First episode caught me as unprepared as the second one. Only now I am visualizing a series of suspended dots connected to each other, an Ari (black) thread. In my visions, sometimes things fade through like ghosts, their boundaries dissipated. I have developed a theme which results out of pieces and elements ever-present in my art: nerodifumo; to be able to reach deep, and further know more. Is it not exhausting me?I am as well a witness of my own creative libido and what my body moves and makes out of it. I often have spasms. Connecting the strings, knotting their ends, weave all of it it cohesively: my spider web is all discontinued. Even writing about it seems difficult to me, and I never know where the narrative/diaristic composition will take me. I have thought of a concrete cube, half bare of its walls; and musk and thyme and ivy crawling on its columns reaching Heavens above. When the sun'd come up, water would leak. I have been there, and the air was sharp and cold. I associate humidity of morning to the comedown feeling of MDMA and immediately sense the void in my stomach. The sound system would produce massive low-frequency reinforcement (bass build-up) alongside a rapid loss of high-frequency energy due to the openings. You can see the sea from here.The morning humidity preserves the clarity of the bass, while the large vertical concrete surfaces create complex delayed echoes before the sound escapes. I have not lived or I cannot recall, the experience or the exact moment, of when the music shuts down. How do I imagine this place, empty, the afternoon of the last morning. Would latent specters creep through, and if they did, would their sharp breath whistle against crevices? Could they be heard? As a kid, I used to imagine senses, convince myself I heard voices. I still do. Have I ever crossed these spaces with my whole self or was I a projection? I do not have pleasant memories of raves. The low frequencies blast through my chest and my knees are weak. I cling on that sweet nectar, lower my shoulders, gaze to the skies. Inebriating, it is of toxic, rotten beauty, a myth. A chimera. The softest bed of dew-covered grass, the greatest brutality, a catastrophic intimacy, becoming unclean with joy. We are the dancing apes. It would always dissipate and leave bitter debris for teeth to sweep away during the night. In fact the ground would keep the fever, the captured frequencies of days-long dancing. Imagine your body caught up in their waves, their long silky waves, your micro-nerves vibrating within God's nerve impulses. Echoes would release and decay, phantoms who'd lost their way. Silence, and the city swarming. Insidious is the way this forgotten land is injected suddenly with such heavy charge of human element. Traumatized, the corners keep the score of the afterlife of the party. The concrete, consumed by the sound waves of music and sensitivity, is left again, never to be the same. And drone plays to re-organize all that loss into presence.
baratheonpilled
origamiaround
kianamaiart
