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Drying blood, becoming chalky like the red clay that models the human form… the conceit of tradition’s weight, the fallacy of one future sustained by it.
Sustaining until music greets the end, like that fabled light––a rhythm diminishing in tempo from seconds to minutes, days, months, years… into the indiscernible pattern of an immeasurable venture. A story-teller spoke of a second death, some short or long time after breathing stops: the last time your name is ever spoken. Maybe then, a first conception too, some long or short time before the zygote forms: the origination of whatever heritage and tradition will fuse with your worldly arrival.
Dried blood, becoming the red clay that models the son… the conceit of a man giving birth, the preposterousness of original sin.
A poet reassures us that the moment of death is not to be feared. It is the end of all sensation––it cannot itself be felt. Your mind pulls backwards rapidly.. Somebody calls out your name... greeting you. This is before you learn to speak for yourself––taking in your first breath of oxygen in air. And living itself is like your very first dream––shocking, unimaginable––before dreaming recedes, pooling in the cracks of the ground of being.
A fusion of ambient, classical, spoken word, and deconstructed dance music finds beauty and groove in glitches and pops. Bandcamp New & Notable Oct 20, 2022