psychiccongress
Psychic Congress
Music @ mrj0.bandcamp.com
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Listen/purchase: Sell Your Car, Buy a Horse. by Jo
Trying to grab a little bit of the real and sound it into you.
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Sometimes when I'm playing chess, I think of random word/phrase mashups out of the blue. Hamsterdam. Numb Skulliosis. The Last Pupper. Stuff like that.
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I had a dream about an earthquake this morning. I was driving, and the cars in front of me starting spinning. It looked like they were on ice. Not all of them, but a lot of them.
Then I realized what was happening, and my car started swerving. I had the cruise control on, but I was too scared to hit the brakes right away, so I had to veer to the right across three lanes.
I wish I knew where it was. I remember pulling up to a bus station and recognizing it. I want to say it was around Santa Barbara or Salinas.
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We should be pure enough to speak freely from our hearts.
How do we become pure enough to speak freely from our hearts?
We listen carefully with our hearts until truth finds us.
And how will we know when truth has found us?
We will have nothing more to hide.
Listen:
Every human being bears greater complexity, dynamism and beauty than any work brought about by the hands or minds of humans themselves.
Listen:
Man dies like an animal dies, but whether or not he lives like an animal is his own decision.
Listen:
Dignity belongs to your very being, and everywhere where there are men the wretched will try to seize it for themselves—either because they are unaware that it also belongs to them, or because they believe it ought to only belong to them.
Listen:
Mistakes were made. Oh well!
Listen:
Mistakes will be made. Oh well!
Listen:
Live in the cavern of the heart, and the universe becomes your home.
Listen:
A fast and sharp knife flies through time, chaotic and blind, and it cuts us all before the end. Oh well!
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Silence Answers the Question.
If the arrow's nature is to question the archer's aim, has it missed the target?
Does emptiness overflow the ancient glass any more than it does the new?
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I am terrified of all of you. Your rage, your desire, your pride, haughtiness, violence, arrogance, simplicity, stupidity, fear, inability and confidence, the animality of the nude bodies beneath your clothes and expressions, the images of eternity you produce, the legibility of your abstract gestures and forms, gestures and forms that carry no agreed upon semantic content, but a value that strikes forth, like eye contact, a punch, a slap, lighting, your art—all these ways you exist, they terrify me. Vertigo wraps me up inside myself where I meet the edge of otherness; a mystery! It’s all a mystery! What is mundanity? What is everyday and humdrum? Liars! Apostates! Heretics of yourselves! Why show me only what is predictable, so scared that even your transgressions follow a script?
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there is a holy river of sadness flowing through time so clear and clear and bright.
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let’s talk about resonance.
let’s talk about the metaphor of resonance, as in, “that really resonates with me!”
first, what is it that we’re talking about when we talk about literal resonance. this happens when the form of an object matches the form of an output produced by something else. you take two tuning forks of the same structure; you strike one against the table and hold it next to the other; the form of the waves generated by the vibrating tuning fork match the structure of the other tuning fork, and so the still tuning fork starts to resonate.
what is this, though, when speaking metaphorically? it is the gratification one finds when their sense of being repeats elsewhere. it is, in this sense, not very different from an auditory equivalent of narcissus staring into the pond.
but it is different. narcissus realizes that he stares at himself. in the case of metaphorical resonance, the person likes an actual other in so much as that other re-presents or re-sembles their self, without ever having to face the self-centeredness implicit in the interaction. the metaphor, as well as the physical dis-location, hides that dimension. we don’t have to think about it. the fork we resonate with is over there, and it’s not our own image we see in it. rather, we see its image, feel its vibration, what have you, in ourselves.
so, when it comes to what resonates with you, we should be very careful. of course, self love is important, but if you only like what resonates with you, if this is your measure of beauty or merit or value, you have fallen into yourself.
this is a terrifying trap, because upon falling into yourself you can be in free fall forever and never know it, as you won’t ever strike against anything else.
anything in this kind of free fall grows by eating itself (a strange idea, but metaphor isn’t restricted to the laws of thermodynamics), but it cannot stand.
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Weird Headscapes
I have all these weird headscapes (just realized that scape and space are anagrammatic) that are somewhere between hallucination, dream and synesthesia. How do I describe it? They are places, in my mind, I think, but they have their own mood, their own sense of history transmitted by their structure and patinas, and I can feel their dimensionality. They are not, as it were, projections in the screen of my mind. They are more like dynamic full-scale models, which is to say indistinguishable from real places except for the obvious difference that I enter them without going anywhere.
One of the first weird headscapes was an empty black expanse in which a sphere of everyday objects—cars, trees, small structures like retaining walls and iron gates, with smaller things, blenders, one of those old mcdonald’s styrofoam soda cups, used clothing, stuffed into the gaps—floated just some two feet off the ground or so.
There was a wooden door with two concrete steps and a tiny stoop warped into the outer curve of the sphere, and as the great mass, maybe a hundred feet in diameter, rotated so the door passed me, I could open it and walk in.
But I never got very far. I never had the concentration, and it was dark anyway. It became a maze of foreshortening tunnels, and as I looked down the winding passages I might catch sight of the odd street lamp bending around and silhouetting a stuffed and mounted bison head, or having passed someway down another passage would emerge into a hall of knick knacks and mattresses under which half a ‘57 chevy’s headlight would pierce through an old scarf to glitter off the porcelain clowns and theater jewelry.
The place had its own special type of confusion. At once it was the heart of security, like being under thick blankets on a car ride home late at night, when you’re a kid and your dad thinks your asleep, back before we had cars with good heaters, or maybe he just liked the windows down—but at the same time it remained foreign, clustered, helplessly unstable, inconsistent and on the verge of collapse.
That’s all I want to write for the moment, but I also want to try to fix this headscape I can feel right now. It’s very, very old, for me. It’s a world that belongs to childhood. Somehow remembering an elder Latina lady who used to babysit me helped bring it back (I looked up her name online, and it means refugee, and this all fits). Somehow, this space is like an open hall that circles a tropical garden, but it has old rooms branching radially away from the center, and though it is night in the garden and hall it might be anytime at all inside the rooms.
There are alters with candles. Something about the place signals Los Angeles. Roses are red and dogs are black. Someone eternally sweats out heroin withdrawal there. Remedios and Refugios are two brothers looking either way like the twin faces of Janus there.
Anyway, this is how I write. This is how I have always been able to write. I don’t know why I gave it up. I guess I lost touch with it. My heart, that is.
Something about that headscape echoes a presentiment, as though I knew then without understanding what it was to try to keep a fire going in the rain so many years later.
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More and more, the only justifiable aesthetic expressions I can think of are events, not things.
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I feel the need to stop talking. I have to, as a part of my job, as a part of life, but I don’t want to do it. I want my words to cut straight, like a knife smoothly cutting the blade of another knife, and only then to speak, when nothing can stop it. I feel it in me. I feel, as it were, perfection, and it demands silence, and time, before it can interject, because I’m corrupted, and the corruption has such a loud voice. It’s so loud. It’s a child that believes it’s in charge, you know?
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