my friend jamie has been listening to my new album (haunted tors) - the following business occurred to him:
Cautious ambling. Ann Quin’s enfolded prose the reason for the image on this post. BERG, a must-read for anyone interested in how deftly language lends its limbs to nimble ‘smiths. I’m reading alongside Flann O’Brien, a writer bridging Borges and D.F.Wallace, he the sly troll residing underneath the creaking straddle. Glue and maps that grew across my floor, expansive and minuscule and unnervingly so.
I find the thought of a single grain of sand unbearable. Terrible and terrifying in its image, and scaled upward into sight so as to inspect its own grain, detail, texture; sometimes an unimaginable smoothness - untenable gloss - and other times infinitely grainy, granular, each speck pointedly present. Here is an object so minuscule and commonly multiple which is scaled in such a way that it is terrifying, and loomingly singular - objective and subject to exquisite enquiry - irresistible. Each time this image comes to mind, I have to swallow it, smother it to prevent it overwhelming me.
I have been listening to Waskerley Way’s new EP (http://waskerleyway.bandcamp.com/album/haunted-tors). A pixelated, glyphic sunset adorns the cover. Mirrored. The paradox of pixels imbuing the music - unclear but not blurred - neat, ordered, delineated squares of colour in shades. There is a brief passage in O’Brien’s Third Policeman where a character describes a man who can see the colours of the wind:
“The wind from the east is a deep purple, from the south a fine shining silver. The north wind is a hard black and the west is amber. People in the old days had the power of perceiving these colours and could spend a day sitting quietly on a hillside watching the beauty of the winds, their fall and rise and changing hues, the magic of neighbouring winds when they are interweaved like ribbons at a wedding.”
Dread, death, life, nature, fate, all intertwine here as each person is assigned a birth wind - the prevailing wind on the hour of your birth - the lighter the hue, the longer a life. Every year from birth, you are given a cloak, a thin muslin perfectly capturing the exact hue of your birth wind. As you age, and you accumulate more layers, the colour begins to darken, signalling your approach toward death…
Summit Shrine in Cloud flounders winding summer’s clasp, in saturated fades of cross-wound wind, winding clapper, a have-to haptic and, as grasping gasps grow dim and bleached, we walk, westward, in a blizzard…