The bit where he goes “Fuck me I’m falling apart” and everything really unravels there inside because the juvenile school on a post website part of the person is fucked up with the f***, and the person part of the person feels its falling apart, fucking falling apart, away under a weight of a part too many, a part too few, I’m, I’m, I’m, and the person feels this in a language, in a song so strongly of shadows and x and harmonies between harmonies between the first person and the second person, Sufjan Stevens who ends these songs on a new album abruptly, departures and arrivals, and it sinks in slowly, drives in slowly, in bed again after a bath again, late. The sad fact
:That was a second part
I’ve cut it up like I cut up the album cover above. The bit where he goes “Fuck me I’m falling apart” is on the song below called “No shade in the shadow of the cross”
This is the first part:
I’ve a half eye upon the sort of eye, the sort of person right now that searches through the googleplex, looking for answers to serious searing things and finds forums. The searing eye that could find this post and not really read it but be aware of it, blur with it, press play most importantly, come up with something else to search. Websites can be great friends in the serious searing things. They can be great wise answers, flippant seconds, shit-scary, reassuring and totally with-it websites as worlds in themselves.
I have facebook and I find all the people I could care about on it, living on it, dying on it, as pictures, peoples, sidebar titles, interacting: the odd moment when the first wind you hear of an old friend in a relative while is something on your sidebar concerning some miscellaneous alien foreign ideas, ideas you didn’t know them for, people and profiles you didn’t know them for, it’s only recently that I started taking serious social media seriously, started thinking of the internet as more than just materials and circuits: the odd moment when you realise the comments in the comments section are all fake, perhaps, everyone who sounds sincere is pretending, everyone who sounds silly is sincerely pretending. The flux: the paradox of appearances: the cobweb: the sad one, but this one’s super sad.
I have a friend in real life but also on facebook who posed the idea of End of the Road Festival where Sufjan’s headlining. That seems like an actually warm appealing idea as I listen through these songs, search through the lyrics on the googleplex, run a bath to them, realise I like them, I could love them if I had the heart for them, I think, sink back in bath-time behaviour. Yes, I could go and it would be September and Sufjan would be playing somewhere in the vicinity, in the background while I found myself doing whatever fluttery things we do at festivals.
It’s been a small journey, I was glad, I am glad to be writing it up. The moments ago that made me decide that writing would be a good idea, they were similarly drawn into, swept into the mentality of a Grandmother, a Grandfather: a youtube.com video with a comments section: a user who had uploaded the song The Only Thing (another one whose folklore particularly hooked me, found within me myself sympathising as well as absorbing through the ear, gotta love azlyrics.com), and put it to, to- ” together[,] this video from my grandma’s old film reels from 1966-7 from farmingdale, new jersey, where they live now”.
These songs have lead me to an egocentric monologue which is somehow, for the first time, feeling like a great thing to do. And somehow not selfish, not a bad way: I, I, I<: this album feels funny, sort of tingly, darstedly peculiar: It had me bathing in a few layers, immaterials, fixated on my knee, making sweeping shapes in the wet hair on my thigh, disturbing a pattern like barley and fields and spring and blusterous zoning out gusts of wind against a few faces: that kind of music: fixating, reflexive, sincere, distracting.
There’s something spectacularly spiritual about Sufjan’s music. Not many things deserve the crudeness of that word ‘spiritual’ let alone ‘spectacularly’, even fewer deserve the word’s sincere uplifting meaningfulness, oh yes, that word ‘spiritual’. This album, this artist unwittingly belong to the -even fewer-, the latter intricacy, a woven well depicted shaded leghair drawing of a man with a spiritual beard, female reproductive system, reproducing her, completely real, a sculpture with detail, a true dedication through the wires, the pitchfork review I didn’t read, the blades of grass in the town park, the letters litter facebook feeding crumbs under the table, branches of new leaves in the garden still holding dew like they do in the earliest of April. The idea that, for me the composer, I behold some sort of oscillation between life and death through lyrics, supercede – rise – fixate, fumble with the few meaningful things one can remember when in a warm bath – the idea I downloaded it all in the first place.
It’s sad but we rolled with it, we listened and we blurred, continuing my simmering down process in part recollection of some music on a website that did me good, an album and an artist, some titles, a moment of vulnerability when I clicked download … the internet works … the narrative comes naturally … the meaning is clear.
As listeners we should buy as much music as is emotionally possible. I would be surprised if this album, on Bandcamp (!), does not fulfil that criterion.
There is no third part apart from the following: