Interval of Silence

Reflections on Antwerp, By Night in Chile and the condensed matter of Roberto Bolaño.

Poetry and I have often had a rather strange relationship. Sketches from dreams once had long ago, by some who had only a vague notion they were dream. Often I have attempted to break beyond my perceived idea of poetic style; the fragmented moment, hyper-real as opposed to surreal. Tradition always got the better of me however, moving my words into rivets of sunken earth, flowing into grander rivers. “The poem must be broken into verse”… “The rhyme will never truly disappear”… “Where in the hell is this poem going anyway?” Some of my least embarrassing works tend to be written in the haste of deadline, perhaps stemming from the failure to ponder for too long. After all, it was Burroughs who said the Word is a virus. It seems remarkable then, when coming across someone who seems to have an uncanny ability (and I mean that in the literary analysis sense) to break bounds never before known to exist.

This is where Mr. Bolaño enters the shot. Gleam of the stage lights reflecting off his glasses. It would seem as though there has been a film on, or that we are in fact on film. He says a few quick words, smokes a cigarette, and leaves. Not much happens, yet it’s all laid down in front, and we can all see it. It’s staring up at us, waiting for acknowledgement. If the metaphor is lost on you, then I urge you to look upon Antwerp.

A collection of 56 fragments. Chapters of a larger story told through single moments. One could call it a prose poem, but there seems to be more here. A narrative flows on beneath the surface of surreal and often times violent imagery. For any who have read his later work, this “story” acts like the seed from which his world was born. It reminds me of the old Sun Ra quote “...At first there was nothing... then nothing turned itself inside-out and became something.” In this case one could look at the converse. There was once something, but it turned itself inside-out and became nothing... then there was nothing.” Bolaño takes the world we live in and cuts it up, filters through it, and throws out all the big moments, leaving only the spaces in-between. The world is told through glances, thoughts, sudden recollections, dreams, and silent stillness. There is definitely something going on, though what it is and what it means seems forever beyond our reach. The final question is on the other side of an ever expanding sea, and you have but a row-boat and an oar. Perhaps we were meant to wake up before we actually got in the boat. Perhaps not.

By Night in Chile follows a similar yet different path. While still fragmented, we hear the dying monologue of an Opus Dei priest. The words of a dying man, which always seem to carry with it a foreboding. There is a pattern in Bolaño’s work of objective memory. The story of someone told through the omniscient flashback of… whoever is actually writing this story. Isn't the world as we know it just a collection of memories and stories anyway? Do we ever know what’s actually going on? Maybe Bolaño is trying to show us that through the many layers of memory we can see a bigger picture forming, ultimately leading to his final work 2666, where the five stories tell the stories of others, all somehow connected to the deserts of Mexico, and the ghost of death as it moves through the city of Santa Teresa. But I thought I was talking about By Night in Chile…

That’s right, it’s all connected. Like 2666, Bolaño’s work was written in Spanish. As a native English speaker I will never be able to fully understand what Bolaño actually means in his writing. Instead I rely upon the job of a translator. Much like how the story itself is told through the eyes of someone else. How can one tell what the words truly mean and what gets lost in translation? Here we are learning of the life of a priest, but all we know about the people he encounters is what he remembers. The often noted unreliable narrator problem.

Do I distrust the priest? No, I distrust what is not his to control: disintegration of memory. Things die. They fall apart and becomes ghosts of something, permanently haunting the unconscious past. In a time where biographies seem to be best-sellers and voyeuristic television seems to make the best ratings, we enter a world that relies more and more on fabricated memory. Maybe this is why Bolaño’s writing seems to eerily familiar, yet surreal at the same time. Maybe it’s time to go to bed and stop worrying, because after all, when we dream, we usually can’t tell.

Der Prozeß by Franz Kafka

This is a difficult book to review, as there is so much to say that I can't seem to find the words for. I might as well start by saying that had this book been completed, I would've felt more comfortable giving it a 5 star rating; I give it a 4.5. I find it ludicrous to try and mark down a book by Kafka by the decimal though, and feel his name alone should carry enough weight.

This was a fantastic book. I couldn't stop reading it and arguably I should have, given my current work load. Despite having seen Orson Welles self-proclaimed masterpiece beforehand, I found this book more as another clue to the story's mystery, rather than as a brilliant work subjected to an inevitable film adaption.

Yes: this book is slow. Yes: this book is written in an archaic style. Deal with it.

If you were to write a book concerning the tedious and absurd struggles through a labyrinthine system that works its way like a river beneath a city unknowingly built upon it, would you write it so it was fun and easy? Regardless of your opinion, Kafka wrote it that way, and in doing so has created an insight into his own "dreamlike inner life", to quote an excerpt of his diary.

It's hard to pin down just what it is that makes this book so powerful, as in reading it one might feel a constant sense of just being on the verge of "figuring it out" before closing the book on your finger to stare up to the ceiling hoping to catch a glimpse of a fading idea; a forlorn hope that someday the struggle will end. In the way that old black and white films are often of that slight sepia tone, this book carries with it that sense of tinted reality, as though our own perceptions of right and wrong are just perceptions of that which, simply, just is.

Who knows, perhaps the mystery of this text will never solved. In all honesty I don't see how it ever CAN be solved. It is a book that concerns more than a simple man being brought forth before the law, yet at the same time, that's all there really is to it? Do we not all face a trial at some point in our life? Are we not all "innocent"? Perhaps we shall only find out when our own doors before the Law are closed.

Somewhere within the void of Jazz

Hello again,

I apologize for the lack of posts in the past few days, the habit of writing blog posts can be a tough one of to break into, especially when I have been dwelling deep somewhere in the void of jazz. In my life I have attempted many times to open my ears to what some might consider the most pure form of music (I personally do not share this opinion), and recently it has become easier as I find myself inching closer to that realm of music to suit my desires.

A few albums to give you and understanding of what I mean:

Bohren und der Club of Gore - Gore Motel

Okay, so this isn't REALLY jazz, but it's close enough. A dark and winding tunnel of jazz-doom that differs somewhat from the material seen later by this fantastic German group. These guys might be known for soft yet brooding late-night sounds, but this album sounds more like the demented grind-core of David Lynch's seedy backwoods bars.

Check out this slice: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klBs5TXTudQ


Poolplayers - Way Below the Surface

This album does indeed dwell somewhere below; not much really seems to be solid on this album, rather a continuous stream of sound being structured and washed away by undercurrents. It took a few attempts before I finally sat down and listened through this, and it was indeed rewarding. The players here seem less to be creating music so much as taking it apart.

A damn fine cup of coffee

Well look at that, barely one post in and we've already entered the darkness of the woods known to some as "the Dweller on the Threshold," or more commonly, the Black Lodge surrounding the woods of Twin Peaks. If you are unaccustomed to the world of Twin Peaks, then I suggest you go to Netflix right now and watch it (or through whatever means you deem necessary) because it is worth it. But no, I will not waste your times with a discussion on the show in general but on the prequel film released a year after the show was taken off the air. To some this film is a let down, and to some it is one of director David Lynch's greatest works--let's not forget the entire female population of Japan. There is also me, who falls somewhere in the middle off the two former sentiments. I viewed the film hoping to understand more of the series' many enigmas and, quite frankly, cosmic holes. What I ended up with was an hour of awesome build up for what I feel was a less than satisfactory ending, but I don't want to ruin or spoil anything for any prospective viewers, as they might love the ending, whilst despising the beginning.

Readers beware, the following MAY contain spoilers, though I try my best to avoid any.

Avert your eyes, David; this is getting serious.

I suppose my main interest in discussing this film is to point out the way in which David Lynch built the film. It doesn't start right off as a dissection of the Laura's history, but rather as a surreal montage of the FBI's role in the murder of Theresa Banks. Now this was my favorite part, because aside from the abundance of cameos (here's looking at you, Bowie), it seems the most Lynchian of the film. I'm not saying that Mr. Lynch is a Barton Fink who can't even seem to write with that Barton-Fink-feeling, rather that the first half contains the most potential, or at least precognition, for the dream logic style that would dominate his later work.

To say that the murder of Theresa Banks was a "dream" that preceded the killing of everybody's favorite homecoming queen is an interesting one, as there is a connection between them that seems to be in the back of the FBI's mind; a blue rose case (I'm afraid I can't tell you about that one). Of course, that isn't likely, because how could such a sweet town like Twin Peaks be connected to something only of nightmares... right?

Well, that may not have said everything I had wanted to say (what was that again?), but I suppose I'll end with the fact that had Mr. Lynch stuck more with the style of the earlier portion of the film I would have been happier. Of course, you dear reader might always disagree, and if so, please tell me why. Until next time.

Entrance

And so it begins;

A vast array of mineral consciousness (as Burroughs once put it). Audio Paralysis, or as some may lovingly call it, The Audio Paralysis, because definite articles seem to imply importance, is most importantly known as the radio show that I, Apollo, currently run and execute. This blog if you will is the latest and quite-possibly-not greatest addition to its franchise. Inside I shall be posting the current interests that reside within the minds of Audio Paralysis Corp., including, but of course not limited to: musings, ramblings, audio lusting, and whatever else might cross my fancy. The most important aspect of this blog will be to give a description of the music played, and perhaps introduce any readers, read skimmers, to the fantastic Great Underground Vaults of my musical knowledge and databases, just be wary of grues.

Without further ado, I welcome thee, weary traveler, to the words of Audio Paralysis.