Jerobeam Fenderson
Oscilloscope Music

I've been fed up for years now. I curse the evolutionary process that didn't equip ears with the same ability as eyes: the ability to close. I only wanted a hand from nature but no.

Even if just to preserve the orifices and keep them away from chronic infections that make me nervous and make me even less tolerant of having to hear. Since I can't close them. I hear almost nothing, I'm naturally forced to listen. Snippets of conversations from passersby. Vaporous comments to ignore. Outdated interpretations. All useless but no. I listen. Maybe I can't call it unconscious but I guarantee that in most cases, it's not voluntary.
It's morbid, the thing. It borders on autism and only serves to make me aware of constantly having my head in a journey, and nothing else.

Because then in truth, even if I'm fed up, and even if I would be tempted to materialize the processing that comes out in words to vomit: it all reduces to a bolus I swallow. My fault.

But no, it's not true, I tell myself. I'm just absorbed by my age that has shoved me into an insulating layer relegated to duties. In paranoia.

But no, my fault. I am a product of my work, a product of calculations and choices. Like Oscilloscope Music. Only that unlike Fenderson, I didn't know what I was doing. I could mix senses and manipulate the oscillator, and I knew something would come out, but I didn't know what. They shoved a ton of potentiometers into my hands, and I immediately started following my instinct, moving them randomly, without reason. Yet it was enough to ask.

Oscilloscope Music deals with the duality of simple-complex, representing stylized sketches through a phase wave. Like drawing a square with water.

For me, it's just the emblem of my impotence. I know nothing. I am nothing.

Vienna.