The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

it rains.

What happens when you can't get the sound right? The day's overcast again,
until 6:30 last night I recorded and recorded, making a mess of things.
rainday4 I replaced, still trying, while rainday5 sputters like a dirt
bike without the excuse of dirt; it makes its own. The music I do sounds
more and more oppressive, one instrument, one sound, in a fast-forward
world of tantric-sonic generation and completion. It's the last vestige of
the artisan in me, last vestige of primitive accumulation, if nothing but
notes, and here even less than that. I'm my own medicine wagon, taking my
own medicine, remaining incurable. The files below are replacements, just
as I am; they shudder, just as I do, one foot in the grave, the other, for
good measure, dragged behind. When the rhythm no longer holds, the center
fails; each of these pieces is a metaphor, either replete at the surface
and empty at the heart, or - more likely - replete at the heart with
emptied, emptied surface.

I am the it that rains.

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