it started like this; moist finger tips rubbing euclidean shapes on crystal glass rims. hiccups of insects. somewhere / something green and dewy to throw slow geometric shapes at / to.
it started like all my mornings; stumbling to its feet and staggering around, a halfblinked möbius strip of loops and loops. paradromic rings and palindromic sounds. circling planes (in every sense of the word). an ouroboros, self-masticating. like a needle stuck in a groove. like a needle stuck in a groove. like a needle stuck in a groove. like a needle stuck in a groove. like a needle stuck in a groove. you could layer, randomise, repeat and you still end up at the start-middle-end with bits of parts of a (w)hole. cycles; sun; moon; noose; (re)turning.
it started with humchatter.
it started with not much to it, but with something to it.
and this, spindle & the bregnut tree, unfurls itself a few months later.
one easy step…
these are stories (i think) of a type, folk tale sine waves. 8-bit pete seegers redeemed by mushrooms. like the big bang static still alive on yr tv, these songs are all encoded with who’s where’s why’s and what’s. ixtab’s gathering of all those lost souls… encrypted polaroids of peoples and places i don’t know, perhaps i’ll never know. i dig that. the first meeting initial awkwardness of getting, trying, hoping, to know a new thing; all meandering, wandering, clumsy fumblings, conversational dead-ends and the flashy white toothed smile of promises promises promises.
i keep hearing ambiguously in my head ‘old haunts’. somewhere between pareidolia and psychogeography. i’m seeing shapes, hearing words, ectoplasmic sketches from non-existant evp. spook voices urging me down unknown streets, following graffitied sexual semiotics, landmarks and leylines. i’ve lost the goddam map. maybe there was no map…
they grown on you, these sonic colloquialisms. an expanding parochial shoggoth:
shapeless congeries of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, and with myriads of temporary eyes forming and un-forming.
you find yrself enveloped, locked into some lysergic fuck on the mountains of madness.
morning after, some post-somethingorother clarity, the tentative shuffle replaced by sadness of moments, lost. so we continue exploring. one must walk. everything, everyone, roaming separate but down the same ornate path. kinda messed, disparate, a sprawl too far.
keep thinking of coil, how it reads, how it feels. semi-nonsensical lewis carrollisms. punning. a singular nonsense. i’m thinking of the twigs and insects cinema of brakhage’s mothlight. digital not film. remixed. a wyrd nature/tech venn. mutating, improvising, splicing; decaying; organic; odd timbres; white noise; twisting, building; loops; tactile minimalism; transforming, crystallizing; breaking, ambient. too much, too disparate. a creaking fairground of movement / stillness, light / dark, brooding / exuberant, life / death. so much buried, decomposing, bleeding out between it all.
and really it feels like i’m just creeping round the edges of some damnable personal unknowingness. a détournement of truths and lies and myths, historical mandalas, digi-glyphs that as an outsider i can’t quite get at. christ know’s i’m still walking, circling the cairn, hoping some secret combination of words and time and direction will unlock it…