International Memories spellbinds you to yr mobile device, into a self that you didn’t think you’d become. It’s like a witch’s elixir: slushy with a coy aura; funky & office-like; emergent & bitter.
For example, what will the sunset over this city be a metaphor of? Can you see it, digest it, be empathetic to it, or even embody it there, in that thatness, like that? You can’t, which means you’ve come a long way. The music’s imaginary circumstances have infiltrated your ontic vicinity, nullifying the heroic.
To transcend this web, fade-out to a next thing, in a room, pretty much on the floor. But notice the clutched smartphone, the IKEA ambience, swelling. Welcome to this enchanted capitalist finitude; I triple-dog dare you to try & escape. Meanwhile, ask yourself: are you alive here? Are you intricately nebulous? Teeming with sensuality?
Welcome, welcome to the gentleness of the abyss and its nacreous gleam. Here, fantasy forms the limits of your reality. It’s like dreaming, but not enough.
Listen to these soft outbursts of self-annihilation, in this purgatory plagued w/ Dells & windows glazed w/ silver noir-rain.
A voice emerges, cut-off from its exhalation; its unintelligible utterance paralyzes. Then a veil of tides enwraps it, bright bells in the offing. Dare I suggest that inside this lighthouse the spiral staircase is marble? That in this office the urinals, made of gold, flush when you step away from them?
A graffiti-splashed sax — suggesting the world of punks, mutants, private eyes, & pizza delivery boys — ends this tape-meditation on a somber note. We swirl away, melt in lava. We have a cry in the hot tub, ready to face the world again. But this time: braver.