One of us is not as stupid as all of us.

in the last few days, i've had this little addiction or need, i'm not sure which, for dub. just, something cerebral in the most primal sense, something that makes your spinal column excited to accept pure vibration. Also, more specifically in a similar vein, to bassy electronica, stuff like ambient afx, or analord or whatever, which is kind of seperated from my current arc. so i'm not sure what to talk about in this (long...overdue) post; either one thing or the other, which, when we come down to it, have more in common than in-between. pulled together, torn apart.

so. we think of something like this,

aphex twin - tha

and then we think about the next thing. some of you will have scrolled down already. do whatever you want. but this next guy is, and will probably be for the forseeable future, a little obsession for me. a little gremlin in an enigma that doesn't want to prove to me why he is rationally still on my waking dreams, and my sub dreams.

six organs of admittance, or ben chasny, hasn't been one of my usual obsessions. usually, i hear something among the haze, and it sticks-the-fuck-out, and i learn everything and aquire as much as i can, and its like a little expulsion. sometimes i think it might not even be about the music or whatever, but just a need to be briefly extroverted, to be briefly hugely consumerist for a personally justified cause - to buy without a vague, tumorous guilt. a guilt i treat the same way, actually; vague outbursts at clear/inopertune moments, the rest of the time submitting to the therapy.

i don't even know where that metaphor went, sorry.

examples of previous obsessions have been beulah, broken social scene, and the first big one of radiohead - endless reels of usefull and useless information, indistinguishable from each other or anything else, congealed in signal maps and line vectors. there are others.

the first six organs of admittance track i heard was a kvrx session track of black needle rhymes, and it didn't blow me away...actually, it didn't blow me away like a hurricane or anything. i recently read a short essay (by another current obsession, david foster wallace) about being hit by a freak hurricane like storm. the whole essay was about tennis, until you reach the end, where you realise that it wasn't about tennis, at all, even though 90% of it actually was about tennis - it was about a few lines here and there, a few lines that meant nothing seperately until you finish the essay, when they just pick themselves out in your brain. i read the essay while visiting a friend, in leicester, after seeing kid 606 and mogwai the previous night, and lying on this found couch in the morning, struggling to find a section to lay my head on, where it wasn't stripped by a helmet of weeks-old embedded smoke.

before i reach the main point, i'm kind of going to go off on this big tangent, and i'm not sure what's going to happen in here. so if you're not a fan of the clusterfuck lantern, you can probably skip ahead or something.

i walk in this house, and the corridor is long. loooong. there's a checkerboard floor, and a semidoorway at the end, which is actually a huge curtain of peeled wallpaper. in the next room is a table, and next to this table is a large window looking out onto miles and miles and miles of leicester, but unfortunately you can't see fuck all of it because of this dead brick wall directly in front. the window somehow seems like a ploy to make the house use more heating - the window is like a energy sucking hole of heat, but less obviously so. its hard to even look out it without having one and a half eyes lingering above it, at the strangely-edible-looking fungi growing respectfully just above the curtain rail.

if you walk without looking round, from the checkerboard mask, here's the kitchen, which is full of colours, to put it in a flattering way. full of colours that can be wiped off. actually, there's a distinct possibility that some of these colours can't be wiped off anymore. some are the colour of lethargic litharge which, to save you the trouble of looking up the second word, is described as a yellowish or reddish, odorless, heavy, earthy, water-insoluble, poisonous solid, and some are the colour of pure mass, pure energy, and some are the colour of someone who has much better things to do that clean these fucking colours up - and that's not an insult, some of the people in this house have an immesurable quality, something above and below genius.

the lounge, a hairpin at the wallpaper entrance, alternates between being awake for three days and asleep for three days, and it absorbs everything into this routine - there are half empty, yellow filled glasses on the glass table, packets of tobacco that look optimistically full but pessimistically like a vegetative future, placemats that defy style, a television two feet away that is decidedly new but undecided whether it should have started off life as a microwave - such is its girth-to-picture-size ratio, and it seems to contemplate this decision every day. the contemplation is almost never good. there is half a set of shelves tucked neatly into a corner, stocking such objects as a thick, thick guide to cinema, and coltrane's blue train.

next to this is the couch on which rests the apex of this point, as did the writer of this point.

opposite the bookshelf is a door behind another couch, and it never occurs to me to find out where it leads, just as it should never occur to you. penis size is speculated upon unconventionally; how skillfully can you kill intruder daddylonglegs-es and dispose of their bodies. smoke layers the room and the light from the sad television the same way feedback layers across loveless - in other words, the smoke is jaw droppingly beautiful. the single greatest thing about this room is the fact that there are a few cards from a deck on the floor, and the black and white joker is on the see-through, glass table.

in the bathroom is a 'psycho' shower, which no less that three inhabitants of the house point out to me. make no mistake, i am in envious awe everytime, and imagine a new scenario for that film in this landscape, in forced grayscale. the single greatest thing about this room, however, is the fact that a roll of blue toilet paper holds down a copy of wired, with dr. octagon on the front. i also love the way the opening of the door is a small art, a double-barreled assault on the locking mechanism, that makes your shits so much more exhillerating - as you wonder, vaguely, unworryingly, black-humourly, what if i don't get out. there is no question mark. it is largely rhetorical; which means it is mainly aimed at your unconcious and your infinitely irrational common sense. you stare at the door from the top of your head, while reading wired. you read wired for too long. i sleep in a lonely (read: the absent inhabitiant has lazily ejaculated into the sheets) bed, and i am pretty fucked, i am beautiful fucked, i have fucked pretty and beautiful and now i am on a matress stained with spikes of unrequited love. i don't mind accidently touching it, so much as accidently feeling it, and instantly knowing what i means.

i wake up at seven something, and i read. i read about tennis, and know about hurricanes.

here's the end of the tangent. i guess what i'm trying to say is that six organs doesn't detach my retinas like a hurricane, but it abuses my trust and haunts my tennis like a hurricane, it attacks my surrounds with observation, like a story about a hurricane.

maybe i'll have to continue this another time. i really thought it would only take one post.

six organs of admittance - black needle rhymes (kvrx)