How do you picture your childhood home? I have every square inch of mine mapped out in my head, from what the ceiling looks like viewed from the crack between the headboard of my bed and the wall, to how the light formed wavy rectangles between the coats in the closet. None of it is accurate though; everything is overlapped, views from different angles and heights, objects simultaneously elongated and shortened as successive memories of them are stored and corrupted. An infinite-exposure of snapshots in time.
These are the environments contained on this cassette; not places you can go, but places you have been—still dream of being—places that never existed but you have memory of. Voices flit in and out, the sounds of life through a lattice of images amalgamated from locations real and imagined. The sounds here are noisy, scratched, distorted, burnt, crushed, blasted, and damaged. It’s the thick residue of the subconscious; all the sounds, feelings and images your brain filters out from your immediate attention but files away to carve the crevices at the edge of dreams. Memory unfurling in a vain attempt to fill an endless black.
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