What you sometimes realise, is the thing that you wish to discern, the words you use to do that. Those words are flakes of paint on a hill, a winter hill, they’re those friends just beneath your eyes that fall like raindrops off a leaf, from your lashes as your days stroke the night. Those words are like silences are like touches, are like flashes of light from the City dreams, they’re like the pictures behind impoverished faces, they’re like the lines we use to capture continents, countries, decisions, futures.
Those words we used to describe a song, here, there, in person, with your company, the walk together around town, discussing it: those words for that song, that object, duration, life, a thing. Those words.
They pass through me now as I. they pass through terrains now as I, they hold me now as I listen back.
This is an album that I rolled upon swept up beside me back in 2011, I was born in 1993, I talked about it in front of a class when I was a whole 17 years old and studying Theory of Knowledge.
“It’s an album that makes me feel free, makes me feel like I’m standing before a sea or somewhere, the sea I don’t live near when I’m slightly lost. It makes, it helps me breathe slower. No lyrics, it’s an instrumental truth, a wash, a somewhere to embrace around within, to breeze like garden life, to sway inside, to give that sense of seasick a sense of open-ended belonging”
To open, mouth, arms, wide, and know the one thing you know.
A few weeks ago, these posts thought of something spiritual about Sufjan Steven‘s newly born album, today I grasp something similar.
I grasp it, and I take it to the foundations of castles, a tower, sand, a mountain, a human, and I tell it softly slightly extraordinarily to the do the same dance with me again.
To be transported, as if it were a time capsule, from something “past” to something “future”; Bless This Morning Year, Halving Compass, Dragonfly Across an Ancient Sky, Vargtimme, For Years and Years, Coast off, Paper Tiger, First Dream Called Ocean, The Toy Garden, Sons of Light and Darkness, Emancipation by Helios, from the 2006 album Eingya. It does, it floods back within me as something real, not just remembered. Something energy, not just a memory.
The album plants a hug of plateaus with its every song. It says so much in so little a, so precious a span, an experience. The instrumentals like instruments of soul-sanded fingers, but names on a page, but whole arrangements of windows, of an ambience reflecting slowly in the post-evening walk, work, wake, the skycrapers of blue ocean hand-holding meaning, stroking the sides of settled pre-evening.
The time capsule drops and its skin breaks, revealing a porcelain replica of biscuit crumbs baking on a canvas deck chair. A layer of italics between light and shadow, top and bottom, past and future.