There seems solace in sheer volume. In white noise. In being comforted by a roaring totality that is so absolute it becomes a void. You add enough of something it becomes nothing by the fact that it loses all form and shape and meaning. A canvas stretched in all directions, covering all degrees and angles of observation, being so saturated in all colours at once it ceases. As a child I slept through storms and was comforted by tv static and the noise of the washing machine. It seems I still seek out those same sensory experiences, of being so surrounded and assaulted that I am powerless, like sand picked off a beach by the wind, no longer being thrown around against it’s will, but carried and swathed and nurtured. Womblike and all encompassing. Stick my head in a jet engine, fire compressed air into my skull, anything to make me sleep. All speakers and all sounds distort if you turn them up loud enough, all paper obliterates if you cover it with enough paint, all things deafen, all eyes burn out if you show them something bright enough. I find it strange, especially considering what will occur, that I found peace in these experiences, though it may explain some of the things I have done, I doubt it would give answers to some of the people involved, or serve as adequate apology to the people I met who deserve one the most.
A writer’s sketchbook. By Tom.
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April 12th, 2008 at 3:02 pm
Keith
Just when I think I see what you’re doing and that maybe I could do it too, you pull a line of rhythm and sound that becomes something more - you give it life, even though it’s just letters on the screen.
May 29th, 2008 at 9:10 am
Lurker
I’m worried that you’re getting to breathless in your delivery.
There’s something to be said for understatement. For example, IMHO, your most effective pieces are ones like Mary Lewis and Kitchen Clock, but maybe it’s just because those are in third person.