So, Mirka was driving. I don’t know the make and / or model of the vehicle because (one) I am oblivious to the automobile world and (two) everything else happening may have been a bit distracting. In the passenger’s seat was an abomination. What sort of abomination was it? It could have been a very kind abomination for all I know. I am unsure. Whatever personality traits it had, it was still an abomination, and I’m not only stating that in regard to its appearance. There was a particular smell. It wasn’t exactly a stench, but had a way of worming itself into the molecular structure of the atmosphere itself. It spoke from time to time, but only to Mirka, and in a guttural tongue unlike Czech or Spanish or English or any other language I’ve heard in the last few millennia.

So, grunt grunt uggh nngh fffmmevv it said. It may have also said ffmpeg, pronounced as a single syllable, but I cannot recall clearly.

So, grunt grunt uggh nngh fffmmevv indeed.

Mirka always politely replied to the abomination, but in Czech, as it is her so-called mother tongue.

In the back seat, where we certainly belong, sat Christian and I. We discussed Steely Dan. In fact, we were listening to Steely Dan. Steely Dan, much like the not-quite-stench of the abomination, wormed itself from an unknown sound source into the molecular structure of the atmosphere. The album was either The Royal Scam or Countdown to Ecstasy. At certain moments, we were both listening carefully, but at others, Christian insisted in singing some song from the Aja album OVER the music that had already wormed itself into the molecular structure of the atmosphere. Doesn’t this sound like?… and he sang a bit from Peg or Black Cow.

At some point during this interchange between myself, Christian, the actual music that had wormed itself into the molecular structure of the atmosphere and Christian’s inner dialogue, Mirka, to whom I’d been oblivious for some time, assuming she was absorbed in the Czech-grunt exchange with the abomination, turned to me then indicated with a flick of her eyeballs Christian. She said, do what we talked about.

So, I did!

I quickly reached over Christian, who was still humming some other Steely Dan which was out of sync with the Steely Dan that had wormed itself into the molecular structure of the atmosphere, and opened the door. I gave him a shove and he went flying. Yes - flying. The outside was not a road or succession of fields or anything terrestrial, but instead a blackness dotted with debris. Christian joined this debris.

Cut to some time in the future. Mirka and I are enjoying tea. It is Hojicha. She asks me, point-blank: Is Christian still jetsam? I say: Yeah - as far as I know.

Good.

The following is from the book I’m currently reading:

Alice, as previously formulated, resided more in my memory than in the depleted original container.

I’m making note of this, or, rather, beginning a blog entry this evening so I can gunny it out on the morrow morn. Most likely, I’ll have finished the book, as I am close to the close and shall begin reading forthwith. Many fascinating ideas lie within, though I’ll most likely just touch on this one.

So who is this Alice, anyway? In Lethem’s As She Climbed Across the Table, the idea of absence is explored in depth. More specifically, the idea of replacing substance with absence is explored. The characters repeatedly substitute an intense yearning for something they cannot possibly have for something substantial that they already have as if the ineffable is always the more attractive choice. Philip, the protagonist, pines for Alice with whom he had a serious and seemingly satisfying relationship. Why does he pine for Alice? Well, Alice chose another over Philip, and as you may have guessed, this other is something Alice cannot possibly have. In fact, what Alice wants is the epitome of the ineffable, a tangible embodiment of nothingness. In the book, its name is, appropriately, Lack. Don’t be fooled by my superficial description of events. This no ordinary unrequited love story. “Lack” is a portal into the void. He is the result of a scientific experiment gone “awry” (actually not really awry, but that’s a close enough description for the moment).

Lack will not take Alice physically. His existence and passive rejection depletes Alice. As the quote states, she is a depleted container.

I look back on the elongated, twisty road my life has taken and find many Eidolons. These eidolons are, as the quote mentions, forms that reside in my memories. They are portraits, or rather timelines, of people captured from relations I had with them in the past. They are wholly incomplete novels. But, in a sense, to me they are wholly complete. They are complete in the sense that I’ll not read them to the end, or I’ve already read them to my perception of the end. I once had a series of discussions with Jayson about how the people one relates with in life are, indeed, like books. From time to time one takes them off the bookshelf, reads for a bit, and replaces them. I’d take the idea a bit further now and claim that the majority of these books are complete, at least to me. When I reach for one from the shelf now and again, it is to peruse parts that I’ve already read, to perhaps refresh my memory. New chapters do not exist.

So, the majority of my relations from the past - I’d say the vast majority - reside more in my memory. When I make efforts to reconnect with what’s left of the person, more often than not I am presented with an aforementioned depleted original container. Whether the container is actually depleted or not is an aspect of my point of view. It may be that the book corresponding to said person on my personal shelf is complete. Reconnection is pointless. Nothing more can be written. However, the books corresponding to said person residing on others’ shelves may be quite different. They may be far from complete. They may even be in the process of being written. BUT clearly for me, they are done.

This has been my recent experience in my attempt to reconnect with Sam, and it’s probably just as well. Two people sitting around talking about old times and only talking about old times doesn’t really constitute a relationship from my view. There is nothing new to read in the novel. One can reread such things alone.

I’m still straddling the towering wall that divides possibilities in most cases other than Sam’s. In a few, however, and happily however, my own shelved books of them have not been finished. Either I haven’t read to the end or blank pages await joint scribbling.

After much speculation over quite a bit of time, I’ve come to the conclusion that the “standards” of production concerning sonic “normality” are tricks. They apply to a very small percentage of the music making population. They have been refined over decades to appeal to the lowest common denominator. And refined even more now to appeal to those who consume music through streaming services.

Like most who are in the habit of composing and recording our own music, I have fallen for this trick time and again and I must untrain myself to hear “mistakes” in production values when they don’t correspond to what the most well-known masterers and producers of the day proclaim to be “correct”. I laugh and laugh at myself when I think more closely about it. Do I follow the guide of mainstream musicians to begin with? Am I an acolyte of the pop and rock or even electronica legends? Absolutely not. So why should I subscribe to the so-called legends of sonic “quality”, as well?

However, some ideas I shall of course adhere to as they provide for my own enjoyment of the music I lay onto the tape. Clarity within frequency range and separation in stereo space are some of these. I do want to hear what the instruments are doing. Other fads like extreme widening of synth landscapes and ducking of all “offensive” resonances can be consigned to the offal pit, though. After all, I know where the dump is.

Listening to Bob Drake or Captain Beefheart or even Jandek re-reveals my essence. They are good references time and again. In the end, my music will never be for the masses. Creating an aural sheen that glimmers for the masses is pointless and actually inappropriate and dishonest to artistic vision. Flavigula is outsider music, or as Herr Jayrope says: Extra Music. Though he signs it with one of those hashtag things. #extramusic.

To keep myself grounded, I shall make note of this blog entry and come back to it often.

I failed the universe’s tenuous strands that hold its gauze together two days ago when I did not write about the dream I had which featured not Lucía herself, but a physical search for where she might be. I used to have tangible address books and there were essential to me. They were sacred. Tangible address books! Ones one could actually touch! Imagine that! And one of these tangible address books still exists and it is in a box in the closet in my bedroom in Seminole. When I was last there in March, I did not peruse it. Next time I shall.

In any case, the dream of the search for where Lucía might be. Well, we know where she is at the moment or should be at the moment and that is in New York City. Her current position in space is immaterial, however, as she exists in another form in my dreams and in my memories or even in my life. There are two Lucías. One is (usually) in New York City. The other is still in Patagonia.

In any case, the dream of the search for where Lucía might be. The moment in the dream was brief. I was thumbing through one of my sacred address books and found her page of residence. Perhaps that page was also her location - not just New York City or Patagonia. Blurry scribblings surrounded her entry and to the left was a quote I had notated from Melanie. Are my eidolons merging?

In the dream, a scroll stretched between the two cottages. It was a stereotypically antiquated scroll - one you’d perhaps expect to see in a film about warlocks or fifteenth century reformists in the Kingdom of Bohemia. I specify fifteenth century reformists in the Kingdom of Bohemia because I spent one of my so-called former lives as a paramecium in the Kingdom of Bohemia and I clearly remember the Hussites using this sort of scroll as a symbol of additional “rebellion” against the Roman Empire’s obsession with bound books. The parchment itself was veined with creases in various shades of brown and grey and one could have thought the whole would simply come apart at these veins were one to take the scroll from one side and from the other and gently pull. At my end of the scroll, in my cottage, a portion, even a great portion, was still rolled. I slowly fed the parchment into the roll at the same time that Lucía unrolled her portion.

She sat on the floor in the second cottage. The distance between us was immeasurable in the manner that only distances in dreams can be immeasurable.

On the veined parchment of the scroll were names and descriptions of teas. The teas were innumerable in the manner that only teas in dreams can be innumerable. Though I couldn’t see the writing from her point of view, I knew that for her, it was aligned “right way up” in the same way it was for me, somehow transformed as it slowly passed through the distance between cottages. We were discussing the teas.

The discussion was possible because of two small intercom boxes fixed to the floor near each of us. These intercom boxes were the sort that I soldered together as a child in the washing room of the house in Fort Stockton, Texas, which was also the house in which I first “met” Lucía via ICQ on my parents computer that now surely sits decaying for thousands of years in a vertedero surely reserved solely for antiquated computers created specifically for meeting sixteen year old girls from Argentina.

In fact, the intercom boxes appeared to be the exact ones that I soldered together in the washing room in that house in Fort Stockton. Their plastic was yellowed with age and pocked with burn marks from a soldering iron in the manner that only plastic intercom boxes in dreams can be yellowed with age and pocked with burn marks from a soldering iron. Along with the scroll, stretched between the two cottages was a thin wire, unsupported by anything, apparently connecting somehow the two intercom boxes. Her voice was crackly. I supposed mine was, as well. Additionally, a third voice could be heard faintly from time to time appealing that we use open-source software instead. I assume this detail of the dream emanated from the article I read yesterday concerning Session Initiation Protocol.

The teas were “formatted” on the scroll in a font that I can attest, as an ex-paramecium in the erstwhile Kingdom of Bohemia, did not exist in the fifteenth century. Their names were neatly centered and their descriptions and historical origins placed in paragraphs below as if some Hungarian design guru had fiddled with the html and css for scores of months before submitting them to the time travelling monks who took them back to the Hussite world. With partially broken-up voices amid gentle maelstroms of static, we discussed each tea until at last we reached Lapsang Souchong.

At this moment in the dream, the words on the scroll began to magnify. I was somehow being inserted into the parchment. Everything swelled until the particles of ink surrounded me. However, I could still hear Lucía. She was talking about the idea of smoking tea leaves. She was talking about a fog of smoke that grew to finally envelop the swell of the horizon and the curve of the planet itself. Though I was tiny among particles of ink, and perhaps even one of those particles, I heard her. I also heard the gentle washes of static, whorling. I awoke.

I dumped a thought into my “Twtxt feed” (which needs a new name, as the original idea’s association with Twitter dissolved long ago) this morning concerning the drug problem in España. I don’t normally concern myself with such issues, but I’d had a conversation with Marisa, who is a partaker of Benzodiazepine, about the fact that Spain is shoulders and torso above all other countries on this ball of steel and greenery in the consumption of said chemical.

My comment addressed social pressure, and specifically social pressure concerning appearance. You see, Spain is like a huge American High School. Everyone is under constant pressure to fit in to some sub-culture or another, or even to fit in to the micro-social groups of their work or even family. And absolutely everything is firstly about immediate appearance. The amount of time that humans here spend sculpting their looks according to myriad (and sometimes contradicting) norms is ludicrous to me. Time otherwise that could be spent in processes of creation or compassion or worshipping goats is simply WASTED with the only immediate apparent byproduct being anxiety. Excellent! What a way to live!

The stereotype of relaxation in the sun of which the Mediterranean is branded is clearly a hoax. Or perhaps it is true of those who are only intermittent residents. The populace at large live in a daze of medication without which they could not live a so-called normal life. Perhaps Spain is simply a vast loony bin. Perhaps the whole Mediterranean coast is. Somehow the irony amuses me, but, has I said in my “Twtxt feed”, with a furrow on my brow.

I blame it wholly on superficiality and the pressure to be accepted into WHICHEVER group, clique, or sect. I’ve noticed over time that there is a plague of extroversion in this land. Or, more specifically, introversion is stamped some kind of mental illness whereas obviously the opposite is the problem. The majority lack the ability to exist in solitude. In some cases, even for a single day.

The furrow relaxes.

I sit at a table in the aeroport in Houston, awaiting my flight to Orlando. I am filled with an inchoate rage as I observe the remainder of humanity, going about their movement from place to place as if there is no overhanging emptiness waiting to engulf them.

They pursue minutiae in subconscious hopes that it will give meaning to moments they just place aside never to return to. Some of them have succumbed to biological imperative and descended into tribal lust for the survival of a small bubble they label ‘family’.

I am apart. Though i always have been apart. Shouldn’t I be used to it? Nope. One can never become used to it. I see them sat like puddles and others flow like streams around them, all in their own atmospheres, unfortunate and rotting.

Putrefying.

The base absurdity of being alive hits me with the force of a cellophane sheet. I tear it aside. I watch, furtively, the black guy sitting at the table in front of me who dons a pink cap and a furry, tan sweater. Just before, he placed his headphones, a brilliant blue, upon his head, then adjusted the hood of his tan sweater accordingly.

Are people so concerned with their appearance to the outside folk? To the other bubbles? To the other tribes? What does it accomplish?

I want to kill them all.

I dug this up from a file I had been making on my telephone whilst trudging randomly around Nashville in 2013 - sometimes even at the Zoo and sitting below towering giraffes and / or surrounded by bustling wallabies. Oh! The good ol’ days! Cough. Sputter.

“ALL AROUND YOU PEOPLE ARE JUDGING YOU SILENTLY,” warned a 1922 ad for Woodbury’s soap.

Though not related directly to this quote, what comes to mind is tangential. Tangential ideas toot my muffin. They enhance the darkness that extends from the membrane surrounding this house into the vast cosmos, stopping just short of the infinity peering back and sizing up said membrane, pining for its dissolution.

I get intermittent lectures from my mother about tipping. I’m not against tipping itself. I’ve been known to throw money around practically at random at times. However, I certainly have problems with tipping culture in the good ol’ USA. And how does tipping culture in the good ol’ USA relate to Woodbury’s Soap?

Tipping Culture is an extension of the idea that one must constantly attempt to sell oneself. Within tipping culture and within the ethos of the good ol’ USA in general is the bitter need to push every human to be a sales-being. It’s just NOT good enough for the good ol’ USA to do a job correctly or competently or even superlatively. The presentation of oneself is a process wholly separate from the work being accomplished. And, in many cases, and specifically in the case of formal food service, for example, the presentation of self is more important to the, ahem, consumer than work that went into creation of the thing being consumed.

Obviously, the concept creates a bias towards humans who are more aesthetically appealing, both physically and in “approach” - meaning mannerisms, gesticulations and speech patterns. Guides have even existed in the past and possibly still do exist that “teach” one to be as aesthetically pleasing as possible. That is, guides have existed in the past and possibly still do exist that encourage homogeneity.

Anyone who has read much of Martenblog will know that this is a repellent thought to me.

“CRITICAL EYES ARE SIZING YOU UP RIGHT NOW,” advised the Williams Shaving Cream company.

I guess back in 2013, sitting in the shadow of towering beasts, by scribing these quotes into my mobile phone with its provided stylus, I was attempting to point out the same idea over and over.

Well, as Brian Eno once said as he was shitfaced with his friend Peter Schmidt, Repetition is a Form of Change.

Direct aesthetic appeal is overemphasized in occidental culture. I don’t have any problem with aesthetics as a concept, of course, but I do have a problem with anyone who says that there is a overreaching aesthetic to ANYTHING and especially with the idea that adhering to one cultural norm is “best” or (even worse) “right”. It reeks of homogeneity and fundamentalism.

One could kick me in the teeth and comment that art itself, and especially visual art, is pure aesthetic. It may be that it is the creation of a specific aesthetic or elaboration of a more general aesthetic. But that aesthetic is presented for appreciation, which I can certainly do. It is not claimed to be the end-all of aesthetics. It is not forced upon humankind. One is not told that if one does not adhere to said aesthetic in whole or in part, one is a lesser being.

The 2013 pennings (or stylusings) go on to say -

I Suspect that a certain person I shall not mention and his ilk are so subliminally influenced by such a so called philosophy and that it is so ingrained that they, like most Americans, don’t think any other Way of being has any purpose at all.

I was more concerned with the relation to fundamentalism of such overreaching “aesthetics”, possibly, back then. I was actually LIVING in the states at that point of my life. I had recently returned from Estonia and its generally different view on the way one presents oneself. That is, the humans there don’t find it so important to constantly sell themselves. They are content to do the work assigned to them or that pleases them and present the fecundities of this labour. The marketing sheen exists, for sure, but it is muted. It is not in the forefront of absolutely everything.

It is not yet repellent.

“EVER TRIED SELLING YOURSELF TO YOU? A FAVORABLE FIRST IMPRESSION IS THE GREATEST SINGLE FACTOR IN BUSINESS OR SOCIAL SUCCESS.” Here is stated the problem with job interviews and employers in general. Instead of proving Oneself competent, an interviewee must present him / herself confident. Thus the proliferation of incompetent employees in the workforce.

Here is another compelling tangent scribed in that antiquated and long lost mobile phone. I can say that in the dominant field I have pursued in the past, this concept is also muted. If one can prove they can competently solve programming problems, one is “admitted”. The need to bathe one’s hairy living corpse first in Williams Shaving Cream is, therefore, somewhat diminished.

I’m not necessarily arguing against bathing one’s hairy living corpse in Williams Shaving Cream. Why not? What has one got to lose? Practise up a bit on your Pascal, though, as well.

I woke up as usual at five in the early morning. Though I could not see it, I sensed the black of night expanding away from the house and into the infinity of desert sky. I had had a dream featuring Lucía. She’s someone I think of from time to time, though not as frequently as one might expect given the part she played in my decade of unrest (la decada de desasosiego / saqen lip tetyk liz li omikon hupum xutz myx liz). I had to pause there to make that translation into Lakife, which I am not sure is the proper translation, but as all my creative efforts are evolutionary ones, fuck um. But - Lucía.

I woke up from a dream featuring Lucía. We were at an inchoate concert, a concert never to be, at least in my dream, as I never got to its incipient point on the timeline. Peter Hammill was playing, and many of the audience members were made up to look like him. As Peter’s stage features are not necessarily as standoutish as, say, those of the members of KISS (for example), it was obvious to me that many of the audients (to borrow a word from Robert Fripp) had had cosmetic surgery. Good for them. The human form is malleable. I’m all for any and all modifications.

Lucía sat a step below me. We were on risers of a sort. Her body was half turned and her head tilted up at me. It was evident that our relationship, too, was inchoate. She was certainly always a timid person and though I no longer know her, in the dream she maintained the demeanour of the adolescence from which she decorated my decade (or perhaps a slight bit more than a decade) of unrest.

We were conversing about art and music and her future as a transformer of spaces. She was always thus and that she certainly is to this day given her current position in the world. Her head was always tilted and she was always a step below, turned slightly so she could easily look up at me. The sensation was slightly disquieting. Other humans intermittently intruded from the surrounding space, making our conversation crooked. One of them I violently rejected from our personal space. Or perhaps Lucía violently rejected him from our personal space. That part is not clear.

As is the case in dreams as it is in so-called real life, I had to get up and search for a piss-pot. From this point, the dream devolved into a nightmarish trek from gallery to gallery, beneath arcades and through different stadiums designed in curious ways to thwart anyone wishing to pass through them without taking notice. It occurs to me now that Lucía designed them all. From the stark to the ornate, monochromatic to psychedelic, I passed through tens, hundreds, millions. Poor me. I was simply in search of a piss-pot.

At last, I came upon the male human that either I or Lucía had violently rejected from our personal space. He seemed to only half remember the incident and promised to lead me to my treasured piss-pot, and then back to the stadium or gallery or theatre where Lucía and Peter awaited. I followed him, though his pace incrementally outpaced my own. Moment by moment, he became less defined, as did the endless whorling vistas on every side, to my back and forward.

I awoke.

Sometime in the early fall of 2021, I wrote, sitting on a bench in Pagan Park:

The waft of mental filth roams with me through the park. It is a space without its personal memory. It is merely a collector. Like most spaces, it prompts the memories of those who wander within its confines. The babe without a single drop of remembrance would swim in the nostalgia of all that came before.

I soaked up myriad musings stretching back to the dawn of the universe as I sat on that bench. I was the babe without a single drop of remembrance. I absorbed and penned a novel about the collective consciousness of every being that ever crossed the perimeter of the park. I experienced once again that one must remind oneself to clear the mind completely when traversing a space one has traversed before. If not, the danger of letting one’s own past interfere in the current moment looms.

What I was trying to say, surely, in a non-elliptical tangle, was that it’d be groovy were the park an accumulator of memories from all that traversed it. A container of sorts. Given that, I’ll write about something tangential to it.

Nostalgia is the danger. I’m as susceptible to it as most, though I’d like to think that I see it for what it is and attempt to set it aside. It may cocoon me for a time, but the cocoon is fluid and flows around and eventually away.

Nostalgia is the danger. Making decisions based on nostalgia cuts life short. One intentionally enters into a loop or even a devolution. I hear talk time and again of the way things once were and the good old days. Do those who speak truly want to regress to a time before without the knowledge they have gained in the meantime? I would hope not. But the commoner maps out life in well-defined blacks and stark whites. The latter are the times to regress to. The former are what said human has learned in the meantime, to be tossed aside, surely.

Nostalgia is the danger. And surely a conduit to loss.

I long to return to places I’ve been before because of past contentment, or what I perceive from this point of view in time as past contentment, though the reality may have been something else altogether. I’m not immune to viewing the past through barber-pole phaser coloured glasses. But time and again the reality of those returns is not the happy-land I’d imagined.

The pull of nostalgia is intense, and within resisting it is where the reward lies. It’s time-worn to claim that living in the past is detrimental, for sure, and I posit that the darker spaces I mentioned a few paragraphs prior shape our current state much more than the complacent epochs of contentment. In the end, it’s no surprise that I believe that moving forward is always the best option.

So, Renata has handed me the lyrics to Olšanské Hřbitovy. They are the following:

Sluneční žár
zalévá hrob
svým nektarem
žlučovitým
smrt se nezdá
smrt je tu všude

The sun’s heat waters the grave. It is its nectar.

The desiccating corpse below the ground is slowly emptied of water. It no longer needs its water or water from elsewhere. It’s DONE, vole! Watering the grave with the sun’s rays is a method of display, though also of outer decay, as the tomb itself will erode with time. I’ve probably mentioned it before, but when I kick it, just dump me in the river. Which river? Well, the closest will do.

The grave’s nectar is sunlight in that it attracts insects, or, rather, humans, who come to visit, to mourn, to weep or to scheme someone else’s demise. Nectar by proxy.

In the way that bile flows through a living corpse’s system, death flows through all systems of human history, culture and spirit. As Renata writes, it is not happenstance. It simply pervades everything living.

I’m sure Christian will get around to singing these words sometime during the next decade, after the rest of the album has been finished for centuries and most of humanity have converted themselves into non-living corpses and been dumped into various rivers.

Speaking of Christian, let’s talk about virility.

Virility makes me snicker. Or, rather, the need for men to appear virile makes me snicker. Briefly on the phone yesterday, I presented my idea to Christian that the redneck (or, more commonly called in my vernacular “peasant”) idea of a successful male is one who is strong, unaffected by pain and spreads his seed broadly, whether literally or simply in so-called conquests.

Clearly, this arises from the biological “protector” and “reproductive” roles assigned to humans. Though, if one compares to most other animals, it can be seen that most often the “protector” role is assigned to the mother. The stereotype that in ancient cultures women were on their knees making bread whilst the males of the so-called tribe were out proving their virility hunting is simply not accurate. There is ample evidence that the division of labour in this case, and especially in the small wandering groups that humans once were, was equal.

In any case, the view that the man need be seen as virile and as a propagator of seeds is outdated. Even if there was an accurate analogy elsewhere in the animal kingdom, the arrow of humanity’s evolution targets objectives ever above mere reproductive rites and staged hunting rituals. As usual, the rednecks have it wrong. And for this, they are a blight. Grinding up their living corpses to use to fertilize hydroponic farms is the way to go. Afterwards, a kind soul can publish a pamphlet concerning the “tumor we cut from the living corpse of humanity”, just to remember that they existed.

An internet pamphlet. Redneck remembrance. Fuck um.

If someone is keeping score, and I’m sure someone is, as it is what a certain subset of humans are wont to do, I’d say what defines a person’s so-called “worth” is their contribution to humanity as a whole, be that contribution scientific, artistic or directly altruistic.

That being written, what do I think that I contribute? Just remember to dump me into the closest river.