The bird fights its way out of the egg.
The egg is the world.
Who would be born must destroy a world.
The bird flies to God.
That God’s name is Abraxas.
—Max Demian
If it cannot hatch from its shell,
the chick will die
without ever truly being born.
We are the chick; the world is our egg.
If we don’t break the world’s shell,
we will die without truly being born.
Smash the world’s shell,
for the Revolution of the World.
- Touga Kiryuu
They conspired to put me in a cage and let me die. My poor, poor, Tiger, the Ersatzanna.
I always weep when I remember what must have happened to you, how you must have cried for help. And he sat there, no more than 20 feet away, and played video games, feeling himself powerful as his avatar crept around toting a machine gun and you died.
Your dear Archie must have come to you and meowed too, he must have tried to get that man’s attention and he ignored him too, that loathsome man, the father of my children.
My grandmother was dying that day, and that’s where I was, at her side saying goodbye. It was expected that she would go, but I lost you too, and that should not have happened.
The repetitive beeps and blips
of a circular current as it meanders
through the chill blackness of space.
There is no change as the cycle turns,
sweeping trees and bodies into its warm current.
Nights I lay under the wagon between Mary and Edith, listening to the fire crackle and the prairie grass rustle, the smell of earth all around me. Mary cried almost every night, and though she tried to be quiet, I could hear a whimper escape now and then until, sniffling, she drifted off to sleep. I would lie there listening, first to the breathing of my sisters growing slow and heavy, then to the sounds of the oxen snorting and shuffling their hooves within the ring of wagons.
The car is parked along the dirt shoulder of a faded asphalt two-lane highway. Cut through a narrow valley, the road is surrounded by trees that rise up into squat hills that eventually form jagged mountains.
We sit sandwiched between a forest comprised mostly of evergreens, though they are interspersed with deciduous trees that have started to turn with the approach of winter.
Ambivalent, polymorphous, erratic,
she straddles conventional boundaries
eludes definition
with a warble, whisper, or yowl,
holding privilege
in earth,
and in heaven,
and in sea.
A fragment from a Joyful Noise night of improvisation - December 1, 2011
Participants:
Laurie Buenafe Krsmanovic - vocals, noisemakers
Etanna Sack - vocals, noisemakers
Lydia Harari - vocals, noisemakers
Juan Carlos Mendizabal aka Kyron - electronics, mixing, deconstructing
WTM #1149: Birds vs Motor Transport
wReck thiS meSS ~ Radio Patapoe 88.3
Amsterdam ~ Ethno-Illogical Psycho-Radiographies ~16.04.12
Part 2 of the nature vs human intervention series features Beefheart, Jon Hassell, Mystic Moods, Slim Whitman, Mad Prof, Bowie … in long, complex, perambulations through nature with feathered friend leitmotifs & Gabriele Proy’s brilliant Waldviertal soundwalk as audio trail marker highlighting the uneasy co-existence of nature & mankind, as we take surroundings for granted the audio component of nature. Also the recitation of bird names + Roel van Duyn [Kabouter / Provo activist] talks about the radical protest in amsterdam against authority & monarchy + mystical flirtations by California’s Kyron, Radio Free Clear Light & Trip Tech… also interesting [altho in Dutch] cuts from Soundtrack City Amsterdam – listen to soundwalks as you walk at the interface of where nature re-infiltrates the city.
Beware of strange women
whether professional
or “charity”
beware
of strange
women
Something is hidden, just beneath the new surface, beneath the chaos and rubble something lies hidden. Behind the symbols and overt gestures, under wraps, underground, something other gestates.
Even in the places that you thought were wholly yours, even there, something that is not you has been skittering around the edges and dark corners.
There is an entire floor of your house where the Other is at work. You have never been there, have never seen it, have never suspected when perhaps you should have.
The metallic rumble of a twin propeller plane went by overhead, the sound streaking across the sky like a single silver streamer. It reverberated inside as I instantly remembered that far off place, saw a far off me who no longer exists, a memory almost forgotten that still has the power to twist visions into experience.
Hearing it was like looking through an old album, ‘Remember when I used to live there? Remember when I used to do that?’ The bright sunshine of southern California ignited and I needed my sunglasses. The water of a crystal clear swimming pool colored me all blue and shiny. I could jump in naked if I wanted, no one was home. It was me and the sun, with only a furry puppy napping in the sunlight by my side.
