TORTI COLII
TORTI COLI
this is mine. still a work in progress, might change a lot, or at least progress into something entirely different
if you go to the Anankè club and hear it, it means that something important is going to happen to you, synchronicity-wise.
but then again, if you made it into the club, you already know that…
Source : soundcloud.com
music tracks i’ve been working on this year (although ‘full blown prometheus complex’ and ‘unknown_feed_2.3.74’ come from an earlier session in 2007 and I made ‘edges of meggido’ in 2009, originally the second part to a rather boring stoner-ish piece I have since discarded)
mix, rythm and volume need some work, but these are preliminary sketches that will overgo thorough rewriting in the year to come (hence the title)
Source : almagenes
poem time
how how how
how i wish i was
half as proud
half as strong
and half as brave
as i am lucid and smart
in words and thoughts
and adventurous
with no blocks
not feeling like
a hundred thousand human chocks
U SMART AND SEXY, SO, Y U SO SAD?
- Kris: I'd like to tell this girl she's sexy but I'm kind of worried she'd take it the wrong way.
- Vincent Heiero : Oh, and what could possibly anyone take this the wrong way? (laughs) Why would you tell her she's sexy? Do you love her?
- Kris : Good God, no... she's just someone I know on Tumblr, I guess you could say she's a Tumblr crush, and we chat sometimes and it doesn't go further than that. She's certainly not teasing or anything, but she looks so fragile, and yet she's such a deep, artistic and interesting person and she seems so sad and lonely,
- Vincent Heiero : That's not uncommon for smart and versatile people to feel somewhat sad, anxious or isolated. Understandably they're not the kind of people who settle for "the common thing".
- Kris : I wish I could do something to make her feel better.
- Vincent Heiero : That's just like you, having a crush on a girl like that, wanting to save her... where does she live?
- Kris : Very, very far away. So it's not as if, you know. It's not flirting. I'm not looking for anything specific.
- Vincent Heiero : You're not? Then why don't you tell her all that, then, instead of telling her she's sexy and make her feel like a slab of meat?
- Kris : Well, I have told her all that.
- Vincent Heiero : Then what seems to be the problem ?
- Kris : Well, look at her.
- (Vince shows Kris a picture of her)
- Vincent Heiero : Wow. So. Fucking sexy. Why does she look so sad?
- Kris : Exactly.
stuck between a rock and a soft place
hard times. hard habits are hard to kick. especially those that are imposed on you by others. especially when the others in question are your parents
at 27, barely employed, Kris honestly seemed like he loved them to death, and he still lived with them so he had to keep the peace.
‘nonetheless’, he told me, ‘and i’m not afraid to sound like a retarded teenager: no amount of talking with them with an open heart, no amount of trying to adapt to them and listen to them and share, no amount of responsibilities and initiative that i take in this house is going to change the fact that i am an alien to them, will never be good enough, will never try hard enough, and they can try and fool me, and fool themselves by saying things like “i understand what you mean”, but they don’t.’
they didn’t listen, he told me. at times it seemed like they were trying, they might even have wanted to do it, but they couldn’t understand because it would have meant questioning everything they were and everything they did, and that life had already sucked them dry of that energy.
‘you know, they’re basically like everyone else’, i told him. ‘they’ve spent all their life trying so hard to be what was expected of them, and now they expect you to do the same.’
‘it’s like a cult, society is. so fucking scary.’
‘it is. all that energy they’ve used to keep it going… there must barely be enough left to be fully human; only remaining a mere husk of a being run by programs meant to convert and adapt you to the good way, the only way there is.’
‘i know their way, he answered. ‘it leads to what they call the real world.’ he frowned on the snide remark, and a tinge of hopelessness pierced through in his voice. ‘the world of work and rent and smiling at a job you hate and filling dehumanizing papers for the government just to be able to say in a heated box that becomes a prison, the world of not questioning anything, or just what the TV tells you to question, the world of looking carefully at every magazine to get coupons and try to spend less on stuff you’d have never wanted in the first place, stuff you don’t need, and the stuff you need you pile it up like you’ve been in the war, you make big piles of food that go stale or bad before you can eat them, and what you want and love you keep it in a cage and you don’t want it to run away.’
‘and’ he continued ‘the thing is that my whole life is the opposite. the trifling things that I do on the side, entertainment? it’s work. I work hard for this. I may not earn anything from it but that’s real work. But they’re like “sure but how about a real work? You need the money!” of course I need the money. I hate it but I need it like everyone else. And, what can we do about it right? life will be life.’
it was so hard to him, all these conflicted feelings in turmoil, running through his head. with a sigh, he ended: ‘they’re advertisement programs in the Truman Show of my life. They advertise for products, they advertise for a way of thinking, a way of life, they don’t even know they’re doing it. They don’t understand my indecisions, my doubts, they don’t understand how they fucking scare me, and how everything has always kind of scared me in this world, because i don’t want to turn up like them, but the way I’m on now isn’t going to make me turn up like me either…’
this is the story of a guy who dreamt of a girl, and before he woke up she asked him to never forget her, and he promised to find her, but, thing is, he couldn’t remember her face any longer when he woke up, only her name, and even that was fading away, so he grabbed whatever sounds came to him and jotted them down, only a couple syllables and he could not make up his mind as to which one was the right one.
every other day he would try and draw his face, and he never quite got it right, but in a weird way it caused his drawing abilities to get better with time
years later as he was thinking about this dream he looked into the meaning of one of the syllables he had written down, the one that felt closest to his heart, and Google told him that this name meant exactly what she said it’d mean in his dream
why the hell didn’t he think about that earlier??
by the way, obviously that guy is me
adderall would be pretty neat at this time, if it wasn’t rightly banned in France. bring on all the amphetamine psychosis, paranoid schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and other mental illnesses! i don’t care if i get zapped by a wavelength of pink phosphene displays of strange information from soviet outer dimensions, all i want to do is go on creative all-nighters (closeted night owl that i am) and write at least one game changer, curse those who fucked with me and many other things including maybe the single best terrorist story in the history of fiction and reality too! i can do it! i just need to transform into capt’n planet and i don’t believe in rings – not in physical rings anyway
ok.?.?.? yawning and loss of concentration after this much coffee is a clear message that this pill i’ve been given (and have therefore taken) is definitely not amphetamines.
and for some reason, my bed suddenly seems to me like a valid sexual partner, and fending off the effects of the pill summons more hall-voices in the space far behind my ears and the top of my head. and my asian-made AZERTY keyboard is becoming incredibly difficult to handle, and i’m in like, “is this it?” and my neighbor shouts at me, in all that noise of sails and crackling clouds in the distance, but i don’t won’t remember any of this, i mean unless i get really really drunk, or a bit high. like he’s turning ethnic and wants to have something about dance and ritual singing with it, and using this keyboard only makes me more aware of that very real reality that some objects are made for a purpose, but their blueprints weren’t aware at the time, that they were creating not only a communication too, but also a little instrument-totem who wants to raise hell and party in a singer-murmur way about the kind of parties we’d have if a few of these nice keyboards people started dressing fancy, going out and show off what they know, they know a whole of a lot, they even know with the sound of a laryngitic laughter produced by an eight years old mocking this whole keyboard ethnic deal, with in one of these almost openly moody moment that he tends to gets, you know, when he’s like this, and realize that my inner voice, reading the text at full speed, dictation speed, is being mocked by figures i can only identify as plump, middle-aged, hispanic cronies. and the little one, the one like Frankenstein that i can never see, and probably shouln’t try to because he’s only caring for me in the shades –
so i stop and look behind to the direction bay. People talking town market talk over the drone of hot fans and airducts, ventilating the infrastructure that’s getting hot! As I type, the realization that none of what you people did changed anything to my ability to type; if anything it’s worse now, but let’s be honest here, her, let’s be honest, Frankenstein, your arm just went past my own arm, i thought it was something else, but even more so Sorgo, you realize what it’s like, to live in an eternal hell made of words trampled underfinger, rustling in the wind like Russel Crowe when he’s dead, arms floating over the brambles and brushes of whatever place he had to leave once war was over and.
well most of it is in my heard but there certainly something that happens at this time, i start piecing strands of forgotten dreams back together, like this young, tall and slender Asian figure, who was she? i put her to bed but i’m not even staying… et toi qui parle depuis tout à l’heure, tu as ta voix à toi, je m’aperçois que tu glisses allègrement de l’anglais au français, mais ta voix ne change pas. Où pourrais-je te pêcher, toi qu’aucune nasse ne saurait contenir, qu’aucune eau, entends-je, n’a jamais trempé tes flancs? Ton âme, Sorgo, ta voix et ton cœur ont les accents et l’éraillé des Renaud, Guichard et de Kersauson, mais tu ne dis rien de ce qu’ils disaient, à par ce que j’en écris, comme un perroquet tu as placé mon clavier sous un sort puissant vaudou, je n’ai quasiment aucun contrôle dessus à moins que je rentre dans son jeu. Il écrit comme il veut, parfois ne fait rien, parfois efface tout et je dois tout réécrire, et il ne m’embête jamais autant, mon clavier, que quand je parle de lui, mon clavier. Parce que là il sait qu’il y a un truc étrange quand même. Dans son esprit penaud il réalité qu’il se passe des choses?
Peut-être craint-il pour sa vie. Il a beaucoup de mal à tenir en place.
Zopiclone si on ne va pas au lit tout de suite, ça te fragmente ta perception des choses, tout aurait l’air en place et normal, sauf que les objets semblent quand même avoir un grain quand même. en particulier ceux que tu utilises fréquemment… il se sentent presque chez eux, en même temps, quand on compare ma chambre, combien d’humains pour combien d’objets, la proportion doit être à 1 contre 55.424, et encore je pense que je fais dans l’euphémisme. Donc concrètement c’est leur chambre. Et s’ils se mettent à râler quand on les utilise défoncé, ça explique aussi que la drogue elle même doit avoir quelque chose à voir avec.
bon, jvais ptet avoir quelques jours tout seul, dans les jours à venir. how about nutmeg juice? i’ve heard it can be potent and mostly harmful, if water is regularly drunk but yeah
ok peeps, i’m still here, i’ve managed over 2000 words today in a very disheveled and disjointed excuse of a schedule — oh my god is that pop taaaaaaarts? cuh-reamyyyyyyyyy — which brings me to 11.394 words(je dois avoir atteint 50.000 d’ici à la fin du mois… I know it doesn’t sound as great as 11.11.11 but, yay
ah fuck it, i’m off to bed, you try to make sense of it, if you can. there were to many people in here and my keyboard is dull to the the touch and getting cranky, like when they bite and claw at you just because you wanted the definition of “marshmallow master” on wikipedia. gotta go now
bye and bye
i want to sit with the stars
there once was a man from Venice
this son of a mother once asked me
is it because i want to sit with the stars
no concessions, no quarter?
is it because i want to lick their lemony faces
and make them forget those who want
to go and try to sell them insurance
and remembering together our barbecue days
we’d party hard, man
we’d put the Jah back in ganja
and if you would only care to join me, Man
all the flak would step-fly
tsunami high
