Monday, 16 March 2009

Hopeless. What hope can there be for someone unable to rise at a decent time, unable to stir into activity before the pathetic symmetry of noon? What excuses have I, beyond staying up till three, unable to sleep, worried about nothing? There can be no excuses here, I am the excuse. The only settlement can be to put mind toward today, to achieve something from the few hours of light, and the many hours of darkness, that rest ahead.

Listening once more to 'borrowed' music. Last night I thought properly about explanations of process that might sit within the album. I thought about that week of enquiry where I sat in the new apartment, the exterior itself bound in blue plastic awaiting renovation, and listened through the collection of cassettes I had. There were those diagrams next to me, that I drew in the Kaufhalle when faced with artists in their studios doing what they did. The blunt and aimless wander of my waning focus led me to undertake an exercise in memory - trying to remember the sounds I had found and organise them into parallels. Then came the recording.

The resulting album is an archive of sounds that should have been lost. It is also a homage to my surprisingly effective ability to forget. While I can be held responsible for certain duties of arrangement, no blame or credit can be attributed to me for the sounds within. Those that I did not make will hopefully be reclaimed by their creators, just as an author might notice an idea he once had in the sentence of another. Those sounds that I did create, I have long given up hope of remembering.

The administration around the album remains. The final artwork layout, the printing, the endless lists of promotion agents. Then I need to rehearse, leave for Paris. Before that though, I need to remember how to read and write. I went to Treptower fleamarket yesterday to try and find books, English books. Down by the river, there is a large warehouse whose contents, every Sunday, sprawl out into the loading bays and concrete approaches. Given its semi-permanence, the bargaining is hard but the quality good, unlike the car-boot fairs of England full of puzzles with one piece missing and The Sound Of Music on vinyl. Here there are quarters, dens of true commerce; the stall with hundreds of old amplifiers, the tables with rows of shiny taps, boxes of brightly coloured fishing floats. But, of course, no English books. Still, I consoled myself with the trip itself. Somewhere between my (supposedly) Libran fascination with the compartmentalisation of things and distant memories of that Orwellian position that the archaic is a site of dissidence, I can manage to wander for hours round these markets and I never buy anything. Which is just as well, as starting work at noon is no way to earn a living.

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