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Intoxicating Porosity

by Mouk

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1.
while we laid in the sun for a while and the skin did melt off your face nothing vanished our troubles they just piled up until they swallowed up this place but if it’s alright alright with you i would like to stay a little while if it's alright alright with you i could stay here even as the sea swallows me tried to keep my heart from the world tried to keep my self upon a little island even as the kodachrome swirl washed out the ground from beneath where i was standing but if its alright alright with you i would like to stay a little while if it's alright alright with you i could stay here even as the sea swallows me could it be that this little phantasy is repeated endlessly? in a time when each seeks to be theirs and theirs alone theirs and theirs alone alone but if its alright alright with you i would like to stay a little while if it's alright alright with you i could stay here even as the sea swallows me
2.
on a rainy day much like today a shoestring hammer fell on from the sky, oh boy, and curled its strings around a falling water drop and placed itself within my ticklish tongue, oh boy could it be that two could melt into one? could it be that two hearts could melt into one? lah dee dah dah dah do do on a sunken day much like today a crumbling flows within an oblong mistiness and turned the beach beneath the streets to solid gold and sold itself as such to dying crackling foals could it be that two could melt into one? could it be that two hearts could melt into one? lah dee dah dah dah do do
3.
4.
even in the light where everything is known even in the light there lies a wound that cant be closed even in the day where objects stand as such every border drawn will never seem to be enough sometime there's love but mostly there;s pain the body retches at the sight of unclean hands you find revolting what you cannot even in the home where all your needs are met even in the home there lurks the fear that cannot rest and all that you have loved and hold so close to you there would be disgust and a hatred pure and true sometimes there's love but mostly there;s pain the fingers grasp for words that lend some clarity a distance that would give you respite from this shit terror, terror, the absolute terror, terror the absolute terror of living in of living in sometimes there;s love but mostly there;s pain
5.
and all the people that you have known and loved will surely die like autumn leaves that once were green but fall on from the sky even in the ocean where a starfish slops even in the ocean all will come undone "don't bother me now i'm just sleeping' don't bother me i'm not here don't bother me now i'm just sleeping don't bother me i'm not here'" and all the places that had held your memories now are gone some factories and restaurants have replaced the water front even in the deserts where the succulents grow even in the deserts all will come undone "don't bother me now i'm just sleeping' don't bother me i'm not here don't bother me now i'm just sleeping don't bother me i'm not here'" how will you live when you cannot face death how will you break bread when your body breaks down how will you sleep when i haunt your dreams
6.
ossed a pinecone back to your outstretched hand and asked what could it be to name it essentially for now and now forever more to that which is my life to that which is my debt to that which is the gift to all that makes my breath on a sunken beach all covered with plastic grey shit how i loved you then holding hands too drunk to fuck again to that which is my life to that which is my debt to that which is the gift to all that makes my breath on a moonlit night where the fire's dying light by the train track rocks too young to be too weary to that which is my life to that which is my debt to that which is the gift and while you replied words are simply that out of your head it lies the pinecone right in front of you for now and now forever more to that which is my life to that which is my debt to that which is the gift
7.
the two of us are fading things beneath the swarm haunted by the background noise that you could never seem to sublimate within your understanding in an ocean of light in an ocean of death in an ocean of noise in an ocean of breath waiting for meaning to come from above you hold your breath but you wont find it here no you wont find it here the two of us are blooming things among the heap swimming towards the pulsing mob that just would always seem to congregate within a coalescence in an ocean of light in an ocean of death in an ocean of noise in an ocean of breath standing within the sands while the moon curves down below but you wont find it here no you wont find it here the two of us are fading things amongst the swarm haunted by the background noise that you could never seem to sublimate within your understanding
8.
in the mud of an abstract room all hands gather in the dust in the light of a strangers phone four eyes meet the twilights musk dying for connection dying for a touch dying not to feel in your own skin in the buzz of a chainsaw's cry you hear music of another kind in the clack of a train track's sigh too much pleasure for one of us now everything is changed only shards remain to be picked apart now everything is changed only shards remain to be picked apart dying for connection dying for a touch dying not to feel in your own skin in the murk of the L.A. sprawl fingers move towards satellites in the dusk of an ending day tears fall down below your waist now everything is changed only shards remain to be picked apart
9.
Composite #1 02:46
10.
11.
Mastery 03:42
in the master's sight where our bodies must bend an isolated mind contemplates itself dreaming of purity dreaming of flight dreaming of vision dreaming of light in the yawning dusk where the globe melts away a crumbling fog that would swallow us whole dreaming of platypus dreaming of might dreaming of scarecrows dreaming of night in the mottled land where love's body is burned by phallic hands who can never seem to understand burning with gases burning with doubt burning with emptiness burning without on the river's edge where the bank turns to slime form is sly illusion for life changing in kind falling with minerals falling with grime falling with emptiness falling with mind reify the body where you found it don't think twice just ask not what you do just say not what you feel reify the unknown into a price to be paid and made and undone and silence now to always cry i got a letter the other day i opened and read it and what did it say?

about

‘Intoxicating Porosity’ is a record that does not speak. It clanks, rumbles, falters. Not in the Name of the Father or the religious fervor of the revolution (both attempts to assimilate and constrain the diversity of life into the logic of identity and truth), but to creatively enact a queer assemblage of busted water fountains, microKorgs, Tascam DR-03 field recorders, Staphylococcus epidermidis, traffic signs and aluminum chains, bacterial lips and shredded tobacco leaves. To build and connect; to create conditions under which these historical beings can differentially materialize through their encountering of each other. To let the polymorphous perversity of living and dying critters exhale, touch and resonate in an intimate and messy embrace. For novel bodily abstraction, confusing semiotic toothache, gurgling kinetic rhythm. To sense differently, to think sense differently, to reside in the space of the excluded middle between sense and meaning. Towards experiencing and enacting alternative modes of belonging and living—always together, always multiple. To artistically render Latour’s proposition for a ‘parliament of things,’ (Latour, 2004). ‘Intoxicating Porosity’ is multispecies, naturalcultural, genderfuck and unassimilable.

Recording is itself a kind of capture that stabilizes and makes claims about a collective’s acoustic essence. It is a process through which a continuously transforming dynamic relationality occurring within and creating space-time is rendered static, frozen, defined and heard as such. The record’s essentializing tendencies, however, are interrupted when it is re-introduced into the acoustic flux through its dissemination (i.e. with mp3’s, C.D.’s, whathaveyou), an act that, through the playing back in different contexts or ecologies of relation, accumulates different vectors of sense and meaning, thereby changing in kind. Repetition or playing back is never simply replication; you can never listen to the same record twice because a record cannot be definitively bounded and contained. There is no record as such. Listening always takes place within an ecology of sound, with other beings that caw, groan and wheeze. To assume a strict demarcation between a ‘musical’ interiority and a ‘noise-y’ exteriority is to fail to take into account the ‘total field of sound,’ (Cage, 1960) of which a ‘musical’ event is but one part. It is a reduction of the highest sort. A record’s attempt to delineate and spatialize the boundary between itself and the world is undone through the contextual nature of listening and sounding.

Strange words for a record anchored in large part by the human voice. Strange indeed for a record that sublimates the strange and bizarre under the logic of 20th century Western harmonic conventions, whose songs structurally resemble classical heteronormative rock and roll. Strange for a record that utilizes techniques (the tactile engagement of the body via sub bass frequencies, a focus on the development of timbres, tones and textures) who’s dominant mode is in the service of re-enforcing regimes of depoliticization, consumption and heteronormative pleasure.
In many ways, it is a re-hashing of the strategies utilized by the 20th century avant-garde, albeit in an altogether different historical milieu. It is nothing new. Take a dominant trope and stand it on its head. Push it to its extreme limit and listen as it collapses on itself. Giggle as its self-proclaimed naturalness and necessity crumbles. Poach, re-contextualize, disidentify, appropriate. Other worlds and altogether different sensory experiences are possible and realizable. To make ‘the familiar strange, and the strange familiar,’ so that (for example, in the work of John Cage) the taken-for-granted self-imposed boundaries of what constitutes ‘music’ are recognized as an historically contingent regime and organization of sensory experience, one whose dominance is coming to a close. The very tools that work to stabilize and constrain the identity, meaning and essence of the acoustic collective are, paradoxically, the best way to articulate an immanent critique of the material and ideological conditions under which they produce and hold fast a particular (depoliticized, aneathesiztized, hedonized, comsumed, immobilized) kind of acoustic public. Other paths, other lines, other vectors of actualization are possible; ‘Intoxicating Porosity’ seeks out and follows these alternative articulations in the hopes that it might impact and engage bodies in a different way. Oppositional, perhaps, but always with the aim of building something else, even when mercury is the method. Alchemical and processual, not dialectical (ha!).

‘Intoxicating Porosity’ is an amalgamation, a congealing that brings together Judith Butler, Drake, Pierre Schaeffer, Claire Costello, Hank Williams, Cameron Lampert, Linda Perhacs, Martha Kenney, Zac Gunter, Cornelius Cardew, Vaginia Ludwigia, John Cage, Gabe Schwartzman, Julia Kristeva, Nadia Lucia Peralta, Lemon Kittens, the Zombies, Alfred North Whitehead, Danny Lewis, Leviathan, MF Doom, Dale Pendell, Burial, Meg Perret, Bertoldt Brecht, Rita Pavone, Boredoms, Ciara, Henri Bergson, Bennet Koss, Tera Melos, Maps and Atlases, Gottfried Wilhelm Hegel, Justin William White, Broadcast, Chris Cohen, Charles Bronson, Anna Tsing, the Everly Brothers, Beyonce, Rory Baerga, Animal Collective, Brian Massumi, Black Dice, James Miller, Michel Foucault, the Velvet Underground, Jean-luc Nancy, J Dilla, Mike Megill, Alicia Granados, George Jones, Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, Ben Mabie, Bruno Latour, Theocharis Roussos, Connor Lopez, Marisol, Swans, Jacob Richards, Karl Marx, the Books, Gary Snyder, To Live and Shave in L.A., Elena Staley, Gilles Deleuze, and Donna Haraway to eat and shit at the same table. Luke Robbins taught me how to write songs, Hudson Glover taught me how to record, and Alli Yates showed me ways to live and care in the messy, inchoate worlds we inhabit. Daniel Shubat provided constant intellectual curiosity, remarkable piano work, emotional support and invaluable friendship. Tessa Shippy is a secretly mad talented artist and all-around badass. Noah Rhoads exposed me to the wonders of experimental black metal and psychoanalysis. Karen Barad is a generous and thoughtful guide through the dense thicket that is contemporary radical philosophy. Jack Ryan expanded my sense of the possibilities of art and music through his wild improvisational auditory articulations. Sara Sol made me think about movement, gesture, the politics of jargon/accessibility and the potential of a joyous, creative life. These folks continuously teach me how to think and engage in new ways, and for that I am grateful. I apologize for the clarity, confusion and mess. All misunderstandings, mistakes and stupidities are my own.

Sincerely,
~ian b., a former musician, established debt pirate and genderqueer heretic

credits

released October 3, 2014

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Sounds for Spawning Arcata, California

Sounds for Spawning releases organized blocks of sound that work to imagine and generate alternative modes of sociality.

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