sonic

#1 Dads

I get hyper-obsessed with sounds, songs, vocal artists. I may very well think of them more than I think about flowers.

This is the truth, we need to meet this head-on.

It's also the selfish reason why this blog tab is lined with emotional riffs and subconscious word vom rather than my opines on Stargazer Lilies, (non-committal), or porn shots of Ranunculus, (I'll still hand that out). 

I like to wallow in soundscapes with strange voices and oboes. I like to read all the music periodical, wikipedia and album review articles. I like to watch ALL the music videos. I especially like to imagine myself IN these music videos. I like to dance wildly in the living room when Jacob's at soccer. I like to have a little too much wine and lie flat on the hardwood floor with a single on repeat. I like to send links, mp3s and album covers to my friends, crowing how they CANNOT NOT LISTEN to this band.

Music is dually a communal / individual experience. We trip subjectively into a different dimension of our senses. We experience something together apart. I had a long stretch of years loving a man that shared the same kind of vocalized, vibrational headiness. He hasn't returned 1:37am texts since 2014. So mostly, I travel alone - stacking playlists, creating icons and style-plotting my eventual album cover. There will be all the filters, my head will be tipped back, a windfan will blow.

Back to what I said earlier about the line between my work and my muse. The experience of sensory art, in whatever form, is what makes us Human. We don't need it to breathe, but we need it to realize an exceptional, inherent system of percussive synapses, cones and rods, gravitational pull towards something bigger. Put me in a room with flowers or music, I'll react the same. I'll want to study it, move around it, talk thru the composition, level of saturation, requirements of production. All within the same luxurious language!

And I get to speak it with you.

The Dø

Ever have your eyes snap open at 3:30am on a Sunday and your brain immediately blasts off into the 5th Dimension of; "OMFG WHAT AM I DOING?!?!" 

These turbojet-thoughts stitch closely to a 99.87 degree Fahrenheit basal temperature. The person or creature sleeping beside you, (if any living thing has been able to put up with your Anxiety Mess this long), is too close/hot/heavy, there's not enough 02 to go around, and no count on the breath ladder is going to bring you down from this ledge.

So you get up and get to work. And you stare incredulously out the window when the sun comes up hours after you're 23 clicks deep on your retail v. industrial zoning research. 

U feel me? Then you must've started a floral studio, too. We should get coffee; I'm on my fourth cup.

The Amazing

The garden of Max Gill.

The garden of Max Gill.

I was between two Garden of Edens, loading my trunk with swan songs. This nine+ minute soundscape by The Amazing, aural transcendents out of Sweden, came on while I was sliding across rungs of steel slung out over water.

I love driving over bridges. You begin in an expected place and, in a few moments, you've crossed an ocean - or some iteration of. A tincan microcosm of the goddamn Pinta Maria, coasting into the New World

Petaluma to Berkeley and I'm trafficking piles and piles of heirloom garden roses cut and gifted by one of the most talented women I know. One of those humans who is too close to the source to realize how galactic their soul is.  Miasmic deserts of syncopated guitar riffs kicked up around 5:17, and I thought on that unnamed connection we can feel for each other; a Knowing no hypotheses of Freudian science or monotheistic religion can dilute. Cruising hundreds of feet above hundreds of fathoms, and from all directions - there's blue.