There are no longer two ways of looking at relationships, yet there’s neither one. There are no relationships, you could say, but that would be to confuse your “relations” and your “ships”: the whole word has a face made up of something dissimilar to mere lights and shadows, skin and shape, and you’ve more than likely seen it twice, you’ve done a double-take: you’ve only got ‘this time last year’, ‘last time’, you’ve only got one place to see that face, placed itself on the number one, the indifferent expression of a personified whole, a contentedness, a moment, momentous and understood, a face peering right back at you as you survey the eyes, the shiver, the eyebrows resting, the mouth moving.
Electric President – Elegant Disaster
I’ve come to this face after pressing Shuffle Songs on my music machine. Electric President comes on the air with Elegant Disaster a song off their follow-up called Violent Blue. This is an album that I listened to only ever in the shadow of their previous self-titled number, a previous album, with songs like Ten Thousand Lines and We Were Never Built To Last and Farewell (the first song I posted on this blog); I listened to it obsessively; an album that ingrained itself in all the gaps and absences of my thought I once failed to have ; I dismissed the follow-up as people tend to dismiss follow-ups; their sound had changed, their rhythm, my sound had changed, my rhythm: the moment had passed and turned away, averted its gaze, drawn no longer upon my constant curiosity, to listen again, to read onwards: the words of meaning, the music of one communicable perspective facing another.
But now, many moments and years and perspectives have passed, I would classify my present attention to the album as a ‘second-listen’; the song that got itself shuffled is trying once more upon my bleak ageing parameters, I am listening, I am hearing, I am reacting well, unlike before, unlike the first-listen.
I am seeing a face and the face is seeing me again. A music blog is somewhat about describing the intricacies of what the song sounds like, or, in this metaphorical world, what the face looks like, but let me leave that for now and continue onto the next number that followed Elegant Disaster, the one that made me think about and believe in all this presently:
For the next song to shuffle itself to me is Rolling Stone by Passenger. I find myself similarly renewing, refreshing, turning over and scrubbing some prior dirt, my fingers, my thoughts: I feverishly passionately reacted to Passenger’s 2014 hit Let Her Go, it hit me with its superficial something and I felt the irritating pulse of something bad, I heard the song, didn’t really listen to it and fucked it over without much thought: just another generic soundbite of despair and desperation: a system and society I didn’t want to spend my something on, spend my time with. And although that song itself might forever remain fucked over and obscured with a scar like the scars you inherit from some other primitive jolt of accidentally attempting to feel something one can’t feel, do something we don’t do good, some kind of forgetful pain, falling over, falling, spilling, ache, loss, hot water, hot-headed when life fucks you slowly, whatever something, this song, this Passenger on the other hand (and the follow-up album it belongs to) is presently sucking saying soothing me something good. I feel a cry inside, tickling my forearms like a word pleasantly agitating the good nerves: something worth the flow, the life that leaks momentarily out of miscellaneous grooves: the faces peers at me and pours my senses a reassuring connection: an eye contact: an attention span spanning wide like a dim endless horizon.
Passenger – Rolling Stone
My point, my point, is, that; there are no longer two ways of understanding my point, not even one. I have no point, you could say, but that would be to miss the “point” and the “,”.
The “second”-listen and the “first”-listen. The falling falling aching spilling calling out nothing blunt and watery, into my skin, into my head, into things, and the flying, the time-flying, the thoughts flying through to a place, this time last year, that face, flowing, pouring its soul into mine, its meaning into mine. It turns out the first-listen was not so disposable or detestable as I once thought, felt.
Things are worth a second listen. But that second must be quite distinguishable from the first, if that it is to be the case. Maybe it’s like the difference between hearing and listening, between seeing and looking, between sensing and feeling. Or maybe it’s like Krishnamurti’s difference between listening and listening, the difference between seeing and seeing, feeling and feeling. Maybe it’s like that because those things aren’t really like binaries: they are not mutually exclusive or opposites or juxtapositions, but rather they are different moments of meanings, of perspective, both necessary, both essential, both the same, both identical for all intents and purposes. The first-listen is like the prefix, the second-listen is like the suffix, the monosyllabic uttered thing and the punctuation that makes it. The whole context is a relationship and you could say a music blog is somewhat about describing the intricacies of what a relationship sounds like, or in this metaphorical world, what the face looks like in relation time.
There are no longer two different ways of ending this all in a blog post, there is not even one, but then that would be to confuse the “end” with “ing” and my ings are presently working, these songs, agitating, these songs, tickling, my ings are feeling and feeling something whole-hearted facing me and falling flying over me as I turn one blind eye towards the binaries, I listen again, one blind eye towards the good old reassuring rest.