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Grass Waves: Waterfall-releasing music in the surrender of artistic decadence

Updated: Feb 10

Music is a natural spring: clear, prismatic, sculpted cymatics, cool, and ancient; cascading and bubbling with various degrees of falls and of eddies-- intense to many factors of interpretive divination, yet seemingly constant by the ceaseless force of earthen pressures. Parts of the spring can be so cold and move so continuously that the bodies of fish that died there are mummified-- their corpses suspended, preserved by constants, near the heart of the aquifer. Like the earth, the fish, the trees, and everything surrounding this great mire people are but ancillary to music. We are the grasses above its ridge, waving in the wind and being nourished by it. Art and life are intertwined and indistinguishable, yet for the urge to commodify it-- innocuously insatiable. What is it worth: maybe 20% of one cent? Maybe 15 seconds of the chorus? Maybe $40,000 live ticket resale? Maybe when music becomes commerce this interdimensional well becomes a whirlpool and then a black hole. The basin crumbles and the aquifer becomes a geyser, igniting in a plume of black clouds and flaming demons, flicking their tongues and scorching it all while the earth swallows the sky.

From the bowels of post-capital hell, I jump, and I perch myself above it's maw with my feet dangling over it -- like making play with the thought of perishing, and maybe really I will die that way. Maybe most people do (am I giving normies too much credit)? The aging middle class in this country -- nested cozily with their leveraged portfolios in homes they own outright but old enough now that there is materially less to enjoy as the sands of time calculate their expiry -- what number of them has any legacy of art? Yet how much we care about it (see celebrity anything). What is the point of this [content] having its own website? Every time I drive I wonder if it's the last and pray upon my exhumation, the outsider art is enough to take care of what and who (matters) that's left behind. No, this hardly matters, and the lot of good its done me, toiling for dreams in abject ennui. Maybe I hope for solace. Maybe I hope for happy ears, or even more for sad ears. Maybe my songs are playing in the unconscious underworlds of my least dissociative dreams (wherein I can still hear). Maybe these words are something to make more play for you than work for me. Are you having fun yet? Do you understand what it takes to have fun yet? [close tab]

There though, I am right about one thing: the only duty of an artist to art is that of a dreamer to dream, and people forget their dreams constantly. Less inclined people can act like their creative counterparts have a choice, and the encouragement is poetic with irony. I did not ask the heavens for the dreams I have. No, yet still I dreamed them. I remembered them. I swore they were real. I even wished they would come true. Now I am 32 years. It doesn't make sense to live for my own dreams. Instead I live for the dreams of those I love. Now my dreams are the skeletal architecture of my past, evolving into an Atlantean promulgation of how deep my love is for the present, and onward how storms of tears I can no longer cry fill the future oceans of love for my progeny.

Antipodal architecture and surreal temple of the mind

God dammit. So far this sounds like a suicide letter or a depressing memoir. On the contrary, I have fun every day. I know what it takes, and I will have fun even apparently entertaining my morbidity. Time is such a funny thing -- such a funny, phony thing. It's practically become a meme that people regard it as so frivolous yet [gestures broadly at everything] here we are. I find myself in the situation of teaching people how to let go and how to let themselves feel without the pretense of others constantly. Maybe that is a good foundation for my new mission. Where I may have made a good music teacher now I make at least some Socratic stooge, and the best I can hope is that my experiments inspire you. All this to say after four years: I am delighted to present a new single, "Grass Waves," which will be (or has been) released on Friday, January 12, 2024, in three months anticipation of my newest full-length album, Planes of Broken Mirrors, releasing on March 22, 2024. You can check out a hallucinatory and original Vorkapich-esque music video I made for this song on YouTube, and all of my links can be found here. Please subscribe to my email list, and let me know what you think There is much more to come very soon.

Dunkirk Beach following World War II

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