Here is a sense of wrongness. A piano note repeats, sparsely. At first glance identical, each repetition takes place in a different place and sentiment. Distance where one expects proximity, the organic spawned an inorganic progeny. Which waters flood the lake of our feelings?
Things appear in pristine evidence, albeit unfit to bear comprehensive proof of their own existence. The guilty pleasure of untranslatability. It seems like saying, I would rather be a ghost story than a history of ghosts. Time and place here are just displaced, certainly coerced, perhaps worn out: nothing is elaborated, nothing is remapped. We do not know where we are since we do not know where we have been, therefore we cannot say where we should go.
One hears voices, a distant ensemble, bass too tight to fit with the ancestral recollection of a Renaissance flute. One hears guitars, circuits, and woodwinds, distortion, muffling. One hears disregard, drama, strings, dreamscapes, electricity. One hears a movie, when a movie cannot be seen. One imagines a story, when the story cannot be told.
Has affectation become a form of entertainment? We have learnt to damage things to increase their truthfulness. It’s been said we want our film to be beautiful, not realistic. But that is untrue. We want our film to be beautiful AND realistic.
Everything here was cliché, to evade the arrogance of pathos. Everything here was simulation, to abstain from the hallucination of nature. Everything here was disjointed, to elude the solace of congruence. We’d rather be a ghost story than a history of ghosts.
Death In Plains was a fictional character, notwithstanding its presence being undeniably real. Dates of appearance, end, and beginning remain unclear, as well as blurry remain the reasons of its existence. Did it even really exist? First appearances: 2008-2011. Death in Plains was deliberately anti-work, anti-rational, anti-gender, anti-world, anti-establishment, anti-normal, anti-spectacle. I know this for certain since, sometimes, Death in Plains was me. And some part-time me was DIP. Your teenage voice becoming baritonal. Weirdly enough, baritonal is the anagram of antilabor. In taking DIP into consideration, either what’s not been spoken is important as what has been. Art is about faith. Death in Plains was never about music. Weirdly enough, it emerged from some kind of music scene, as music itself. One night, we have been speaking long about this precisely: I cannot define, I cannot describe, I cannot remember. Big big % VS little little %. One could say the inaudible had a major part over the audible. Weirdly enough, silence cancelled all the music. Finally, DIP was not even “something” about music. It is “anything” about the the subterranean, the submerged, the greater sturdy sank root of the newborn sprout. It is the longest absence of vibration preceding the momentum creating vibration. It operates through music in order to channel silence. You won’t fine me here. You won’t find here anything but “old stones that cannot be deciphered.” If we remove (human-sized) time/space causality, aren’t both the long unspoken silence and the trauma that has been, reverberations of each other? Also, let’s not speak clearly about DIP. It could have been maybe all about the wonders of self-suggestion.
