Category: Uncategorized (Page 1 of 1102)

 

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The Monkees Shorty Blackwell (1969)
The closing song of The Monkees’ least successful album Instant Replay is a real head-scratcher, an indulgent avant-guard piece of God doesn’t know what.

 

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Bee Gees Lemons Never Forget (1968)
“Lemons Never Forget” is a forgotten track from the Bee Gees’ Horizontal which is considered the heaviest album they ever recorded.

 

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The Fall Bonkers in Phoenix (1995)
This was supposed to sound as if you were at a festival (e.g. Phoenix!) with all the sounds of the different music tents merging together.

 

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Pink Floyd Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict (1969)
The track consists of several minutes of noises resembling rodents and birds simulated by Roger Waters’ voice and other techniques, such as tapping the microphone played at different speeds, followed by Ron Geesin providing a few stanzas of spoken word in an exaggerated Scottish burr. There is a hidden message in the song at approximately 4:32. If played at half speed, Waters can be heard to say, “That was pretty avant-garde, wasn’t it?” Also, at the very end of the rant, Waters is heard to say, “Thank you.”

 

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Lou Reed Bottoming Out (1983)
“Bottoming Out” is told from the point of view of a person an awful lot like Lou Reed at the time, but not exactly, into discipline and control but weakened and tortured by addiction and a deep hunger for redemption, a drunk by the sound of it, with a searing drama about a terrible night and a bad accident.

 

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Nine Inch Nails This is How It All Begins (1999)
From The Fragile era, this song was on the NIN.com website. I have never found it anywhere else.

 

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Bryan Ferry She’s Leaving Home (1976)
from the All This And World War II Soundtrack Album

 

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Siouxsie & the Banshees Il Est Né, Le Divin Enfant (1982)
On November 26, 1982, Siouxsie and the Banshees released a double AA-side single off their album A Kiss in the Dreamhouse that included the song “Melt!” penned by bassist Steven Severin and their cover of the traditional French Christmas carol “Il Est Né, Le Divin Enfant” (English: “He Is Born, The Holy Child”) which comes from the region of Provence in France and was first published in a 1874 collection of Christmas tunes titled ‘Airs Des Noël Lorrain’ compiled by the organist of the Cathedral Saint-Die, René Grosjean.

 

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Yoko Ono Greenfield Morning I Pushed an Empty Baby Carriage All Over the City (1970)
Using a discarded recording of Harrison on sitar and a Lennon break beat, Ono exorcises about a miscarriage through that hallmark wailing.

 

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Iggy Pop Five Foot One (1979)
New Values was released in April 1979 by record label Arista. Although well-received critically, the album was not a commercial success, only reaching number 180 in the Billboard Top 200 album chart. Videos were made for “I’m Bored” and “Five Foot One”.

 

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Pavement Cherry Area (1997)
Rare gay panic-themed b-side from the Shady Lane EP

 

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Black Sabbath Spiral Architect (1973)
The band invited an orchestra to play on ‘Spiral Architect’ “but couldn’t cram all of the musicians and their instruments into Morgan Studios. They ended up at the nearby Pye Studio along the road, with Ozzy trying to explain what he wanted them to play like some sort of mad conductor. He had no written music to give the orchestra, he just hummed the part and they picked it up.”

 

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Kraftwerk Heavy Metal Kids (1971)
A few years into the 21st Century, an astounding new recording arrived onto the world wide web – a lovingly remastered professional radio recording of the lost original Kraftwerk line-up. The opening track is listed as “Heavy Metal Kids” an intriguing title but one that begs the question is this just the bootlegger referencing how heavy the music sounds or were Kraftwerk referencing William Burroughs? One thing is certain, it is heavy.

 

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ABBA Tiger (1976)
The city is a nightmare, a horrible dream / Some of us will dream it forever / Look around the corner and try not to scream, it’s me.

 

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Sonic Youth Queen Anne Chair (2001)
from the Noho Furniture sessions.

 

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David Bowie All Saints (1976)
A gnarly squall of low-end electronic noise punctuated by sprite-like coils of treble, this track originally intended for Low more than matches the original industrialists for uncompromisingly ugly beauty and offers a stark contrast to the far less visceral instrumental pieces which made the album’s final cut.

 

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The Rolling Stones Schoolboy Blues (1967)
“Schoolboy Blues” (1970) is a parody of Dr. John’s “The Lonesome Guitar Strangler”, released on his 1969 album Babylon. It was written and played by Mick Jagger to be the Stones’ final single for Decca Records. The Stones were leaving Decca and starting their own record label, but Decca claimed they were owed one more single under their contract. So the Stones delivered this song, with its context and language chosen specifically to anger Decca executives; there are explicit references to fellatio and anal sex in the lyrics. Decca refused to issue the song on an album, although about 100 promotional 12″ singles of it were pressed in the United States.

 

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ELO Look at Me Now (1971)
The sound is unique on this recording in comparison to the more slickly produced ELO albums of the subsequent Lynne years, incorporating many wind instruments and replacing guitar parts with heavy, “sawing” cello riffs, giving this recording an experimental “Baroque-and-roll” feel.

 

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The Grateful Dead What’s Become Of The Baby (1968)
“What’s become of the Baby” only includes Jerry Garica’s vocals, and some odd back ground, wind sounding noises. The song sounds like it was recorded in a stadium. Similar to how the the national anthem sounds when sang in some kind of stadium.

 

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Neil Young Last Dance (1973)
Eighth and final track from Neil Young’s (in)famous and unissued on CD live album Time Fades Away, taken from the HDCD test pressings made around the mid-1990s.

 

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Leonard Cohen Queen Victoria (1972)
Recorded by Cohen alone in his Tennessee hotel room in 1972.

 

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The Beach Boys Funky Pretty (1973)
A cosmic love song to an astrological lovely, it mounts its grit in a swirl of harmonic complications with a defiantly baroque choral signature: Vivaldi meets the Regents on a magic synthesizer built on economical and even monotonous musical premises that delight in their unreasonably complex development.

 

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Led Zeppelin Four Sticks (1971)
The title came from the fact that drummer, John Bonham, played with two sets of two drumsticks, totaling four, a result of him being very frustrated with not being able to get the track down right during recording sessions at Island Studios. After he grabbed the second pair of sticks and beat the drums as hard as he could, he recorded the perfect take and that was the one they kept.

 

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My Bloody Valentine Forever and Again (1985)
An unfocused and derivative song of post-punk goth rock that offers no indication of the revolutionary guitar sound the group would later create.

 

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The Cure A Boy I Never Knew (1986)
Arguably the saddest song The Cure has ever done, so sad that its not even an “official” song and lost in the catalogue.

 

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Fleetwood Mac Tell Me All the Things You Do (1969)
Kiln House is an overlooked album that marks Fleetwood Mac’s transition with the departure of Peter Green from being an acclaimed Brit-blues group to a much tighter alt-rock group. The kicker, “Tell Me All the Things You Do” is a blistering number that stands as one of the finest achievements of Fleetwood Mac!

 

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XTC Pulsing Pulsing (1979)
B-side for a single from XTC’s Drums And Wires album about blood and where it goes.

 

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The Who Real Good Lookin’ Boy (2003)
This weird paean to Roger Daltry’s “good looks” was one of two new ‘Bonus Tracks’ The Who released on their 2004 Then And Now compilation.

 

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Sparks England (1975)
Obscure b-side of the equally obscure “I Want to Hold Your Hand” Beatles cover single and one of Sparks’ jewels of the 1970s.

 

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Radiohead We Suck Young Blood (2003)
Like Thom Yorke fucking around on a piano while someone clapped in another room and it was accidentally recorded, but not one of Radiohead’s GOOD songs where Thom Yorke is fucking around on a piano while someone claps in another room and it was accidentally recorded.

 

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Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band Upon The My O My (1974)
The one really good if compromised song on the first of Beefheart’s two dismal commercial albums Unconditionally Guaranteed, about which Magic Band drummer Art Tripp recalled, “When the band finally got our album copies, we were horrified. As we listened, it was as though each song was worse than the one which preceded it.”

 

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The Kinks He’s Evil (1977)
From Preservation Act 2, a 1974 concept album, and The Kinks’ twelfth studio album. It was not well received by critics and sold poorly (peaking on the Billboard 200 at #114).

 

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Fugazi Ex Spectator (2001)
“Ex-Spectator,” the first time you hear it, appears to do nothing. But the more you listen to it, suddenly all the disparate bits (double drums, loud smashing chords at intro, busy-as-hell breaks) make sense as a unified whole. That’s smart songwriting – refusing to rely on overused riffs, intensity for the sake of intensity and song constructions that do what the audience expects them to.

 

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Alice Cooper Refrigerator Heaven (1970)
None of Easy Action’s songs have ever been performed live by Cooper since the 1971 tour in support of their third album Love It to Death.

 

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Tom Petty I Don’t Belong (1998)
Tom and the Heartbreakers do a rare unreleased song from the 90s that I found on a rare bootleg.

 

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The Byrds Tribal Gathering (1968)
It’s so hard to place, it’s such a strange track. What were they on when they wrote it? How do you get a time signature like that? They were such a strong writing force, individually and collectively, and there was always something explorative about what they were doing as a unit.

 

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Blink 182 I Wanna Fuck A Dog In The Ass (2001)
Though many people do not know it, all of Blink 182’s songs are about oral and anal sex except for two which are about suicide and one which is about divorce.

 

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Bob Dylan Seven Curses (1963)
What makes “Seven Curses” work as a song by Dylan, is that apart from being a haunting and moving story sung well to an exquisite tune, there is no bile and no vindictive feeling coming from the singer, for he is still singing the same song in the same way with the same accompaniment – the emptiness is endless. But instead the repeating of “him” is like the hammer blow. It seems quite extraordinary that this was not released as part of Freewheelin.

 

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Throbbing Gristle Zyklon B Zombie (1978)
B-side of the 1978 single “United”, “Zyklon B Zombie”, has been seen as a parody of punk rock music.

 

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Paul McCartney Kreen-Akrore (1970)
The last track on McCartney’s solo debut is a four-minute instrumental garnished with some guitars, bird calls, and a splash of vocal harmony, but it’s mostly McCartney playing the drums.

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. This weekend, a kind, sort of semi-stranger to the blog has commandeered the space to give you a gig full of lesser known oddball musical instances by largely well known musical artists from mostly the past and often distant. It’s fun. It’s low-key enlightening. So find out what Jamie Fitzroy has unearthed over the next two days’ course, thank you. And thank you for thinking of all of us, Jamie! ** Bill, Hi, B. I read them out of order too. It was fine to do so as far as I could tell. Gigs there, right, and excellent! Envy about the tough choices. Let me know what the Vaginal Davis show is like. I hope/trust they’ll show some of her brilliant early videos. ** Steeqhen, So, sexy maybe for masochists. A MES leftover, that makes sense. Great about the Ssnake event, and no surprise, and … great! It’s a superb book. She’s really great in general. Why were/are the Irish discriminated against in Scotland? Weird. Probably too long a story. I should know my history better. I guess try to productively take in the depth charges from the state of feeling off as that can be instructive. ** jay, Cool. It’s terrific, she’s great. Haha, that’s amazing that the Kirk thing got your friends to read ‘Pale Fire’. Wow. Water into wine and all of that. Gotta play that game. Gotta get off my ass and do that. Or at least cue it up. Have a thoroughly splendid weekend, mister. ** Dominik, Hi!!! You’re most welcome. Countdown to SCAB! No, I don’t know the interviewer. I’m definitely going to go into the interview less open and cheerful than I normally do. But, anyway, the film got a great review today in a much more populated context, so fuck them, haha. Love about to employ GPS to try to find the closest Office Depot, G. ** Steve, So often the case. Early Swans with more electronics sounds promising naturally. ‘The Long Walk’, don’t know it. I’ll see if it’s around here. More of a weekend of errand running than physical packing, but, in a word, yes. We’re having a hard time getting a NYC screening, so I don’t know when I’ll have news about that. Immediate news is that RT will screen in Baltimore at a really cool festival at the beginning of October. So we’re edging closer, at least. Everyone, Steve has two reviews for you to peruse this weekend:  … of Dag Johan Hauguerud’s DREAMS (SEX LOVE) here, and of Oliver Hermanus’ THE HISTORY OF SOUND here. ** Carsten, Hey, pal. The bureaucracy here in France is thick as thieves, but there does always seem to be English speakers at end of the hours-long waiting on hold. You are living the life, man. What a great turn your move turned out to be, as you knew it would be. I’m too busy and pre-trip stressed as per usual, but I’m looking forward to the cities and the screenings and the people who show up. ** HaRpEr //, She’s great, seriously worth reading. People always seem to say that about Damon Albarn. I haven’t really paid attention to him after Blur’s heyday. I’ll check out the Frost Children newbie. Right, I never think of McCourt or Firbank, say, as qualifying as purple prose writers, but I guess they are, relatively speaking. I’m not sure how to describe their kind of writing. Dense, extremely detail oriented, presentationally extroverted, but … ? I don’t know. Robbe-Grillet’s description is spot-on, of course. Unpredictable, exactly! ** Uday, Listen to your gut and get that picaresque book out of limbo. Seems like. It’s true that writers get to be young for a long time. Maybe because people’s immediate idea of a writer is a wise old sage? Which is odd in and of itself. But, hey, lucky us. Well, I’m post-young now, but it did take a long time before I became, whatever, a veteran. ** Hugo, Sometimes pop stars try. I think Miley Cyrus is trying? I remember when Sean Cassidy tried to go New Wave progressive, and that was the end of him. Thanks for sharing your friend’s ‘Closer’ thoughts. Interesting. You can tell her I wasn’t making any kind of broader statement about anything. Broad statements are for the birds. Peace be with you. ** darbz 🐻, The fish only gussied the place up. And now the bear has something to eat. You can send 5 pages, no problem, but it’s going to take me a while to get to it given my upcoming trip where I will be unlikely to have any time to pleasure myself with reading things. Fellow commenter Carsten is very knowledgeable about Native American wisdom and practices. I will watch the video and try to learn something. You have a great weekend too. I just have a lot of things I need to get finished before I’m largely incommunicado for, whatever, 10 days. So just making a list and checking it twice and that kind of stuff. But, yeah, make the most of yours. ** horatio, Hey! Hm, I haven’t thought about Simon & Garfunkel in ages. What did I used to think … Um, I think I kind of liked how adventurous they got as they went along. My main S&G thing is that when I was 15 I helped organise a concert by them that they did as a benefit for this leftie Presidential candidate Eugene McCarthy that I was a campaign volunteer for. I met them briefly, and they were sort of nice. Why, are you interested in them? Yay, thanks for coming to the screening. I have to remember to hit Quimby’s while I’m there for sure. Crazy day big time there. I’m good, thank you, and you be good and have a really swell weekend. ** Nicholas., Oh, yeah, I remember that era. That was an exciting point. Maximalists are highly needed, so … good! You sound really fiery. Excellent! Here’s to staying power. ** Okay. You already know what you’re in for or were in for this weekend. Please do your utmost. See you on Monday.

* (restored)

 

‘Ah, Ravicka. Where the bookstores are all independent, language swoops through the body, and buildings disintegrate. A city-state in flux and crisis. Belgians know about it. Citizens are disappearing. There’s still good coffee, though it’s the end of the world.

‘In her first novel of Ravicka, Event Factory, Renee Gladman constructs the city from the outside. Our guide is a linguist-traveler fluent in Ravic, the native language. She moves us through the city, using the word “yellow” to describe the air, a sickness in the air, and the emptiness suffusing Ravickian architecture. Architecture, we learn, is Ravicka’s at-risk ecology. The structures are massive, sublime, and shifty. Something is wrong; everything is OK. Our guide is nameless and perpetually walled-off, trying to read Ravicka’s ills by walking the city. She can’t seem to arrive, second-guessing at every turn her ability to report fully.

‘If you’ve ever fallen for another city and felt yourself bereft and flooded—welcome to Ravicka. What makes us most welcome here is Gladman’s linguist-traveler, able and at-sea as she navigates the city:

But there was a gesture I was to make upon entering a place that was already peopled, something between ‘hello,’ ‘sorry,’ and ‘congratulations I’m here,’ and I could not remember what it was. As subtly as I could, I bent here and there trying to jog my memory: was I to do a shake, a roundoff? I kept thinking, ‘How great it would be to enter.’ If only traveling were about showing off your language skills, if only it did not also demand a certain commitment of body communication, of outright singing or dancing—I think I would be absolutely global by now.

‘This kind of travel—running on uncertainty, fluency, and vulnerability—makes Event Factory wildly engaging. Gladman’s linguist-traveler puts in mind another rare contemporary travelogue, Awayward by Jennifer Kronovet. (A disclosure: Kronovet is a friend of mine.) In Awayward, a linguist-traveler from New York City named Jennifer learns Chinese. She goes there to live. Where reportage and narrative fail, poetry fills in. She writes:

There is architecture
and there is your view

of architecture and then
there is the house you can’t

leave: Comparison House
brought to you by English.

‘Gladman’s linguist-traveler wears a related translation-exhaustion (wonder-agony?) as she presses herself to interpret Ravicka for us, knowing full well that she can’t know. She seeks a companion (lady preferred) to help/make out with her. Some good prospects show up, including a salsa dancer in a skyscraper. No keepers, though. She can’t get her footing, entering bakeries is very complicated, and the friendly hotel concierge disappears. She’s hungry, lost, and reading. We’re reading. Where is Ravicka? The map keeps changing. What’s wrong with Ravicka? No one can or will say. The city center doesn’t reveal and field trips involving possibly sexy informants prove nothing. But something clicks when she heads toward the mountains to ask Luswage Amini, the “Great Ravickian Novelist,” what the hell is going on.’ — Elaine Bleakney

 

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Further

Renee Gladman and the New Narrative
Where Is the Thing We’re Chasing? Renee Gladman and Her Invented City of Ravicka
A Voice of Leaving: Renee Gladman’s The Ravickians
A Year with Renee Gladman
I Began the Day, by Renee Gladman
Renee Gladman in Conversation with Anna Moschovakis
‘Five Things Right Now’, by Renee Gladman
RENEE GLADMAN’S ‘HOUSES OF RAVICKA’
‘Untitled (Environments)’, by Renee Gladman
Audio: Renee Gladman @ PennSound
from ‘Calamities’
Building sex
THE COMPANY THAT NEVER COMES
The Shifting Literary and Ecological Landscapes of Renee Gladman’s Calamities
HOUSES OF RAVICKA BY RENEE GLADMAN @ Strange Horizons
‘Untitled’, by Renee Gladman
from ‘Studies’, by Renee Gladman
Buy ‘Event Factory’

 

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Extras

Prose Architectures Flipthrough

Renee Gladman « Small Press Traffic

This Side of Real: Renee Gladman’s New Narrative

Renee Gladman Reads

 

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Interview
from BOMB

 

Zack Friedman: I’ll start things off with some comments based on Event Factory. To me, a central theme of this book was fluency. The narrator has a formal intellectual understanding of the language and culture of Ravicka, but lacks the practical understanding that comes from lived experience within the city and its traditions or the native speaker’s true facility with natural speech. I was struck by the detail that went into this—the slightly awkward or clumsy phrasing of the narrator is rendered perfectly. What elements of your own personal background with language learning, teaching, and translating (not to mention iffy tourism) went into these books? Are there certain ideas about language and culture that influenced you or that you find coming through in the books?

Renee Gladman: I wrote the first two books of the series without ever having left the North American continent. At the time of the writing, I experienced a kind of paradox. It had something to do with the filmmaker Béla Tarr. I’m not sure how to explain this. Seeing his work, in particular the 7.5-hour Satantango—as well as the work of the Polish filmmaker Kieslowski, and the Russians Tarkovsky and Sokurov—created in me some instinct of belonging. It made no sense, but at a gut level I felt that those dreary, silent, beautiful landscapes, that sense of exhaustion and isolation, were my own. I wanted to place a narrative within a possibility or convergence of those spaces. I also—and I don’t have a rational explanation for this—wanted to push it farther east. A desire began to form for places like Latvia, Croatia, Slovenia. I dropped Ravicka down, perhaps in pieces, over this entire region. Though, at the same time, not really. Something entirely different had happened. I had wanted to escape my monolinguism, so (and you can find seeds of this in The Activist) I began to make up a language that I spoke with my lover on the streets of San Francisco. I would say some words of this language and she would respond with other words, apparently also of this language. Within that exchange was the space of the city, questions of the built environment, of community, occupancy. You think long enough about something and it comes to life in some alterity adjacent to your own. Those alterities have been my fictions.

ZF: What about the presence of, for lack of a better word, genre elements in the Ravicka books? There’s a bit of a sci-fi or fantasy feel (who else writes trilogies these days?), including an invented language (although I’m going to guess you didn’t go the full Tolkien on that) and you mention Samuel Delany in the acknowledgments. I almost want to call Event Factory a social science fiction book, with the sciences being linguistics and anthropology. But you seem very rooted in literary fiction and poetry, with an emphasis on what can be done with the individual sentence. What traditions do you see yourself working with when you write about an imagined city?

RG: I definitely would prefer social science fiction to science fiction, as I really didn’t intend these books to ask deep questions about technology or bioengineering or inter-galaxy relations. Instead, they wonder about city living, architecture, language and communication, desire, and community—the same things I wonder about in my own life. It is true that the air there is yellow, but, equally true is the fact that Luswage Amini, the great Ravickian novelist, argues that “yellow” is a mistranslation of the word “dahar,” so we really don’t know what color the air is. And yes, there is an underground ancient city, but so are there underground cities in Atlanta and Montreal. I guess my resistance is that I don’t know what people mean when they say sci-fi, what it is they wish to qualify. Maybe EF is sci-fi because a black lesbian poet wrote it. That’s pretty otherworldly. My concern, the more I think about this, is that “sci-fi” or “fantasy” are applied to assuage the deep confusion and disorientation experienced by the characters of the two books EF and The Ravickians or to justify why someone might have to do a backbend in order to eat. For me, it needs to stay on this side of reality, and it needs to be pushing for physical space in this world.

As far as traditions or influences go, the emptied-out city of Delany’s Dhalgren was a portal into Ravicka. But, aesthetically, these books are more aligned with novels like Cortázar’s 62: A Model Kit, Handke’s On a Dark Night I Left My Silent House, Gail Scott’s Heroine and My Paris, Michal Ajvaz’s The Other City—city novels or novels of walking. But not stories that happen to take place in cities, rather stories where “city” is an idea toward which the author or characters reach, a kind of reflective space that leads to questions about subjectivity or time. I love these questions regardless of the atmosphere in which they’re formulated, but inside urban space, alongside buildings, traffic, transport, the encroaching crowd, the desolate part of the city, they take on dimension. I can move “the problem of the person” around as though it were a thing. Also, as a writer of the English sentence, I am very conscious of the assertion of subjectivity. You can’t get very far in the sentence without having to make a big gesture of identity. “I,” “The man,” “She”—these solids inside which a certainty is assumed to exist. I like to think of moving through the sentence (as writer or reader) as moving through a kind of terrain. The sentence is at once a map of where we have gone and where we wish to go. You can see how dropping a city over this “map” might allow one to work on a figurative level. Your question about progression can become a character itself.

ZF: I’m fascinated by your parallel between the sentence and physical space. Is the disorientation and excitement an individual sentence, made slightly “off,” can produce, like moving through a city? Does a sentence have architecture, or is there a kind of urban planning that goes into writing? What makes it physical?

RG: Beautiful questions. In a way, I feel that most of the fun is in the asking rather than the answering. Like, what happens to your mind after you think those things? But, I will venture a response. On one hand what I’m talking about is syntax, how words are ordered to create meaning, how moving through that order is a kind of unfolding, each word being a “sign” of sorts that tell us about where we are and where we are going. Punctuation affecting our pace. A few years ago, I wanted to draw a parallel between the duration of maintaining self (the always-unraveling thread of experience) as one moves through a diverse city and the becoming of “subjectivity,” particularly as one navigates difficult sentences. Now, it is more trying to see the architecture of a sentence or group of sentences, and getting from there into a drawing space, where I’m thinking of the line as translation/conversation of thought.

 

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Book

Renee Gladman Event Factory
Dorothy, a publishing project

‘A “linguist-traveler” arrives by plane to Ravicka, a city of yellow air in which an undefined crisis is causing the inhabitants to flee. Although fluent in the native language, she quickly finds herself on the outside of every experience. Things happen to her, events transpire, but it is as if the city itself, the performance of life there, eludes her. Setting out to uncover the source of the city’s erosion, she is beset by this other crisis—an ontological crisis—as she struggles to retain a sense of what is happening.

‘Event Factory is the first in a series of novels (also available are the second, The Ravickians; the third, Ana Patova Crosses a Bridge; and the fourth, Houses of Ravicka) that Renee Gladman is writing about the invented city-state of Ravicka, a foreign “other” place fraught with the crises of American urban experience, not least the fundamental problem of how to move through the world at all.’ — Dorothy, app

 

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Excerpt
from The Brooklyn Rail

Crossing into the old city took the better part of the day when you were as hungry as we were, which was not a nutritional hunger but rather something deeply emotional. The iron of the bridge becoming stone, becoming ancient and rough as we moved along it, without having altered our course, but the world around us changing. “Eat before you leave,” was more like “forget where you have been,” because it was impossible to hold this crossing in your mind. The contemporary city did not align with this old one, which, in its preserved state, made a mess of our eyes. How could it just sit there, seven hundred years old? We clamored with our bodies to remain upright: Dar with her eyebrows, me with my pelvis, pointing at the sand-colored stone surrounding us. The bridge led to the Barabas wall, now only half-standing, the eastern side of the city exposed. It brought us to the much-celebrated threshold, where you are supposed to hold your breath, with a hand against the back of your neck as you walked through. It was not necessary to complete pareis with the customary speech about “the long and short of night,” as there were no residents here. Old Ravicka, the ancient city, was a museum.

We were alone. This was dramatic and strange. But, what was more odd was how hard we found it to take in the city visually. We walked through the gate and almost immediately came upon a wall. The back or side of a building. It was one of those situations where you could not step back to see the height of it. The sky was too low, or too far away, we could not determine. But the walls pulled you to them. Dar and I slid along the wall, looking for something. A door. A plaque. A window by which to see the vaulted chapels I had heard so much about. There were no openings, just this length of building, which Dar took to calling “The Alamai.” I did not pursue the reference. We stopped when we reached what looked like a street, perhaps an avenue that ran through the center of the dense city. It was not a street. I could not call it that. It was a side, a walkway. It could not have held traffic. The whole city was this one building, reproduced dozens of times, placed haphazardly into the ground, and what separated the one from the other were these narrow lanes. The city was a maze; it was cramped. I wanted to rub my face in it.

After a long time of sliding and squeezing ourselves between structures, we found Hos Centali, the mythologized first castle of the country. Except that it was not the actual castle we found but the exterior wall that encircled its former grounds; there was a deeper city inside, or so goes the story about castles. This meant that the labyrinth we had just navigated was once the castle’s moat. “This is not possible,” Dar argued. There were thin grooves dug into the wall that seemed to bear a message. I stepped back to grasp it, but something from the opposite building fell on my head. Dar stood to the side, trying to direct me. The space between the buildings was diminishing, the stone waking, closing in. The wall I had been reading was now inches from my face, the building behind me, against my back. I had to slither out. “I want to see the houses of genuflection,” Dar said, giving up on the wall. But getting to them would not be any easier. These houses—“cathedrals” would be the better name—had been constructed below ground; to reach them we had to find the famous staircase, which lay in the center of the stone park.

It was hard to imagine that a grass-covered clearing existed within the maze of these thirty-foot walls. The light of the day was falling. Our supply of produce was nearly exhausted, yet we were in search of this place. Something in the architecture had to give. One of the walls needed to turn away, become a courtyard, become a plaza. Lethargy began to dictate our turns; we hardly moved. We appeared to be circling the same block of streets. That feeling which attacks even the most seasoned travelers derailed our motivation. One of us went so far as to put it in words, “What am I doing here?” To which, in the case of being boxed in by dense, desolate streets, there was no answer.

Yet, the maze kept you turning until eventually you found that park, and sprinted through it beside yourselves. “Hello,” I shouted at the top of the stairs. “Hi,” I said, more calmly, as we descended into the depths.

 

The exquisitely woven banner of the Cathedral Sanní Almaniq hung like a painting before us. For a long time we studied it. It was real, tangible yet unmistakably older than anything we had ever seen. Touching stone is predictable, no matter how far in time it precedes you, but cloth—you cannot imagine cloth that is a hundred years older than the language you speak. Or this is how Dar convinced me, exhausted as I was, to go on standing there. “Older than these words?” I asked her repeatedly in the many dialects of the seven languages I spoke. And she answered “yes” in her mostly one. You stare at it, the cloth, hoping a breeze will lift it, but the scene produces nothing further.

“Dar,” I said some moments later.

The way that time indicates it is moving in a place where there is no sky is by the sound of the natural objects that inhabit it. Such as by the drawbridge expelling air we knew it was night.

A call came from the corner perpendicular. It went, “Gurantai!”

I answered immediately, “A ’rantai, my Cousin. Who’s there?” and turned to Dar as she opened her mouth to extend a greeting. “Achnee,” she seemed to have said.

A woman appeared in a cloak, carrying a small bell in her hand, which she tapped lightly in her approach. I had heard of this custom, but only seen it illustrated in books.

“Hep, hep,” I called as I had learned earlier.

“We couldn’t wait any longer,” she hailed in a thick accent, speaking Dar’s language. “I’m the emissary,” she continued, then clapped her hands. “No, I’m cooking,” she corrected.

“We’ve come from the outer yellow,” Dar declared in a voice far lower than usual. I elbowed her subtly. She cleared her throat and spoke again but in that same voice. She said, “Everybody talks about your depths where we’re from, but they never mention people. You know, you’re several meters below ground level, and just last year the Councils of City named . . .” And she turned to me for the Ravic. I said, “Dueles Delín.” She continued, “Named this place . . .”

The woman interrupted, “Yes. We know all of that,” and nodded compassionately. Then continued, more upbeat, “My name is (then gave a puff of air). Will you come with me?”

And that was what I had feared: she was not Ravickian and, what was worse, she used air instead of hard sound for speech.

There was an entire race of them, gathered in that cathedral. While clearly they had been there a long time, they were in no way medieval. They were moderns, if conclusively anything. Dressed in leathers and flared pants. They put a slant on the place. Talking in gaps and breaths, which Dar and I struggled to imitate. All the same, Sanní Almaniq belonged to them. In Ravicka, and apparently this place beneath, possession was gained through comprehension. We were a threat only if we knew more. Fortunately for them, the names of things that filled this cavern caused no light to turn on in me. And Dar seemed stuck in translation. They talked to us; we were fed.

The woman who had greeted us was not their leader as I had supposed but was their scout. They were trying to map the depths, which, they told us, was becoming more and more populated. From the bit of time we had spent in the square, Dar and I found this hard to believe. But the woman and some of the others (who could find their Ravic) argued passionately. They were not aliens, and this cathedral was not another planet, but remembering this took a great deal of discipline.

The food they served us did little to assist me. I would have sworn the bulky ingredient in most of the courses was shredded paper, which seemed to have been stewed in various dark and spicy sauces. The suspicious grinding during the cooking hour was the first thing to tip me off, but there were other signs, such as the minute scraps of letters that one found occasionally in the grated “cheese.” They did reside below ground; there was no sky. That their menu did not include meat or vegetables should not have surprised me, nor that the food was actually delicious and the ritual that organized our eating mystifying. That first night, they honored us by reading from “the great manuscript” written by someone whose name sounded like “Fooshu Uh Uh Ja(click),” and who, they insisted, was not their leader, but a friend they had long lost. The recitation was punctuated every minute or so with a round of backslaps and one person every ten minutes grabbing an empty plate from the center of the table, walking 180 degrees to the other side of the table, replacing the plate, then usurping the chair in front of her, requiring all in attendance to move over one. Going through the machinations brought out the athlete in us. We ate deep into the night.

 

By the end of our first week with the Esaleyons (I actually never learned to write their name) I had secured a space of my own in their upper studios. Though I had not come to Ravicka with any anthropological purpose—I studied languages, not people—I felt rather drawn to this clan. Yet, I did not want to turn the space they had given me into an office, where I would burrow in. They seemed to feel this way as well, for I was not left alone very often. Musicians roamed the halls of the cathedral, “taking requests,” they said, and were never far from my room. As soon as I would consider taking a moment to reflect, the drums would get going, followed by the strings. Even my travel companion colluded against me, bringing me trays of food at odd hours, sometimes minutes after the conclusion of our group meals.

The Esaleyons, we found out, were at one time Ravickians. There had been a rebellion many years ago, and a small group left its former race to become these new folks, the Esaleyons, speaking a language, Esaléye. This, of course, was not a first for human existence, but something in the way they lived, perhaps it was just how gymnastic they were—even the older people—something in how they occupied this space enthralled me. I could not control how much I stared, nor could I close my mouth. Events had found me, and I wanted someone, at the very least Simon, to know about it. However, bringing something back proved difficult. Listening to them was like gathering water without a pail. They never ceased explaining the shape and nature of things, but did so in too twisting a narrative to become memorable. Water gathered around my feet. I tried to capture it with my mind. I asked Dar to hold some. But it was water. Water you cannot hold. I looked around: everything filling that space shone magnificently, shining with this or that iconic power—old and extraordinary and arranged completely out of sync with time.

Yet, what words besides “old” and “extraordinary” can I use to describe life there? And were I to write the description in the language of these hidden people what symbol would I use to represent air? You would want to listen to this language. I am sure of this, because to hear a person speak in gaps and air—you watch him standing in front of you, using the recognizable gestures—opening the mouth, smiling, pushing up the eyebrows, shrugging the shoulders—and your mind becomes blank as you try to match this with the sounds you hear. An instinct says tune it out, but something deep within fastens your attention. Your mouth falls open. You taste the strangeness; you try to make the sound with your mouth. That is speech. Now, how do you do this in writing?

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** lotuseatermachine, Hey. You’re most welcome again. Yeah, purple prose or poetry wards me off too. Luckily there are a lot of great poets out there who come in dry. I like to change forms a lot, as often as I can. I always want to feel like I’m trying to invent something from scratch. I get the frustration, but I guess personally I don’t see each piece I’m writing as an attempt to be definitive but more as kind of locking down that interest and point in my development as best I can before I move forward again. Or something. ** _Black_Acrylic, The Klimt comparison is of course apt. I get the feeling that Kunz was a bit more outsider and less knowing about what art is supposed to be? But I don’t know. ** Steeqhen, What did the cafe do to try to live up to its name? You sound pretty engrossed. ** sam jenks, Hello, sam jenks. Oh, okay, thanks. Like a Halloween-y piece of writing? I’m not totally sure what would satisfy your needs. But, sure, I’m game, and thank you for wanting. We would love to show the film there with you. How do we do that? How do we submit? Thanks for being here and for asking and for being exciting in general. ** Dominik, Hi!!! Well, it’s a matter of degree. Paris has protests all the time, so a protest has to be pretty insane to stand out, and the one the other day caused waves, but it didn’t seem to change anything. So far. Poor love and his brain. That sounds rough or cloudy, very cloudy. Love being interviewed this weekend by someone who just published a negative review of our film and wondering to negotiate that, G. ** Bill, You’ve just upped Kunz’s cred in my estimation considerably. You’re in Berlin! What in the world are you doing there? Apart from hopefully wringing the fun out of the place. Are you performing? I wish I had your jet lag-related stamina. ** Justin D, Hey, Mr. D. Here’s hoping. Bill said it breathed some life back into him, so who knows. I’m passing your bf a nice, hot cup of conceptual tea. I’m ok, a bit overworked and stressed, but it’s tolerable so far. Here too: it’s chilly and downright liveable outside. Enjoy like me. ** Steve, Happy to hear your friend’s ok, health-wise at least. Haven’t heard the DJ Sprinkles mix, no. I need to put my earphones back on. Although maybe not specifically on that account. A for the intention? ** Minet, Hey! Oh, good, I’m glad my answers are ok. Phew. Thank you so much! It was really invigorating, and I’m the excited one. I think my favorite theme park attraction is the classic, ultra-influential dark ride prototype Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at Disneyland. How long until Chalamet hits the gym and goes Chris Pratt, I wonder. Thank you again! Love, me. ** HaRpEr //, Aw, thanks. Really surprising that it’s taken this long to have a Greer Lankton monograph. That’s exciting news! It takes a particular kind of reserve to go back through your early junk and nitpick. I usually have to wait until I’m feeling particularly confident and inquisitive. I’m not much into Gorillaz, but Sparks’s involvement will get that a listen. Post-humous MES? Strange way to put it. Some unused sample I would guess? ** darbgyfbuxz.𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟, Wow, that’s cool. Nuts: that accident report. I might have to take a peek or read or something. You can send the page. I’m scrambly, but time remains. Thanks! Awesome about the book club! And the cool interactions with the others! It’s beautiful when books unite people. Yay, pal! ** Nicholas., Wow, highest marks. Candy … someone gave me one of their SweeTarts yesterday, and that was pretty miraculous. I don’t think I have any pointers on your manifesto. It’s bold and colorful and comprehensive. There’s always the having to live up to it in the eyes of the receiver thing, but that’s always a crapshoot even when you’re shy and withholding about your work. Go for it. ** Right. Today I’ve revived a past spotlight on a fantastic novel by one of my very favorite younger American novelists, Renee Gladman, and here’s hoping there’s something in it for you. See you tomorrow.