07.Aug.2001

Recoil

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sometimes i have the missing piece

This morning I traced the wall with my sleep-breath, in a near-dazed existence unhindered by the magic of Recoil, and I managed to write in my journal -- actually pick up a pen and write -- a few paragraphs involving Recoil, when I wasn't busy making shadows betwixt the chords of "Stalker (Punished Mix)".

Something about the music being encapsulating, a visceral realisation, the ambient portions of "Bloodline", a bass that tore open the walls, something else. To call Recoil spoken word is to deny the music itself; if you take away the words, the chords still entwine deliciously. That's really sometimes all I care about.

I just realised how tired I actually am. Tired of what, I don't necessarily know. My journey is far from completed but I seriously want to unfurl my white flag and lay down for an hour. Just an hour. I think I'm finally breaking.

At any rate, I suggest this experiment: Find some Recoil, put it on your cd player, stretch your cells out in front of the speakers, crank the bass until you feel it in the floor beneath you, close your eyes, and listen. Make sure you have Bloodline or Unsound Methods handy for this. You. Will. Be. Humbled.

What baffles me, though, is the fact not everyone can appreciate nor understand Recoil. It takes something introspective and willing to grasp the music, something of which I am too much at the moment. Something, something, something, tired, day-break, dawn, the night dissolving, exhaustion, music, something.

I have no idea what I'm doing anymore.

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time & machine