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I can't believe it's been almost a year of silence. I am breaking it with an acoustic version of phantoms. I took this picture in an abandoned prison after midnight.
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...I dive down like peregrines tangle my hair with litanies . . . Have been quiet for a while now. Just a little raw version of fuller. But new things are growing. . . . Your words in my mouth There's no shelter . . . You fall all over me In the breath and heartbeats Between the letters of my name . . .  Found these barren rocks baked in the sun. But because of their shape, the rare rain could collect. And dirt blown by the breeze. And then . . .
 As a child, I used to sit on my grandfathers lap as he played these. Now I used them for two new tracks on the Fables EP. Been going down to the docks to write the lyrics.
. . . How do you tell the night, day follows How do you tell my ashes that they were walls How do you tell the walls they can't contain the sun And brimming with night they can't keep out dawn . . . 1
Four windmills, acquaintanceships, were spied one morning eating tulips. Noon and the entire city flips screaming: Apocalypse! Apocalypse! 2 O people! my people! something weirdly architectural like a rackety cannibal came to Haarlem last night and ate up a canal! . . . We find each other in the desolate We find each other in every place . . . Says e.e. cummings: . . . nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands My buildings will be my legacy... they will speak for me long after I'm gone.
I live on Earth at present, and I don’t know what I am. I know that I am not a category. I am not a thing — a noun. I seem to be a verb, an evolutionary process – an integral function of the universe.
When I was younger, my favorite Simon and Garfunkel song was April Come She Will, which seems to be inspired by Benjamin Britten's Songs From Friday Afternoons, Op. 7: "Cuckoo!" April Come She Will almost purports to be a mature rendering of Britten's children's choir, concerned with the love and longing of young adults as their relationships change and grow with the seasons. But for all Simon's blossoming ache and surrender, Britten expresses a tangible and innocent awe of change in which the inevitable is not something outside ourselves. Britten's is deeply and lastingly beautiful. I'm sure I could not have foreseen preferring it, but sometimes you have to get older to remember what you knew as a child.
 One of my inspirations for aulenti:
In the middle of the city, not far from me, grows a tree up out of the brick and cement. I never knew it was an apple tree - I hardly noticed it at all, it was so thin. One day, my friend came into my room with his arms full of apples. A passing truck had knocked them off the branches, and he collected them off the sidewalk to eat. I took this picture of one of the apples upon the road. Track 3 from the Fables EP is now available:
Touch me and touch the ends of the earth Touch me, touch what you swore you never would Touch me where fallen fruit is sweet Touch me and touch your own obscured... Track 2 from the Fables EP is now available:
. . . You have two wings One can't enclose What makes us both free . . .  These bullets were fired in war. Put your hands into the dark earth and pull up one of these misshapen remnants. What did it hit? What life did it wrap around? They sell for three dollars.
We are witnessing the birth of a new form of art, wherein the artist is given to us fully-formed and without any precedent content. The success is the art. And the art succeeds because we envy its glamour. Its works are designed to exploit our weakness, to make us come back to hear again empty hopes because we recognize ourselves in the longing. They are envy machines.
Architecture is the very mirror of life.You only have to cast your eyes on buildings to feel the presence of the past, the spirit of a place; they are the reflection of society.
I call to your shape that I make out of lyrics You answer my heart that you made with forgiveness |
