MIX TAPES
It's sound experimentation for procrastination and escape. No Work. Work never, never works. A situationist refusal, the resistance is agency. The mental fog of anxiety gone into.
A process of audio collages, akin to Burroughs or Acker, as in, made in the styling of cut poetry. Paying no attention to any particular reference and treating everything as noise without signal. Taking sound, inputing rather than outputting, consuming and not giving. Finding voice.
The voice, and each voice, as a position, as a presence. The reminder of a presence that's slipping away. A representation, capable of being heard and being seen. An action of mechanical reproduction, it is work; viral; both relentless and ephemeral; an eternal recurrence; without matter. It's time based and it's analogue. The position of the voice is in the living agent of the sound.
Not for the listening. For the making only. There is no viewer and no listener, there is no audience. It is participation only, and each participant is a subjective body invited by name. Outputting only, in actions of release and capture.
An aesthetic free of judgement and free from uselessness. This on this, rewriting, a palimpsest of moments connected by effort alone. A work flow of cables, capable of building a world. The authority fixed entirely within the body, in space. Consenting adults catching the wind and the noise. Time passing over, a death.
Heavier than a death in the family, in the neighbourhood, the street, the house, the garden. My colleague, my Nephew, my Sister, friend, neighbour, the cat. Sickness, disorder, nature, overdose, suicide, euthanasia.
Freedom from silence, from grief, leaping forward and being enveloped by fog and feedback.
Resistant to obligation and mandatory ambition, from explanation, from love, from kindness, from friendship.
Mixing tapes.
