cage is shut. cage is open. oiseaux invisibles operations have ceased in this present world of Time and Light. devotees and wanderers thank ambassadors slow, lightowler and swiezynski for their forming of fledglings into musical birds unseen. the shape of these sounds pleases me. the movement of intention from their creators is felt in the dark, & so should these sounds continue henceforth in the dark. & as the darkness moves the sounds move with it & shall continue to move in magnanimity, in anonymity, to those who will receive it. the gradient of light pleases me. the movement of darkness pleases me. thank you oiseaux invisibles for gradients of light. for sounds unheard.
“tiny feathered workers motionlessly charting immensity.” sir sheffield blurs the darkness into a smattered spiral of grey. no void box of electronic distraction used to lift these winged creatures. a current is a current only by physical means. touch it. feel it. the story will tell itself in the form of a bird ready to take flight. this flight pleases me, as all flights piloted by sir sheffield. on a personal note I lost this bird to foolishness & capitalism. i have since saved this bird.
we are all sometimes back in the womb. fragments of night envelope you as the spinning record goes. thy kollektiva paints shade with strings of dark angels. bergman in tow. darkness on an oscillating horizon. this muted speech tells a story because you know the language of the muted. you never learned the language. you just know the language. i am walking night streets in search of a sonic picture that pleases me. it was here all along. a present from Ingenting Kollektiva to leave as bread-crumb trails in darkness. thee womb is never far, never real. only figment of the real.
just as you know the language of muted you know the language of bird song. lind, raud, aastaajad are the names of your dreams funnelling to the first song memory of winged messengers. we know the world is not ended by these titterings. surely we would be told by these small friends that fire was coming. but did we lose their trust somewhere? as fledglings we are formed as these sounds are formed. & we become reminded of vibrations hidden in objects. all around, beneath our feet, between air, vibrations are going. these vibrations please me. they have not led me wrong. not damaged me. i thank the mysteries wrapped inside mysteries in objects.
& so… access is not always given. objects of flat dimension and equal proportion will say do not enter. no trespassing. private. If only an elixir to see sound, to paint over borders so scrupulously designed by sheep & men. If only an elixir to make a world see / hear / taste their own imprisonment. Keith Berry presents own language of the muted for metaphysical intoxication and growth toward a whole self. sound is silk. it bubbles and slips inside a riverbed of incomprehensible inertia. seeing it is impossible because it is unseen. feeling it is only possible once seen. i thank the unseen and mr. berry for pleasurable travels in liminality.
seen might be a community of light. a discipline of dronology is not dead, only its natural state dormant. synths and voices are a facet of the art of memory but only if remembered correctly or incorrectly. i am only well inside a state of being lost. swiezynski is the teacher of birds as the phases of work. as the transmission of light. he teaches the tricks of frames as fluid motion. i thank swiezynski for his teachings. wish him safe travels through the darkness, as i too will continue along a dark trail of similar likeness.
2008 – 2018 – never .:. always