Five days after my bicycle ride in the summer of 1987, before the stars came out, I read your letter. It made sense to me. Every morning I would read it until it became a concrete sound in my memory. Like the language you used in your letter, I would hear this same language in everyday sounds. Dogs barking in the background, a distant train, bubbling brooks, frogs croaking, it was no longer just noise.
Rain and thunder were just the beginning of that boiling cauldron that turned ocean waves into a whistling rainbow. Even that following cave that echoed footsteps couldn’t hide the complimenting wooden beats outside. Crafty starlings fell apart pitter-pattering to the rhythm of the trees before I read that letter. Only now, could I understand and appreciate the movement of their flight. Recollecting, it was all about texture, wandering bumps in something more than just vapor. Do you remember the sound of that splash of sake between our maki and beer? In cheer, it swished and bubbled and spilled over as our glasses collided. Needing some rest after so much food and drink, I slept under the stars that night. Grandpa visited me the next morning and I told him everything about the kingdom of frogs. Some, but not all, can hear the music.
As obsessed as max over 216 digits I follow that spiraling yellow brick road to a sunflower plant. Interestingly even the family tree of honeybees that pollinated these buzzed along the same path. Sound math painted the path of the great wave that makes reflections in water. The same reflections are seen in the pinecone and in the fruit sprouts of the pineapple. Over the horizon radar also directly follows the formula of this fruit but in listing only. Being lonely and obsessed, I recess to reading alone 289 times before the sacrament of the last supper. All summer these seeds formulaically flower revealing how aesthetics can be golden powered. Showered in numbers I count the drops, I get to 112358132134, but the rain never stops. Bartók’s sonata for two pianos and percussion patters to the rhythm. I listen closer, I’m driven. Seeing 1.618 is how it was written. To who do I owe for these divine proportions? Obsessed to the max, I’m dying, crying, infected, it’s viral. C is to b as, as I disappear into the infinite exterior of this spiral.
Pokie goyl gotta get those mon
undun upon a battle they got nothon
but showder breath and undocked moves
a bittle idiosyncroticy and crooked tooves
Pokie goyl gonna get zese mon
with chur crazy beaz and some fowler con
the beast gonna krize when she curts their phaces
like they voo vin they spurts chair kerases
Pokie goyl grinnen when she lays down her braiisin
amazen thier bittle binds they always fraiisin
they try to repowa but goyl doesnt pallow
so they freep with the moon in hallow.
Pokie goyl gains some roven
she pershates and roves her montsa hoven
she roven but she also craitin
Pokie goyl gettin her tigh raitin.
Geogaddi’s number station passes shortwave transmissions between left and right channels. You could probably play it in reverse at 3:34 and it would pan around the other way. Radio stations operate like this in dreams. Only this is not a dream, it sounds like something near the Boards of Canada. Spies were believed to receive messages from government agencies using this method. Conet Project, yes, the Conet Project revealed this from a Lincolnshire Poacher I hear. Only track four scans like this though, spinning speech synthesis around your head. Powerful in its function, but in this case, it’s all about the form of its sound. Even albums have something to say sometimes if you listen closely.
Corrine’s makeshift shacks pollinate at their peaks. Each pixel passes, hatches, and grows into the next Neumann heap. Little windows, just a few, allow the dwellers an even eye to see through. Lines overlapped, rotated, and folded, created this puzzle, paper coated. Urban square rooted shelters like these, since when do they cast such an organic tease? Listen and you can hear, in the colors, the rustling of fractal leaves appear. A spotted frame winks below an origami kite carried by a coded breeze in this modular night. Rest inside, Smith’s your host, socialize a bit, with one of the ghetto ghosts.
A new day arrives and a distant morning 8-bit bluebird can be heard. Undisturbed by this but rather empowered, the structures again begin, to flower. Towers of two, dimensions, sway to the tune of four dimensions. Or, is it even more? Making neighborhoods, their gardens, with each crafty spore. A door opens to a few of these structures allowing exit or entrance? To whence we came? In the game of life, to what structure do we aim? Our vessels like these, what gives them life, what gives them name? Not so much meaning, as burnt architecture from a undying flame.
Entwined double helixes mix marker with emotion. Networked veins rhythmically pump the creature’s colorful dna up to its unblinking eye. There, like a mirror, we see ourselves and all the overlapping twisted layers that shape us. And like us, it has its own persona with its own struggles, dreams, and sufferings. No stranger to chaos and causality, we feel it’s heartbeat like it is our own. Grooves in its ribbons spiral like wrinkles in our skin with stories to tell. Listen closely and you can hear faint tribal drums. Each limb subtly pulses and moves to this music. Dutiful it drops, four restless notes in a bowl between stained-glass fences in attempt to release a bit of social anxiety.
Invisible in the night if it were not for the sun’s reflection sliding off its oil-like slicked wings. Lucid dreams fuel its flight carrying it from nest to knowledge. Openly it “caws,” almost vanishing while it waits for an echo from any other shadow that also drips in the same iridescence. Verily it believes that even in the smoke and fog there are feathers that can complement its own. Escaping it seems is not an option so it paints the keys to the cage that has captured it with colors and forms that validate, express, and free its existence.
Yearning to be understood and appreciated but careful not to be dependent or unrealistic, the “caws” become progressively internalized. Outside contradictory conditions are swallowed until it is too heavy to carry the weight. Unbelievably, it’s shadow just happens to fall into the buttons of a straw-like character hung on a pole riddled with feathers much like its own.
Over themselves they tumble until their mouths are smeared and stretched out over the surface. Crashing against jagged edged minerals their form shatters into millions of glistening shootings stars that dive back into the whole of the dust in which they came. Eyes cannot see into the depths of the stochastic nature in which they rise and descend. At the will of wind and seismic strings they are like all others, victims of causality. Not unlike the moons pull that manipulates them towards it like a puppeteer moves cold limp limbs.
Who does not see themselves, their mind, their lives, in them? As it must, Byung’s brush reveals everything and yet nothing, in the disguise of their turbulence. Visions of the human condition swell and egos decay, our footprints all washed away. Even the sunlight that momentarily shines through them creating that turquoise-like iridescence is not enough illumination to justify their journey. Sinusoidal rhythms eventually flatline when the bristles dry out.