because of my belief in analog. tape. physical. reality. carving something as abstract as sound into a soft material by use of sheer force. soundscapes. love. everything all of the time, a portable way to conserve memories, some song that sucks because i can't write songs when i'm drunk after some horrible party where i've failed in all things love and perhaps gotten punched in the face by some asshole who is into cars and homemade booze. then when i'm fifty i can dig up all my old tapes, listen to them all weathered and messed up and try to decipher what i'm trying to convey. my purpose. i'll make my own mystery, and it'll be exciting because i'll try to hide it from people i love. maybe i'll even be happy. jobs, economy, social status, sleep, coffee, more jobs, education, more jobs, indoctrination. i'll suppress memories, and i won't even remember what i was on about back when i was nineteen and had my vision clouded by the sheer vastness of the world suddenly thrown at me.

because it is being thrown at me and i'm not ready for it at all. going to the army in august because i don't have anything else to do.

jesus

fucking

christ.

i am tired, i am weary. i could sleep for a thousand years.


so me, s and t found this road that i've never seen before that's all over-grown and never used due to the ever-present danger of the mountain breaking off and falling in huge chunks killing cars in violent bloody metal gore explosions.
and it's fucking beautiful. i feel like i'm in some sort of post-apocalyptic movie, like mad max just without the cars and shit. more like a certain book by cormac mccarthy. today me and k went there and i slept on the asphalt for a while cause it was all warmed up by the sun. when i go there i hear shit that doesn't really exist 'cause i'm in my own post-apocalyptic movie. there's everything one could need. a huge, fucking overwhelming mountain which gives off a kind of stereo echo when you yell, a huge drop down to the fjord, a always present sense of slight danger due to the mountain falling down occasionally, etc. it's great.
oh man.

also i've been listening to way too much velvet underground lately, i think that might be what makes it so hard to sleep. i had about four hours of sleep before my german exam but i think i did allright. not really sure. i should probably sleep instead of writing this but i can't 'cause it's either too hot or too cold. right now it's kind of 50/50 so i guess i'll try.

cheers for all tomorrow's parties.

-m.

in this post i'm planning to break the conventional rules of posting in a "professional" environment by presenting my own thoughts and slightly intelligible opinions construced in a intoxicated environment. i find it dif if difficult to find the proper letters on my keyboard. this might take a while.

struggling as fuck to find the post blog button, drunk. drunk. intox-sick-hated. alarm!
shit. man. i don'tknow what to write about. i guess i'll write about the fact that whenever i am drunk i feel like every sound in the universe is beautiful. often when the sounds are out of context with.. well, everything. i wish i had every shitty singer in the world, every michael jackson impersonator, every gathering of junkies with guitars in my room at this moment. a room with huge fucking reverb. epic reverb. like a cathedral, just without the religion part.. i wish they were all right here right now in a room filled with huge reverb so i could gather all their emotions, all their fucked up musings on life itself into a single huge sound. i could cut it to any length i wanted,any length they wanted, maybe a split second. a split second of EVERTHING. a split second of sound containing every single beautiful or horrible, miserable emotion ever compressed. contained. like in a fucking syringe.

oh shit jimi hendrix is on tv. beautiful.

I recently saw a documentary called "Deep Water" which made me fascinated by the story of Donald Crowhurst, a man who spent an amazing amount of time in complete solitude at sea, seeing as he had no life to return to, facing economic ruin and public humiliation. All he was surrounded by was an endless amount of waves and ripples, varying in force and aggression. As this was all that was present in his surroundings, it became his world. With time he began to view himself as a God, evident in his logbook entries slowly spiralling into a kind of free madness.

"I have become a second generation cosmic being, I am conceived in the womb of nature, in my own mind... In the womb of the universe. "


This is taken fromhttp://dresherensemble.org/newmusictheater/ravenshead

Crowhurst was a British businessman who attempted to sail solo in a race around the world from the fall of 1968 to the summer of 1969. His motives for this enterprise were complex, ranging from practical business concerns (he had designed and manufactured a navigational device, sales of which were in sore need of such publicity) to psychological imperatives (a need to prove himself - Crowhurst was an intelligent and ambitious man of modest birth in a class conscious society).

Crowhurst was unprepared for his trip.

He came face to face with his limitations in the South Atlantic. His boat was taking on water, his self steering gear was falling apart, and he was missing vital equipment (the result of slip-shod inventory at the outset). Disappointed in himself and embarrassed by his slow progress, he began to exaggerate his speed in his occasional radio reports, reporting positions far in advance of where he actually was. Crowhurst was probably assuming he would make up the difference over the course of the trip. Soon, however, he realized he wasn't going to make it.

At this critical juncture Crowhurst made a momentous decision. In short, he decided to fake it. He reasoned that by appearing to finish the race but lose it, he might save face while avoiding the magnified attention that would surely result from winning. As an also ran, a dignified failure, he would be afforded enough publicity to benefit his business (and thereby his family and his standing within the community) while remaining unimportant enough to avoid scrutiny and detection, his ships log only glanced at, his accounts taken at face value.

Still, the construction of a log book that would pass even the most cursory examination was an involved undertaking. Crowhurst had to spend long hours monitoring weather reports from around the globe, figuring winds and currents, time, speed and positions, inventing plausible anecdotes for the margins, etc.

In the end, all his effort was undone when his only remaining competition, having heard that Crowhurst was somewhere behind him coming home, pushed his boat too hard in an attempt to ensure a first place finish, and foundered, leaving Crowhurst in sole possession of the lead.

Crowhurst, having already committed himself to the lie by means of fraudulent radio reports of his position, knew he was facing a disastrous unmasking and total ruin. He had been out at sea by himself with limited radio contact (partially by design) for well over 200 days.

His log entries from these last days are a mess of philosophic and religious speculation:


"I had a complete set of answers to the most difficult problems now facing mankind. I had arrived in the cosmos while contemplating the navel of the ape..."

"Now at last man has everything he needs to think like a cosmic being.

At the moment it must be true that I am the only man on earth who realizes what this means. It means I can make myself a cosmic being..."

"My folly gone ‘forward’ in imagination

Wrong decision not perfect Time

no longer computed Had disorganizes Clocks"

Then, the last written words of Donald Crowhurst:

"It has been a good game that must be ended at the I will play this game when I choose I will resign the game 11 20 40 There is no reason for harmful"

It is supposed that he abandoned ship on the 243rd day of his strange voyage, jumping overboard while the ship sailed on. He left his beloved wife and four children.

4. february:

i watched another movie tonight. it was the kind of movie where, at some point, someone near death cries out "goodbye, cruel world!"
i disagree. the world is not cruel. society might be cruel, your surroundings may be harsh, but these are only parts of the world, and thus not representative of everything. the world can grant you everything and take it all away, and as such the world is balanced. what keeps this balance, this... good versus evil, something, i do not know. but it is balanced. there is a kind of strange beauty in most things, seeing as i, we are unable to comprehend the vastness of just about everything.
i'm not sure what the correct definition for "the world" might be, but i imagine it to be our planet and the immediate surroundings. what we know, and what we can investigate. with our modern age, our space-lenses and our technology, the world might be expanding. we see new places, claim new territories, and so on. we presume the universe to be infinite, so... with this constant expansion the world is infinite. the universe is infinite. upon death, are you leaving the universe? are you somehow removed from everything?

i am still unable to sleep.

"...Our eyes once more appreciated the beauty of the earth, relieved to have escaped the unbearable constriction of the shelter hole, and our lungs drew in the intoxicating spring air. With the rumble of guns behind us, we were able to say with the poet:

A day that God the maker of the world
Made for sweeter things than fighting."

-Ernst Jünger, In Stahlgewittern.

two thousand and seven is a huge number. a great amount of time. even compared to it’s own amazingly abstract and incoherent everything. everything. no point a, no point b, no alpha or omega, no nothing. yet everything. and i find myself struggling with it, against it.

i’m eighteen years old. i’m abstract.

it’s 00:59 now, one more minute and i’m supposed to be sleeping. minutes. they’re nothing. all i should take into consideration is how sleepy i am. that’s something i can relate to. i always find myself being sleepy, but i don’t want to sleep because i don’t want to waste time. or, to put it in other terms, i don’t want to waste existence. i want to do something every day. every abstract, i want to fill this blank void fucking space with motion, dynamic motion. physical things. joy. not thoughts. i find myself doing nothing every single day. or, well, i do things, but they bring me no joy. only the weekends are fun. at least they used to be. all my friends are scattered around everywhere or at home and i’m in volda alone during the weekends. not always, but it feels like it. i want to care about one person more than the rest, if not for love or any of that sappy shit, just for the sake of doing something to fill my days. and it would probably bring me joy, too. i guess that’s what cynics call a girlfriend. and there are candidates for it, at least for me, i don’t know if i’m a candidate for anyone, but there are some for me. i just never seem to take any initiatives, i’m not sure if i want to. i’m not sure about anything. i like contrasts. a laptop screen against the void of a black room, blank versus something. i’m blank and i need something. asocial apathy. that doesn’t make sense but neither do you. argh. someone bring me coffee and warm sweaters, fuck the winter and fuck the snow. white covering every color, whiting out, erasing, fading out. during weekdays it’s cold and during weekends it’s warm because everyone is getting drunk or having sex. or both. probably. that’s the decline of civilization, right there. is this what we’ve become?

yet, somehow this, us, isn't despair.

i planned my birthday well. i saved my one and only cigarette given from a friend, walked up a beautiful mountain and shifted into thought just as the day shivered into night. a kind of euphoria.

i am reliving my post-dental appointment stress all over again. i hate it. they don’t even ask to sedate me, and if they do they only bring me pain and a consistent numbness, an apathy, both physically and in my brain. as a result, i am unable to both speak and function normally for at least one or two hours after the whatever it is they do. it still hurts.

apathy seems like a pasttime to me nowadays. or, ah, it’s not true apathy. i can still feel, it’s just that there is no use in feeling. it feels useless. the, uh, feeling. not of everything, but with people. i am completely able to “feel” people, yet with time it becomes a process of analyzing everything. i try to figure out people far too often, and the only people i don’t care to figure out are my best friends. i don’t really know that much about them. i don’t feel like i have to. the kind of mental exploration i’m talking about comes naturally with them. they are. everyone else is in the future, a potential friend, a potential lover, a potential enemy. i’ve lost my flow through life, and i’m unable to “feel” people. i only feel their actions, their repercussions, their ripples. consistence, no details. a fluid.

and even because of this i feel happy. universally. so i guess it might not be apathy, it might be boredom, and powerful at that. consuming. i need more people. i pick my friends carefully, so i know they’re real. genuine. something i find myself unable to be.

but i guess everyone else does, as well.

I am sitting on a couch staring, no, gazing into a white screen while the only noticeably audible sound in the room is that of the kitchen tap dripping and me touching and lowering the keys on my laptop keyboard. The refridgerator is making a kind of gentle humming noise, but it’s not sharp enough to be considered a sound by my standards, if i have any. When the drops of water hit the sink it gives of a kind of reverby sound. Or, well, it’s not really reverb, but it sounds like more depth. I like it. It sounds like it has a purpose. It sounds as if it tries to become an ocean. The refridgerator calmly agrees.

I wish i had an ocean. Then i could gather friends and go on some fantastic journey somewhere or something like that. Not that i would actually ever muster the will to do so. I’m fond of ideas, but i’m lazy. Or, well, ah, lazy isn’t really the proper word. I just like to do things slowly, carefully, porcelain-like. Like gathering an ocean. I wish i was a kitchen sink. haha. It’s not that i plan often, or things thing through before i do them. I suppose i just like flow. Like a river. With a purpose, a waypoint, somewhere to go, just not feeling as i’m forced to or pushed towards doing it. As you’ve probably noticed i have a fixation with water. When i try to make ambient music, for instance, i see oceans as an ideal. You can drown in it. I mean this in a non-suicidal way. You can drown in reverb, it engulfs you and it feels good. Sounds good. Stereo swirl, octet haze. Also, an ocean is calm due to its vast size, it doesn’t really move that much except on the surface. But underneath it’s dynamic. Huge. Overwhelming.

I like music that gives me chills, but i suppose everyone does. I wonder if anyone has done any research on why it does. I mean, it’s one of the best feelings i know exist. I’m not sure i’ve encountered alot of feelings yet. “yet.” fuck, i’m eighteen years old. argh. Or, hm, I suppose i might not really want to know why, why sound can give me a feeling of euphoria. It takes away the mystery. When i think about it, i’m not that fond of science either. I like philosophy. Philosophy and tea. And poison. Nicotine. Alcohol. Experiencing something resembling love in a fucked up way that doesn’t make sense to me… Or, it might not be. It’s probably not. I’m unable to figure things out and it’s dragging me down. Trying to act a certain way around certain people. Distress. Things that make me feel me. Dynamic whilst stationary, present yet so far gone. Lost. Drowning, but in a good way.

“Drifting different ways to a place where all words must end, won’t you come a bit closer and i’ll push you back again.”

I think i am beginning to understand me.

Us.