Selected Ambient Works
It was in a white building, wedged between disciples of articulation that I was born.
This building was tall and slender, windowless, and affirmed by its discoloration. Here, is where I drew first blood from the doctrines of the abstract and inhaled the brumes of obscurity. Where escaped me, did the engulfing bursts of frigid wind into the well of my frail lungs. And how it was, to be enthralled by crystals of pure frost. To be subdued by the pressing particles that arose from the vents of these monotone walls. For it was air that bore me, under the annexment of time.
This building was tall and slender, windowless, and affirmed by its discoloration. Here, is where I drew first blood from the doctrines of the abstract and inhaled the brumes of obscurity. Where escaped me, did the engulfing bursts of frigid wind into the well of my frail lungs. And how it was, to be enthralled by crystals of pure frost. To be subdued by the pressing particles that arose from the vents of these monotone walls. For it was air that bore me, under the annexment of time.
Here I grew, in the mystery of life's odd motions and emotions. Uncertain of its notions, or its supposed devotion, towards my emerging body. It was puzzling, how my limbs contorted to the bendable walls, how my hands motions would swiftly stifle the emergence of light within my room. For it only seemed that all light was but a flicker, a mockery of a lifeless sun I had never known.
There was an eerie silence that lurked in my small room. A sort of, residual noise, an underlining trickle of mental clicks that pressed on for countless days. It was a reverberation, a happening that only presented itself as a part of my subconscious. And in the oddities of life it seemed as if this impeding noise shifted with it, deepening shadows, writhing spaces and swarming thoughts.
I watched the walls and the ceilings walls and the floors walls and the walls of my muscles of my bones bouncing off my pulsing cells. And I knew there was something within me, a besiege, a conquest that had created me. I was something not made alone, something formed by another disorderly being.
Am I Besieged?
Is this rigid thought committed to the mires of mind?
I sat in one position often, quite still, knowingly coordinated from other parts of the blank room. And it was from one small hole that light would pierce the shades of my confines. In my silence, light would assertively press itself unto me. My shimmering shoulders, my curving thighs, my transparent fingernails. It would then digress, and illuminate a blanket I had my entire life, the cupboard that was hollow, the long cylinder that erected from one wall.
And one day I pressed my fist into this cylinder, like pressing a finger into the barrel of a shotgun. I was fearful, I was angry. I was touched. By something else on the other side of the wall. Something that felt like what I had renounced in my agitation, a hand.
But I was spared and I had learned. And even in the minimal confines of my home I grew. For it was not the morphing of walls nor the distribution of light that caused movement. But it was the fluidity of my reflexes, the cycles of my body and the influx of energy that caused uproar.
And that's all that really can be learned about anything.
Which is that things can dismantle you if you wish it too. That I may fall one day at the hands of another. But once clarity shines down on our ignorant heads will it finally be realized, how unimportant another is. And it is a twisted thought, a squealing opposition to human association.
But it is a principle that creates both beast and God.
It is the motion that defines the truly odd.
The ideal that seeks no gratification, only truth.
There was an eerie silence that lurked in my small room. A sort of, residual noise, an underlining trickle of mental clicks that pressed on for countless days. It was a reverberation, a happening that only presented itself as a part of my subconscious. And in the oddities of life it seemed as if this impeding noise shifted with it, deepening shadows, writhing spaces and swarming thoughts.
I watched the walls and the ceilings walls and the floors walls and the walls of my muscles of my bones bouncing off my pulsing cells. And I knew there was something within me, a besiege, a conquest that had created me. I was something not made alone, something formed by another disorderly being.
Am I Besieged?
Is this rigid thought committed to the mires of mind?
I sat in one position often, quite still, knowingly coordinated from other parts of the blank room. And it was from one small hole that light would pierce the shades of my confines. In my silence, light would assertively press itself unto me. My shimmering shoulders, my curving thighs, my transparent fingernails. It would then digress, and illuminate a blanket I had my entire life, the cupboard that was hollow, the long cylinder that erected from one wall.
And one day I pressed my fist into this cylinder, like pressing a finger into the barrel of a shotgun. I was fearful, I was angry. I was touched. By something else on the other side of the wall. Something that felt like what I had renounced in my agitation, a hand.
But I was spared and I had learned. And even in the minimal confines of my home I grew. For it was not the morphing of walls nor the distribution of light that caused movement. But it was the fluidity of my reflexes, the cycles of my body and the influx of energy that caused uproar.
And that's all that really can be learned about anything.
Which is that things can dismantle you if you wish it too. That I may fall one day at the hands of another. But once clarity shines down on our ignorant heads will it finally be realized, how unimportant another is. And it is a twisted thought, a squealing opposition to human association.
But it is a principle that creates both beast and God.
It is the motion that defines the truly odd.
The ideal that seeks no gratification, only truth.
