Please (for Willem Van Spronsen) (https://mediaweb.kirotv.com/document_dev/2019/07/15/Manifesto_15897725_ver1.0.pdf)

What follows is:
there’s wrong and there’s right.

One life –
the flow of commerce
our purpose here?
At your expense, 
                    I go on?

Unshakable injustice 
that is me here, clear.
The handmaiden of evil 
should be more humane.

Me in these days of fascist hooligans.
Me in these days of highly profitable semantics.
Me in these days of endless yearning.
Me in the name of the state.

Love without a word.
Emma, if I can’t dance,
I don’t want to be

in your revolution,
head in the clouds dreamer,
believe in love, and redemption.
Please believe! We’re going to win,
joyfully. We should be reading.
No more jingo dreams to be fed – 
here comes the airplane.
And so we falter and think.
Our dreams fight. 

Who benefits? Let me say it again: 
I think you are really that good. 
As long as love is the foundation,
we are on the same side.
You make me richer.
And you, and you.
I glow by your side.

We are living invisible ascendant.
Pay attention!
Watch me survive and thrive
unabashedly, with open and full
cooperation from the world. 

When I was a boy, my head was filled with stories. 
I promised myself that I would not become one.
Until one day I said to myself,
“You don’t have to burn the fucker down,
but are you just going to stand by?”

Here’s to trying to make right.
Real freedom and our responsibility to each other.
This is a call to you and everything that you hold sacred.
I know you. I know that 
in your hearts it’s time for you, 
too, to stand. Pull away the cobwebs
from these bodies pretending to represent us.
I’m not going to fulfill my childhood promise to myself. 

Here I am…

yet afraid to show my faces
for fear of the market’s greed. 

https://www.blankforms.org/journal/brontomancy?fbclid=IwAR0xzFWVJ-UUm_t2Ri1NOXX-Gx_gYcAYGIcEoeeuEVsoZqUel2SNrufVTiw

Excerpt – 

RAVEN CHACON: We were talking about the warble as a technique—can you say more about that?

TIMOTHY ARCHAMBAULT: On the technical side, the warble is a multiphonic oscillation. It’s basically a note that is sounded, and reverberates between the low tonic note and the high tonic note, meaning the octave. A typical vibrato vibrates between one note and the second note closest to it. In the Western methodology, the warble is going up to its octave, eight different chromatic tones higher, and back down, in rapid succession, which is quite fascinating. Some instruments, like clarinets, can do it. I think bassoons or other different woodwinds can do it in the classical genre. For me, it’s a spatial thing and I’ve always been attracted to it. A lot of tribes, like some of the Ojibwe and the Algonquins, used to soak their flutes in water. They thought it made the sound better, because they were mimicking the vocalization of throat rattling, and they called it the horizon, which the melody would float off of. I’m drawn to it—I love the mechanized sound of it. I love the machine aspects of an acoustic instrument. It’s a usually a piece of cedar or alderwood, depending upon what’s regionally specific to each tribe. Each had its own culture, musical history, and geographical resources that contribute to the making of the instrument. I’m still shocked to this day at some of the tones that can come out of it, especially when you think about how it’s just a piece of wood. I think if someone heard it and didn’t know that, they might think it was a machine. It’s about the rapid succession of breath, and pressure, and a threshold in the instrument that together starts off this rapid fluctuation of sound. You can’t change the speed so much once it starts—it stays pretty constant. And then, it’ll shut off. This is not something I invented at all; it was always there. You can hear it going back to old wax cylinder recordings from the early twentieth century or even the late nineteenth century. Not all tribes used this, but a lot did, from the Plains all the way up to the Ojibwe. The sound can mimic different types of bird calls. It could be used at a lake and the sound would ricochet off the water and carry over tonally as a signal for different types of war parties. It’s a crucial component of the flute that I know. I want to see how far I can go with structuring music around that, as the ancestors did, while also bringing in new techniques.

RC: Can you explain more about this horizon of melody—are you talking about actually reading the landscape to inspire a melody?

TA: Sometimes. For me, the warble’s the ground, or the horizon—that’s the edge. The warble has to be on the instrument’s lowest note; it can’t be created on any other note. I can make multiphonics on other holes of the instrument, but it’s always the lowest note that is the warble. That sound is the ground, in some sense. Symbolically, it’s the foundation that everything else floats above. If I were looking at the earth, or a silhouette of a mountain range, for instance, the warble will be the stone or the rock, and the light would be the melodies.

RC: That’s really beautiful. I’ve been using a similar idea in a lot of my pieces, where there’s a fundamental note and then the partial ones are like stars. I actually draw them like that, as little harmonic diamonds above a line.

TA: With a mountain, you can think of it in terms of time versus pitch: A mountain peaks at different intervals, which could be compared to the rate of the warble, or like how a higher frequency or a higher pitch eventually goes down. Your base melodies could be based upon the ground, and the other ones float off of it, not unlike these natural forms.

(the Talmud refers to an Angel of Forgetfulness);

In most cultures, attitudes toward work are closely connected to conceptions of time.

The word that expresses best the most basic activity of [his] mind is calculation.
The veil through which he saw the world was not so much colored as calibrated.

It was always those with little else to carry
who carried the songs
to Babylon,
to the Mississippi —
some of these last possessed less than nothing
did not own their own bodies
yet, three centuries later,
deep rhythms from Africa,
stowed in their hearts, their bones,
carry the world’s songs.
For those who left my county,
girls from Downings and the Rosses
who followed herring boats north to Shetland
gutting the sea’s silver as they went
or boys from Ranafast who took the Derry boat,
who slept over a rope in a bothy,
songs were their souls’ currency
the pure metal of their hearts,
to be exchanged for other gold,
other songs which rang out true and bright
when flung down
upon the deal boards of their days.

– Moya Cannon