Slint
Spiderland

THE REVIEW

Reminiscences, flashes, tumults of invisibility. In the corner of the storage room, we see the forgetfulness of which we are made. The fragments of a session of regressive hypnosis, visions of past lives, standing watching the ocean on the deck of a caravel. That toy we loved as a child, the sounds and noises filtered by the amniotic fluid, suspension...

Understanding of the friction between the flesh of the body and the soul, the noise of the blood as it moves. Detachment in observing ourselves from the outside, cohesion of Universes, impersonal compactness, silent disintegration. Waves of loneliness transmigrating, incandescent tokens of the meritocracy of nothingness, imaginative transplants of post-ever, elliptical immobilities, openings towards cyclical exaltations.

The swing is like the rocking horse and reproduces that tunnel, both on the way there and back. And then the light, bright, white light. Heartbeats and syncopes, please don't stop, never stop. Beauty is the deception of the senses, the spider here is the deception to the senses. Beauty is not useful but is indispensable. Beauty pierces. Devastating ruthless beauty, devastating. Real Life...

Irregularity and perfection coexist. There's no longer the currency of exchange, there's a sound carpet that, like teleportation, transports us where the evanescence of everything exists, sounds, noises, reflections. The reverberation of resonances devastates decaying securities. The irradiating dust elsewhere replaces the marrow, transformation unfolds involving other levels and perceptions. A second heart grows, one beats in the search for ourselves, the other in the loss: "Good night, my love..." Kentucky: fried chicken and Slint...

Like all true states of hallucination, the pieces zigzag, untainted by comparisons and parallels: it's solely a short circuit that scrapes atrophied glands. Gunmetal-colored sarabands. Feelings are alien, feelings are no longer plagiarized. A transcendental joy cleans the windshield and the rearview mirror from illusory good intentions. The astral condition corroborates the end of sadness. A shower of solder lapilli liquefies coagulations, the contamination of purity resolves millenary fevers, the release implodes a hidden turbo, the cold horror is consistent with our abandonment.

We merge with the sidereal phantasmagorical flight, the launch is dynamic in projecting towards the underground, to the center of the Earth. Mystifying buried futures... Targets are raised deliberately missing them so that bloody bliss pervades us: the halo of despoiling rolls through digestions. The precipitation goes from bottom to top. The eternal sages applaud in silent understanding. Made in the west, but this birth is not part of the western hemisphere.

Hypothetical wonder of a soundtrack for "The Hanging Gardens of Babylon", Persepolis, Byzantium. A suitable harsh air for that impossible dialogue between Alexander and Diogenes: "I am 'The Great'! Can I do something for you? Get out of the Sun..." From 323 BC (death of both) to 1991 AD of Spiderland, palindromic cabalistic coincidences, Louisville bucephalous and cynical.

We can live inside the woven barrel, there is the Pluriverse both there and on the web: "What use do we have for the harmonies of angels when we have found the angels themselves?"