Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Faith Hope and opus.

I tend to downplay my victories, and concentrate on my failures.

There is a ratio, I think of one thousand attempts for every success. Like seeds in a drought, or baby crabs, most are lost to the jaws of the sea, or the cruel façade of Ra.

And I'm cool with it, I really am. I'm not one of those people that shits gold nuggets, or spits diamonds. I like having to work for it. I think real art isn't an accident, it should never be effortless. If it is efffortless, then that artist should aspire to something higher, and blow our faces off with their creative blast furnace.

By art I mean words. I mean pictures you hang on your wall, or music. A flower arrangement, or even an arrangement of dirt. It doesn't need a frame, but if it is hard to turn away from, and it inspires you, then I'd say it's art. Monica Bellucci is art by that definition, so clearly it works well.

I have auditioned for, and been rejected by some of my favourite bands. I'd like to think it's not because I'm not good enough, but rather because we're into different things, and they feel my thing wouldn't fit well into their way of doing things. I just said "feel my thing". I guess I've been lucky just having access to these people, but no, I don't feel that way. And it's never nice to be underestimated. All art is subjective though, or should I say it isn't, but the perspectives of those that witness it are. Art is art, not subjective, objective, nouveaux, or retro-futura. Inanimate old art.

I keep having dreams of a band that will never be, of a song I won't hear outside my own mind. I know if you heard it, it would change your life, it has certainly changed mine. It's a piece that assembles players from all across time, different nationalities, altitudes, instruments. But I can't play it to you, and there's no point approximating it in my own recorded version, it's not that kind of party.

All I can do, is try to explain it.

So imagine with me, we are standing on an ice sheet.

8th August, 2000 B.C.E. We're standing on one of the last great ice sheets, far to the North, and the sky is black, but it isn't night. It's dark, and the rain is falling lightly, not hard enough to soak, but just lightly enough to make a general background sound.

This is our first element.

17th January, 1980. On a farm in rural Australia, a cattle gate is opening, and as it vibrates on its hinges, a beautiful harmonic note rings out. It's a round note- no sharp edges, no discernible point where it enters the audible spectrum, and where it exits. It lightly fades in, and after a few moments of it already being heard, you realise it's there.

This our second element.

20th November, 1982. On a secluded beach on a Pacific Island, two young people are kissing one another. They have both crept away from the tour party, and have shed all their clothes. They love each other, and for the first time they consumate that love on the edge of the water. The sound of the girls soft moan as he enters her gently breathes out, carried and phased by the breeze, processed by turbulence.

This is our third element.

Tuesday August 15th, 2000. A beat kicks in, a lonely, hollow, far off beat. The sound of the last surviving submariners from the drowning Kursk in the Barents Sea, hammering desperately on the hull of the sub, the lights out inside, slowly asphyxiating...knowing no help will ever come.

This is our fourth element.

16th March, 1978. In North America, after midnight off a highway in Texas, a trucks air brakes bellow out their protest, decelerating out on the edge of town. A young boy of eight hears the sound, faintly stirring in his half sleep, eyelids fluttering, succumbing to his heavy head and dreams.

This is our fifth element.

In an alley, running off El Tahrir Square in Downtown Cairo, an old rapist is hiding in the shadow behind a pre-war Citroen, a gift from the French, colonial refuse. It is the 12th April, 1978. He is muttering a prayer, his quiet voice high with fright. He knows he is to be imminently discovered. The soft prayer mingles with the sound of his rough hands rubbing his stubble, creating a sound like a body being dragged through the sand and underbrush.

This is our sixth element.

On the 12th September, 1928, in Robinsonville, Mississippi, a young Robert Johnson picked out the opening notes of "how long- how long blues" on his guitar, before he sold his soul to the devil, to become one of the greatest players that ever lived. The steel strings speaking in a pure voice, the last time they ever would. Next time he played those strings, the horned master of Hell would be speaking through them, with all the arrogant skill and finesse a billion burning souls can afford.

This is our seventh element.

And right now, at the Universitas Sumatera Utara in Indonesia, a gamelan musician practices his instrument alone- the Gong Ageng. He counts out the beats on his score, as any musician does, and when the time arrrives (and it arrives rarely with this gamelan instrument), he sounds his gong. His mallet hits the gong, and a second later, the gong fades in with a "wooom", then holding its note, like brown feedback, or a television stuck between channels in a river of mud.

This is our eight, and final element.

There is loneliness, hope, longing, desperation, innocence, joy, and the power of nature to this piece. And in my dreams it loops effortlessly and endlessly, breaking my heart in my sleep, and awaking me with tears...tears of hope and loss. It is a beautiful song, and a beautiful dream, all the more for the cost of some of its parts. And I wait all day, for the sun to hide, so I can fall prey to it again.

This world is a stern one, for all its subterfuge and pastoral flowers. And it is prudent to remember that it is so much more vast than the path between work, home, and the bar, or the movie theatre, or your lovers house, or the whore house, or the casino. And while it feels safe to hide in our minds, and our gated communities, or our S.U.V's, we wound ourselves by constricting the flow of fresh experience, like deep vein thrombosis for the suburban commuter.

I hope you all dream your own songs tonight, and see just how many possibilities and tales lie past the haze of streetlights from the high ground, out past the suburbs and the small towns, and the farms.

There is a world out there, and hundreds of years of recorded history. It's yours, if you want it.

I want it.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

I rise.

Electricity hums quietly around us like a muted lightsabre, illuminating the bubble, showers of sparks sometimes. That's the thing about power- it's powerful. And simple will alone is never enough to kill the burn, or overcome old thoughts. It takes care and attention, and first aid also at times. But it is better to have than to have not (in this case anyway), and as such these two conduits for something bigger will eventually grow to know, will learn about complex physics, electrons, and wildly spinning particles of matter. It's so electric, it makes other force fields look dated, like black and white evil doctor pre-panavision silent movie o.t.t. sets. Like before we knew better. In this heart...lightning continuously strikes. I am power.

Monday, February 26, 2007

~ m u r d e r ~

Fuck all the flowery language, this one's called MURDER.

I see your face.

I see your face, and I hear your words.

You seem so intensely familiar, and I know I don't like you, independently of all this. I don't like you, and I don't trust you, and now you've come into my house without knocking, and all I can think about is breaking your head open with my hands.

You walked right in the door, and I know it was open, but it's still prudent to check. Just because a thing looks abandoned doesn't mean it is. And you're doing the whole Goldilocks thing (while we're talking about fables), and I'm the motherfucking bear. I'm the bear, and in this story, you don't get away so quickly.

Because lo! here I am, and my hackles are up.

My teeth are bared, eyes are slits, fists balled to bludgeon that face I'm so fucking jealous of, into first a jelly, then a liquid, and finally a fine powder. I'm very determined to do this, and I'm also quite thorough when the mood so takes me.


Do not be confused, you're not the wolf you think you are. I see right through you, and canine as your tendency may be, you're just a dog, pissing on entirely the wrong piece of real estate. You're out of your yard now. We shoot dogs here.

I want to attack you, I want you to see me coming, and come at you slowly... coming with my arms out and my eyes wide, prolonging the entrance. Drawing the fear out into long strands, silver, wet, and fragile. I want you to know that moment, that last moment of life without a different body, a body I will give you. I will make this for you, a body that cannot work, cannot last. A body of dust, from my eyes of fire.

And we're confused, the both of us! Your "how could this happen? I didn't realise!" and my usual calm breaking into waves, swallowing both of our respective chances at happiness again. I didn't know I had this in me to be honest, not any more. But it's so real and solid like ice in my gut, ice, rocks, and spines. My chest heaves, green with jealousy...since when did I do jealousy?

I know you're better than I am. You don't need to come into my house to prove it. You're shiny, and you know this. You're banking on it, your interest piqued by someone you absolutely do not need to pursue. And she likes this...she says it means I like her. And it probabaly doesn't hurt to have a plan 'b', or even the faint smell of one. She needs to be wanted. But I cannot have her eyes on you, when I hear her unfold sentences of such great import and potential. Sentences that could change her and I forever. The big things. I'm humiliated that others may see, and I know they do. You're not better at everything, you're so oblivious to this scenario I almost feel for you.

But these strangling hands don't, and these fists and feet don't, and these teeth are far too hungry to be put away now.

I'd like to see that face, and the expression I hand you. The shocked expression that suddenly knows, the enlightened face, the penitent one. The face that wants more than anything for time to reverse. The impossible.Battering fists and knees. Teeth breaking feet.

So as I contemplate all the delicious and violent acts I long to perpetrate, knocking your body and folding it, beating, smashing, breaking, I see what I need to really do.

Because the penalty for such acts is so severe and long lasting, for such a limited stretch of release, the price is too high, even for this much passion, this much desire. I don't want to lose my life for yours.

I need to back away slowly, and leave the two of you together. Leave you to play, leave you in my house, abandon my house, let you piss where you like. Let my house become yours... I point myself toward the dark frost opening, into the woods.

This is knifey, live and direct, from 'the internet'.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Numinous Luminous, Ghosts of the Former Czechoslovakia.

A long time ago, or not so long, depending on the speed of your life, I attended an art exhibition in Prague, capital of the Česká Republika.

The exhibition was displayed in the Národní technické muzeum v Praze, which was shut down the September before for reconstruction, and was due to open two years later to mark its one hundredth anniversary.

So there, in a darkened acoustics gallery, in the heart of the museum, was set out a temporary space. In this space was scattered around a mess of chairs, and a mess of people draped on the chairs, and sometimes the tables. A screen was hung on the wall, and a projector waited impatiently, whirring, on a ladder in the corner.

The exhibition of art lay in the form of a projection, accompanied by music by Sigur Ros, who were set up in the corner opposite the projector. The artist is a close friend called Anezka Moravek, who was Moravian by birth (as most Moraveks are), and who I met in 9, rue Drouot in Paris, when we were both sitting in on an auction for a painting by a young Adolph Hitler. She looked breathless, which was on account of her asthma, if only I had known. She wore black, apart from her expression, which was pure fibre optic rose.

Tonight she was wearing all Venexiana, from Hungarian designer Kati Stern, which as we all know is all laser cut chiffon and leather gloves. Not to be fucked with, basically. She must have been nervous.

And so forth to the exhibition, as Sigur Ros slowly rose into the air, disturbing sleeping moths with bass and complex synthesis. The impatient projector finally got its chance to blow the air apart, particles and light waves engaging in the epic battle kicked off by Christiaan Huygens and Isaac Newton so long ago, as the first stage of the projection was readied by the nervous vision mixer.

Unknown to all of those in attendance, in another dimension, a matter of politics was unfolding, that was to have quite an effect on some of those involved in tonights proceedings, namely the artist, the vision mixer, and three of the patrons. Everyone else would be blissfully unaware, which, to those of you au fait, or even au courant with complex spiritual matters originating from other, unknown dimensions, will come as no surprise whatsoever. It's how big things get done in the Universe.

The patrons were a mixed bag, as is always the case at such events. Just so you know, I looked fantastic in a pair of below the knee urban camo shorts, white DC's with black socks pulled up to the knees, and a black Misery tee shirt from New Zealand. If we were describing most other people advocating such an ensemble, clearly it would be horrendous, but that's one of the advantages of being me, and not them. I had a three day stubble. Also competing for floorspace were the usual conscious Hip Hop disciples, studious, ferrety looking megabrainpower conduits, lesbians, homosexuals, bored teens, art afficionados, genuine fans of art, rapists, vegetarians. Black people, a token Asian (aways female), models, and three drunken businessmen. And of course, because I singled them out last, we know who I'll be talking about next. I was there of course, and so are you for all intents and purposes, so listen now to what transpired in this world, and the next, in that precious few seconds between the projector coming on, and the time the art was meant to appear.

"Meant to".

Národní technické muzeum v Praze, October 2006.

The screen was white, and dim white at that. Slowly, so faint you had to strain to see them, faint greenish shapes began to appear, and eventually undulate, but not in a sexual/lascivious way. More like a dying heart undulates, as it pumps life into a cold morning gutter. Cue groans of appreciation from the crowd, who thought they may as well act like they totally get what they're seeing, and like it. The projector operator though, looked like he was experiencing anal prolapse, quietly flitting between moments of staring at the screen, then to Anezka, raising hands like broken wings at either side of himself. Anezka looked at the screen with a look that resembled nothing short of total amazement, which I learned later was in fact a look of total amazement. So I was right. This clearly wasn't the art she had created, but it was so interesting and mesmerising to her she wished she had. "It was way better than my crap" she told me later. I certainly liked it. "less is more", I thought, appreciating the fact none of the green shapes were obvious or distinct. I got a lot out of it. The music helped too, I'd say.

The three drunken businesssmen had stopped being louts for that few minutes. In fact they had stopped being anything. Some in the audience were convinced they were part of the art, as they had gone from intoxicated and typical examples of what men should never be, to silent stones, cooling in the flickering half darkness. They didn't make a move, they didn't make a sound. No longer was one of them listening to his iPod in the middle of a room full of people, with the promise of music from a great band to come. No longer was the other sneering at the females and lesbians, convinced his pheremones were planetoids and asteroids, burning through the atmosphere of their collective resolves, before he plunged into them and infected them with his unwholesome at one end and and downright pestilent at the other D.N.A. No longer was the last staring into the end of his bottle of Kozel, hoping to find the answers as to why such an intelligent person as himself could turn into such a mindless turd around the confluence of his two friends, beer, and human females.

They sat frozen like rocks, faces pale, unmoving, and to all eyes untrained in the arts of metaphysics or the casting of algernate to resemble people, dead.

The Realm of Ghosts, 7th Universal Dimension, fifteen minutes earlier.

As suggested by the title of the realm, ghosts live here. They live here from the beginning of time, until the end, unless they are somehow drawn down to the earth, and trapped there to haunt whomsoever they please, until the conclusion of that subjects natural life. Death lives here, if death can live. He certainly can't die. He's here, nonetheless. Kafka stops by for rest, when he tires from running through the ancient city streets. The famous Vltava water spirits come here to sleep, when they are not dispensing advice to the people of Prague from the murky waters of that city's river. They are here now. And so too, are the ghosts of three drunken businessmen, who at this moment are about to witness the screening of not much, in a darkened room, in a museum in Prague.

Let's put this in perspective.

These ghosts have waited since before time came into being, for their souls to be born, and their human forms to arrive on Planet Terra. They have known each other all this time, and formed quite a bond over those aeons. They shared the names of thir human counterparts, namely Matous (the music lover), Mikulás (the ladies man), and Václav (the alcoholic).

Understand though, while ghosts and humans are inextricably linked, they are not extensions of the same being. Most ghosts and humans never meet for long, as it is a ghosts job to carry the human spirit to the next realm on death, and nothing more. Deaths job is to cut the cord, nothing more. And then...nothing more. When a human has passed on, a ghost is for all intents dead himself. They return to the dimension, and await the end of time. But ghosts are extremely passionate entities, and sometimes break with tradition. After their work is done, some return to the earth, and frighten people they feel deserve to feel so. We all know the tales. Sometimes even they wish to just be close to us, no harm in them. And other times still they wish to invade the bodies of humans and other animals, to see through their eyes for a while. To be truly alive and fragile and hopeless. Like riding a train you know will derail, or a plane with limited fuel over the great oceans of the world. It can be thrilling, but mostly it's hopeless and time moves far too quickly.

And so Matous, Mikulás, and Václav watch Matous, Mikulás, and Václav from this other place, and again they are dissapointed with what they are seeing.

Matous- "Why do they have no class or character? Why were we stuck with such pathetic people?"
Václav- "I wish I knew. I'm angry, to be honest. Terribly angry."
Matous- "Yes, I feel cheated."
Mikulás- "I do also. They make me ashamed to share a name with one of them."
Václav- "Me also."
Matous- "Yes. And me."
Václav- "Kafkas ghost is certainly insane, but at least he had someone to be who actually meant something above his human actions and motivations!"
Matous- "And what do we have?"

And the more they conversed on the behaviour of their namesakes, the more heated things became. Their usual pale luminescence swelled into brighter colours, they pulsed in anger, and began to dissolve into meaningless shapes, or shapes at least only meaningful to ghosts. And as they fed off each others anger and disappointment, a course of action began to emerge, and in a period of time soon afterward, this plan was enacted.

The ghosts resolved that revenge was in order, and as well all know, Eastern European revenge is the most long lasting and dangerous of all the worlds revenges. They silently left the realm, and entered the realm of life on earth...

...they slipped into existence through a film projector, and instead of a work by the artist known as Anezka Moravek, the projector transported them onto a screen, where they danced, in front of a room full of people, who did not know better. They twisted from one abstract to the next, sometimes blending (or so it would appear. As ghosts travel in seven dimensions simultaneously, they were in actuality simply moving past or behind each other. But to a human eye trained to a screen, it looked as if they has merged.)

And so it was this that Anezka marvelled at, and it was this I enjoyed, and it was this that scared the projectionist so, and it was this that made the audience "ooh!" and "aah!" in utter paroxysms of fakery and counterfeit understanding, imposters, frauds, and shams.

And the three drunken businessmen stood as one when the lights came up, and silently filed out of the room and building, and back to their homes, where they all lived alone until now.

They lived alone until now because their namesakes had decided to now go home with them, forever.

They had decided that, seeing as they were stuck with them anyway, they may as well finally get hands on and haunt the living shit out of them, mercilessly and without end, until Death swept in to deliver them to nothingness. And this they did, immediately, and with a total lack of mercy, and with no small measure of enjoyment either.

To be haunted is terrifying, but to be haunted by your own ghost, while you are still alive, is the height of miserable embarassment. To hate yourself hurts deeply, to have your own ghost hate you is shame upon shame upon shame.

This isn't the only time this has happened, in fact it happens to most of us for a small time, in every life. But ghosts are forgiving on the whole, as well as being passionate, and often relent in the face of genuine penitence. They seek to like us, and mostly develop a strong bond with us, as kidnap victims often do due to Stockholm syndrome.

Do not offend your ghost, as they watch us always.

And whatever you do, don't ever listen to your iPod when you are in a room where music is present already. Ghosts love the arts, and motor racing also. They despise hip hop and electro, as the bass disturbs their form in this dimension, but on the whole appreciate the idea. They have no tolerance for trance however, as they enjoy the arts, and not a hopeless approximation of music. You will never see a ghost at a rave.

I found out the numinous side to this tale after talking to the Vltava water spirits a few weeks later, on a walk with Anezka. They are extremely pleasant and communicative, considering their human counterparts had been horribly drowned by the former Queen, who for some strange oversight had no ghost of her own. Anezka bonded with them so strongly (they share a language), she actually struck a deal with them where they would dance for her future exhibitions, in return for access to a private room where she would play them CD's of music from thier favourite genres and artists. I sat in on one, and they greatly favoured Roxy Music, and a not so well known independent band from the United States by the name of 'Owls'. I liked Owls also, and was sad when the guitarist from said bands Ghost came along for a listen, as his job was done, and he had delivered the now deceased guitar players spirit to the nothingness of the Universe.

Anezka and I keep in close touch via, where she updates me on her metaphysical friends, and music to look out for. More and more ghosts attend her music sessions every week, to the point where her home is affectionately called "hotel duchů"...the ghost hotel. My ghost also attends at times, and apparently has become quite close to Anezka. I asked her "What's he like?", and she replied "Van Halen."

That's the language barrier, right there. But I know for sure he's mine. At this time he is not angry with me, but I'll keep you posted.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Her Blades - redux.

I believe in love at first sight.

I believe in that moment when someone captivates you so completely with a look, or a gesture, a word, and your blood solidifies inside you. You stiffen and find it hard to breathe. Your heart pounds in your chest, your real heart, not the one you hear about in songs on late night request shows. It hurts and you love it...this is why we're alive.

Not for works or words, for towers or mines, for pearls in the depths, or diamonds in safety deposit boxes, Credit Suisse, Zurich. For words on a screen. For war.

We exist for that moment that fades like vapour, but while it holds, it holds firm. Holds us in arms of loving fracture. Makes fools of the rich and poor alike. Scares you. Scares me. Disgusts small children. Puzzles animals and rapists. Hollywood.

Passion as a foil to sanity.

I collect these moments...

I may have fallen in love with you, and never told you. I am covert in my love, I mask it with fake bravado or impenetrable nonchalance. There are signs, like when I never see you, when I am always too busy, when I hate you. Or when we laugh and spend a lot of time together. When we talk like family, fuck like we're dying. Mean to call but...

I hide love like a birth defect. Like scabs. Like an extra anus.

I hide it and collect it, take it from the light of a city street or a passing car, and smother it in darkness and rising damp. In a sack. In a box. Under the floor. I hide it til it fades, til it wanes, til it dies, expires. Til a wet sack of dead cupids rot in that box under the boards. Til you don't recognise the shapes or the colours or the smells any more. Rust coloured mud, jellyfish, Chernobyl ice water, urine. Your period. A dead rainbow.

I fell in love last week. I fell in love again last week.

Oh, if you could only have seen her. If only I could. She was so damaged and imperfect and magnificent. She was so real, and for once I wanted to love her in the open. I wanted to let it fly, set it all free, confess on bent knees with the fear of God in me. I wanted to worship before her face, and penetrate her so deeply we were indestinguishable from each other. Oh, for that touch. And the sweet pain of its unknowable capture. Oh for that touch. Oh. Oh. Oh...

Oh, but she had defenses. And she was so very dangerous. I could feel myself changing against my will. More for her, less of me. This never happens. She didn't know. She does now.

I wanted to fall on her swords, and swallow her poisons, die in the face of such pure perfection, gladly I'd go. Feel her words eventually scrape the skin from my skull, acid burns of my eyes, sweet dagger tongue cut free, as she discovered more of me to shy from.

I knew I could never attain her, I knew this all along. So her attention, and "oh my!", and other enticements only served to distract me momentarily, Icarus Point Observation Deck- "no jumping!" unheeded signpost obituary notice. Family gathers, ethanol administered, general state of forgetfulness til the inevitable fade into obscurity. History takes a sick day. Make way for more important forces, like insects and bacteria.

But still I did confess, and threw myself to her mercy. But there were lions waiting! And they were not sleeping...

Ah, the agony of foreknowledge!

And she watched, as these beasts devoured me, and apologised, which I found tender, and warmed my heart for the lions teeth and raspy tongues. Heavy paws holding me down, when I was happy to stay. As I said before, I wanted to fall on her swords.

But she didn't stay to watch, to see how it ended, because for her it already had.

And I watched her leave fondly, I would have waved had she looked back, had I had arms. Because where she was headed looked wonderful, towards a man who perhaps may have captivated her with a look, with a gesture, a word...

And as my eyes close to the last, I prayed he has no swords of his own.


He had swords of his own...he was no surgeon. He lost a chance at immortalty! So very very human.

...and so now I start anew, at her invitation, to resurrect and rise, and join her in a bubble where we are so lost and joyful we fail to hear the breaking of waves as we sit on the sea wall. My wounds close with every brush of her lips on my neck. Lions teeth can't penetrate infatuation. Ask any zoologist worth a goddamn.

She sits in my lap and we kiss so gently we're made of oxygen and neon. Do you hear that? The insects need to be close to us. Trees breathe us deep, we expand to fill the world. You can stay, but don't bother us.

I forgot to eat, I was so intoxicated from the fermentation between us. I can smell her spine, her ilium, the wet and warm, and the dust of her future bones, as they burst into flames and dance away to create new planets, seismic and magnificent.

And I turn my back on the waiting lines of others, who have no sharp edges, but who need some. Tonight, I break hearts...I see them file into the arena as I rise above it all. How did there get to be so many? Who did they think I was? Those poor unknowing hearts, they even look surprised.

I can't apologise, all I did was smile for them on cue, look them in the eye. Pretend I was there.

And now I see her and shine until I'm higher than love, floating in this haze of highrise. Declaration.

It's a long way to fall now, we've come so far in such little time...neverending rocket power, this will take some time to cool down. It can't burn out. Numinous injection, we burn ghosts for fuel.

But that's the power of a look.

We've sealed it with kisses and words, we're truly done for.

Personally, I welcome this new death, there's been way too much living lately. Seat of the pants-flying blind-fuck consequences-I need contact living. Shut my eyes and pretend it was another, wasting the view. Half there, like sex in a teleporter. Wishing I could feel.

My skull grins silent in the blackness of my skin, eyes flash, neurons blast lightning.


I'm feeling now!

This delicious taste my addiction... control control.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.