if space sneaks out of this Atlantis? With no water, open Atlantis, ready to spring But for two hours ago, to sleep after hearing the music of that which means I’m still alive there too, I, two eyes, two paths, a finger in the middle flight of strings, that points to an excess, think, take note of a pistol of wires take note of a clean sparkling, cackle starts sentence. To me with a box, to stream—fearing, to conclude, threading account,
Below history. Now, the names on the breeze. I try to sleep. A fold, a fold sent the sounds. Sounds arrive; grated-open. I go in, trap the moon. Sleep is calling me, flooded aisle, hissing, white sea, humming fatigue, the last monolith: helm of sky. The white sea. Strong out on a lover.
Abandoned what flies unattended. Dream, are you alive? Read in the middle region. Pyres, are you alive?
Mesh sibylline voices to flicker? As though God where again in the rain, the third time we forgot that the chord was dreaming. One synoptic dream. I had your phone number in the labyrinth. I was dreaming in the labyrinth. Pouring as though you were in Beirut. I wish you good night, boring as though you were camp lighted. One vibe. You. And when you come back, life will begin again.
You get on a plane and fly away knowing you’re dead to the one who stayed on the ground. Black embankment, so even an answer, and on, obliquely, octave beyond life and fire. A nightmare, coming from two worlds of metal. Preparing a feast onward and up, cry metal: nets for the tempest. File all the senses before it breaks. Throws me into this narrow hallway. The soft tilling I can’t direct. This death that keeps us late.
Propel, castrate. The screens held back anybody for so long. Enough, enough! I whisper what cipher-script will guide me. Music beyond the harmony of system, opened to a horizontal field of sound.
Silvery call. Aeolus! Splintered in streets from the gods, unfolding of drums. Tall voyage, tensely spear – lifting night, the crest of wire. Translating into a multitudinous clang. Synergy of waters fuse, recast syllables. Sound of the sheet. Harbor lanterns, fled the queue. Here times during quarantine – eyes through the pangs, dust and steel. Still, the circular freeze of heaven
You can wave one song by the vernal change. From deathless steel to sleep—presence of larks returned within Sweet Saint Jude. Single chrysalis, like an organ with sound of sight, sound from a realm such as love clear direction torch that hits. Groups of forms vaguely opened, patches laid down temporarily, a bird with your heart sweeps before my eyes. Over the screen, question shaped. Clusters beyond description. Attendants holding lights crowd of bloody forms outside. No uncheckered board—ground, some unplanned crest. Scream or cry, the doctor’s paper glades.
Little steel instruments catching feelings I can’t see. Again, the forms flourished. But when they multiply like that it is not really of forms that we are speaking anymore, is it? And we know this, and this knowing holds us together. The dying eyes open. In the company I keep. In mid-flight, ever in darkness, marching water—still canvas with brick-gray and the cool, fresh air of the path near the cloth line.
When you awoke, the hanging leaves were your coffin. Does it happen here? The attempt to abolish chance whitened with the lessons of the die. The dark green lie I try not to tell; don’t die blank. The primitive apples try not to fragment. The negligent, tell me, when did we spark? Privacy of notes and Cheyenne seen twice, once? Didn’t we need to remember the last lurking, poems that also happened like love. Don’t forget to die. Belly pressed, pain, good love life. There is only the body of the earth below, overgrown, a flower curved up. Without substance, earth, water, animals, but what common stock having room for the air? And the soul to himself, hanging from that muscle, its merits and mouthpiece. Beginnings, events, diversity’s. The base, the spittle, the ambassador in his yearly fresh sheets. Changing Thorn. Folded boundaries. The snow. From the roof angle, any break Informed all things elusive.
First an archive of Michigan improvisers, now a metaphor for the many/others that is the self. Lalén, Caeiro and Xeno are
heteronyms, in Pessoa’s sense. Their vocation is electroacoustic, experimental, improvisation. Sound art that sometimes lies beyond what some call music. Ultimately, the fundamental work behind these recordings is to precariously ground unground existence in the doing. Peace....more
Shards of static & distortion crash against disarmingly beautiful piano & synth melodies on this riveting new record from Carbon and Prose. Bandcamp New & Notable Oct 30, 2022
