Reseduction Meditations

Feel eager to delve into some dark ambient spoken-word curios? I often do. And even more to occasionally produce them. In 2021, the label Flesh Prison released a cassette of recent recordings of mine. I called the album “Reseduction,” and was very pleased with it. Slightly later I made a film together with Vanessa to go with these weird spoken word-pieces, and I am pleased with that, too.

If you’d like to watch this cine-poem (of sorts), please visit the FILMS section here on the site.

As a nice Friday treat, I post all the textual pieces here and now:

The Real and the True

If a culture is too imbued in or with fiction rather than fact, it is not surprising that it prefers lies to truth. We are taught that fiction is not “true,” and hence not “real.” An equation steeped in devious logic blooms like a frail flower in the night. The fiction that is not strong enough to be crystallised into myth will remain in an ever expanding basement, demanding more and more attention. The truth as such will grow ever lonelier, as will the facts.

In Halt Con Tent Conte Nu

All of the books, all of them. Reading them all, and writing them, assured of visibility and three-dimensional typographical effects. Beware of the straight up arche-typos blinding us with dazzling punnery, binding us with spinal stitches and sniffing the glue of eternity, so called. A book-keeper, more or less convinced of a public pubic published promise. We will have more than before, but less than those solipsistic jesters all too prone to prune the culling and the weeding of a wedding most chemical. First things first, I say… Who even remembers the beginning anymore?

Different People

They are so many, and so different. Where did they all come from? Where am I going with them? I cannot ever escape that my life has been utterly blessed. And it still is. Nice temperatures and cool drinks; amiable conversations. They open up and I can peek inside. Nibble and taste in my own compositions; the very ones that will turn me into one of them, eventually. I am the architect of my full circle, and yet I am still wonderfully centered. Hands reaching in and out, eyes winking and blinking, like traffic signals on the one way street of fame and infamy. I was always and already one of those I sought out to become. I just needed to hear it from those I asked about themselves first. Many of them had also tricked themselves in similar ways. But… glances were exchanged, memories were created.

Refel Action

You can do so much if you just do it. You can say so much if you just say it. That’s why I’ll probably be still and silent today. It’s one of those days when I’m just in awe of the antithetical possibilities of just being… me. Or is it a synthesis when you’re actually antithetical to yourself? When all is said and done, who could ever tell? Act out, act in… one requires or demands the other. I am not so sure it brings good things at all if one is too unselfconscious about these things. However, we can’t really lie to ourselves, no matter how hard we try. Still and silent: it’s a synthesis straight from the horse’s mouth. “Stable” is both a noun and an adjective; related to each other, I’m sure.

Lush Burst

One section of a selection fell on harder times and merely repeated itself, over and over. Thirty years later, the same section of the same selection was brought in and up again by another hand. When it was ingested anew, that portion of history was rubbed out, painted over and effaced. A miracle had occurred, renewing faith in the evanescent creation of a solid fact: it all comes back if one allows it (life) to become two and thereby potentially infinite numbers. Something would not have happened without that nothing created by the repetition, and they all knew it; just not consciously. Some things, subjects, and objects are worth holding on to. Thirty years are, after all, a single teardrop in the ocean of eternity.

Salance Bolace

A pit of sand, warm and even under the soles of my feet. One single step, two, then more. The sand doesn’t burn as long as I keep moving. There’s a lesson there, somewhere, but I’ve already passed it by. A brook of water, cold and tickling the soles of my feet. One single step, two, then more. The water tickles and freezes more and more, the more I move. There’s a lesson there, somewhere, but I’ve already passed it by. I’m standing with one foot in the sand and one in the brook. What appeared to be a harmonious balance turned out to be a short-circuiting meltdown of intellectual concepts, housed in a sensitive body that can barely make sense of all surrounding signals. I wipe off my feet and step into some good boots. Then I quite simply move on.

Half a full circle

Any technology eventually hampers its original function and ideal, and engenders dependence. Instead of working harder with our inherent human technology, we allow ourselves to be ensnared and even enslaved by the tools that were originally created and developed to help us. A great deal of self-criticism could be in order and place here, because I am both Advocate and Devil’s Advocate regarding all things – including my very own pen and paper. I swear the hypocritic oath daily, cherishing flexibility and moral elasticity. Whatever floats the boat may be that which sinks the ship… That works for me as long as free zone ports occasionally pop up, where I can shower off my moralisms with warm cascades of amoralisms and immoralisms. Refreshed, I can then board the vessel again and sail on to certitude and sensual sunsets way, way beyond any artificial technological needs.

Unflation

Nothing has any value that hasn't been written, or written about. No-one has any value who hasn’t been written, or written about. If that’s how we look at the world, we also have to write off emotional accountability, and always include open endings. Then, everything will be fine, and we can all keep on writing our own scripts while at the same time editing others’. But it shouldn't really ever be enough to be a protagonist in someone else’s fantasy of a story. Or… have I simply misread my very own writing?

Charge A Head

Desperately clinging to the future as if that would help me solve the mysteries of the present. Something traps me, restrains the overall ability to fully charge a head on a body destined to be free on a cycle moving towards the past. I’d better believe it: there is nothing to realise, no-one there to divulge the cosmic keys or psychological home runs. If anything, I am who I am because I’m intelligent enough to create right here and now. To not do that is to make waste of what’s been offered so generously. Self discipline and a deep rooted appreciation of the moment. Remarkable magical platforms from which I dive down into the sparkling cavities of the psyche, where we still find ourselves desperately clinging to the future. Will I ever learn to not move on but rather just be still?

Crisp Intersections

A magical space, provided by my ancestors. A magical time, provided by myself. A keen mind and curiosity, quickly assessing all the candidates and would-bes of the glorious potential inflations. Yet each also leaves some residue of history. A history shared, epiphanic states, enlightened laughter and crisp realisations that the imaginary is, after all, as real as the cold air of morning. Inflations can be shared, and in doing so we should learn mainly about ourselves. Everyone else is a gift of sorts, ready to reflect your own intelligence if you only allow it. Dedicated determination, faith and fearlessness can help create necessary intersections in which we see ourselves as we actually are. It’s not in the addition that truth is revealed, but only in the subtraction.

I hope you enjoyed these texts, and that you will watch the film, too.

Vade Ultra!

Carl