The shape of water


I’m spending the days cataloging books and filling the shelves of the new library. In the early afternoons, the new library employees come in and we learn about their system, and how to work it. It’s a 4km walk out of the edge of town, along the hills and red dirt roads with broken palms back to our house. I’ll listen to the radio, or the wind as I walk. When I get back you’re on the phone with family, and our child is outside the window playing in the sand nearby. When she comes back in to join you and have a snack, I’m already wading in the water, floating on my back, and drifting further out. The clouds in the distance are reaching over the islands, their overcast arms swooping and dropping warm rain. Showers barely pass, and they blow by like shadows against the flickering, distant blue lights of the town. I can see the light from our window when I look up, treading water, and even the ocean seems grey and quiet here in the middle. Behind me is another island, led by a green mountain, grey and black with clouds hanging over. The water moves underneath, a sea snake swims by, and the surf spins. – William Thomas Long


Storytelling, a moment


Berger: Every story has its own subjectivity, where the truthful and the fantastic coexist. Subjectivity is an amalgam of three people: the storyteller, the protagonists, and the listener. The story is a cooperation between these three, which makes the subjectivity of that story.

Sontag: That’s very strange to me what you’re saying. I can’t feel the subjectivity of the listener or the reader. Of course I wouldn’t write if I didn’t think that I could be read, but I can’t imagine how that could be part of the story.

Berger: When you were a child, do you remember listening to stories? Who were you? Were you the person telling the story, or the characters, or a mix between the two, in a reassuring way?

Sontag: Maybe that’s because I think the difference between hearing stories and reading them is greater than you do. We have to stop now, and we’ll be back in a moment.


What a moment.


The haunted apparatus


Lee Friedlander’s The Little Screens (1963)

“Sound and image without material substance, the electronically mediated worlds of telecommunications often evoke the supernatural by creating virtual beings that appear to have no physical form. By bringing this spectral world into the home, the TV set in particular can take on the appearance of a haunted apparatus.” – Jeffrey Sconce

Source: Grafton Tanner’s Babbling Corpse: Vaporwave and the Commodification of Ghosts (Zero Books, 2016)

La puerta que cruje

Recuerdo quedarme asombrado en clase de música en el instituto escuchando un fragmento de ‘Variations pour une porte et un soupir’. El objetivo de la profesora es que sus alumnos entendieran la función de la grabación estereofónica, una técnica que por cierto se entiende muy bien escuchando esta composición. La historia de la música concreta es uno de los temas más interesantes que recuerdo de mis estudios pre-universitarios. Descanse en paz al maestro Henry.

Fuente: [Spotify]

Noches de verano


Había oído esta canción antes a través de Miami Vice y su apropiación “vaporwave” en ‘Virtual Luxury Beach’ [audio] La composición original es obra de Software, un ya extinto dúo alemán de electrónica “downtempo” que publicó discos entre 1984 y 2000 y cuyo trabajo se ha desenterrado recientemente en 100% Electronica, sello de Brooklyn dedicado al “vaporwave” de resplandor vespertino (es casa de S U R F I N G, ESPRIT 空想 y Mirror Kisses). O en el caso de Software, a un proto-“vaporwave” por definición desligado de intención política y en algunos casos directamente emparentado con la música de sintetizadores ambiental, las bandas sonoras de videojuegos o el “muzak”. ‘Island Sunrise’ es su canción insignia…

Fuente: [Bandcamp]