Something gets lost, eventually. Or thrown away. You can only keep so much in the collection of what falls out of your head. Even less room for keeping the words that fall from the heads of others.
So, that must mean the words we keep are of some sort of supreme value?
And I almost believe that. Until the scatter brain barrage of memory and introspection leaves me stranded on a desert island with an insatiable desire to speak, yet not having a thing worth while to say.
I don’t know about the rest of you lot, but what memories have stayed and which fade/have faded were most certainly not a result of the conscious mind’s decision. At least not my own.
But while still knowing the impermanence of our words, there is a vague forever sort of vibe in our midst. We all dig it, in some way or another. And some of us try and fiddle with words over it. Some succeed. Most, likely, don’t.
What is this force that lives through and beyond memory?
I haven’t the slightest… but I have a word I’ll use/misuse.
The other day, I spoke to a friend about tone. Now, we are both musicians, so the misleading nature of using such a word is quite potent. But as we are two of the more ragtag, self-taught, dirty wire kind of guys- the word tone has a broader, more poetic feel than just set delineations of pitches.
We spoke of the ghosts of albums, past, present and future. At this time of a few days ago, I hadn’t gotten as much structure for my own next composition compilation. Despite that, I could still describe the aim. In a way that a young child could likely comprehend.
Each album is made up of colors. Not all one color, but themes of them. The first one, the winter album, was blue, white, grey of a strangely warm kind. And perhaps, only at the end, some faded, bronzy amber mixed in.
I am only starting to get momentum with this next one, but there is a tone. Something quiet, hardly but a hum. Unnoticed but with infinite permeance. From faded almost umber, this next one is warm. Or at least warmer. Citrus and sunburnt and something a bit brighter than honey. Those sort of vibes. Nothing cooler than a hint of regal violet, I imagine.
We agreed upon this point, my friend and me. Though I don’t speak for his thoughts. He can do so himself. You can witness it. With your ears. New album. You can get it on the internet. It’s named after a color.
But we agreed that tonal patterns don’t always match up in the genre one may think fit. Music is explained well in colors. Painting, perhaps, told well in poetry. And no sound rings out louder than being seated in the audience of a dead silent show. Waiting for the first noise to be made.
I like patterns. As I believe all humans do, though I haven’t confirmed that with all of them yet. But seeking patterns, or even attempting to rearrange them all through out my life seems to grant some sense of purpose. It may not be the truth, whatever that is. But people commit their lives to much worse ideas and nobody bats an eye.
A certain set of sensations can inspire memory in subtle yet astronomical ways.
There are days I recall none of the words spoken, and yet I know we spoke all day. But I recall the lighting. I recall smells. I recall songs, or even just a chord. Struck right. The kill shot, so to speak.
When you’re hit with all this mental chaos, it is a great comfort to be able to find some sort of something like that which had been felt before.
I don’t know. Maybe that’s just a load of horseshit too. But I do believe in something like that. I think.
Or I at least want to. As I type, I am going through a mild tonal-crisis. An attempted change, or growth, or the like. And when these things happen, as they often do, the big, vague motherfucker ‘Why’ shows up and doesn’t stop asking questions. So I feed it words, and colors and tones. And it always eats them, though I cannot say if enough will ever be enough.
But I feed myself, as well. And there are times where a soul needs that. To fill thine self, or something.
The Veracious Facade 