bombard

by orphanage

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about

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"bombard" is a series of audio collages, minimal loops, and electronic music created for Matt Kirkpatrick's course "Contemporary Forms" as part of EMU's creative writing graduate program. Each week we were required to produce a creative response to our reading; I chose to develop a series of collage prose pieces sculpted from the readings themselves, or from loosely relevant articles found through meandering research. Music was then crafted to accompany each written piece.

The works inspiring this EP include, in order:

1) "Fra Keeler" by Azareen van der vliet Oloomi
2) "Cane" by Jean Toomer
3) "Cotton Comes to Harlem" by Chester Himes
4) I Ching practice of yarrow-stalk divination
5) "McTeague" by Frank Norris
6) "The Archaeology of Knowledge" by Michel Foucault
7) "Walking in the City" by Michel Certeau

Click each track to read accompanying written pieces. Download includes PDF with all collage prose/poetry, plus extended instrumental loop of "wonderful hair."
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credits

released January 9, 2016

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"brightness" and "seeing beneath" were composed for Christine Hume's course "Praxis: The Walk" and each have accompanying video pieces viewable here:

brightness: vimeo.com/143586749
seeing beneath: vimeo.com/143585716

Guitar loop for "seeing beneath" composed by my good friend Ellul, and comes from his own EP "Communique" available through my online art label, Recreational Mathematics:

recreationalmathematicslabel.bandcamp.com/track/flux
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about

orphanage Ypsilanti, Michigan

orphanage uses a looping station to layer guitars, drums, voice, and other instruments to create ambient, distorted, psychedelic sounds and songs.

Contact at holocenescenes@gmail.com

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Track Name: bombardment
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After a single year of collecting sunlight, ground-based telescopes (designed to be dismantled) entered an awareness of static, non-moving photons – glass-glazed elements filling building envelope openings, being small in diameter, shedding water and burning embers – measured by the accumulation of stains formed by a flowing bead of lava, a faint emission of unresolved light, decades of smoke passing through a tight crawl-way, which thickens and forms a black roof above fan-like imprints left in the ground, a hardened lid of air, water, heat, light and noise. A small telescope extrudes from a small opening and then runs down a wall at heights of a few hundred kilometers. It is not noticeable during the daytime, but on a moonless night, the dome captures and redirects the energy of a single photon toward much fainter objects, bounces light across darker corners of spaces just enough to be noticed by an observer. The number of photons we receive per square centimeter of telescope implies a degree of transparency caused by sunlight, seeing a small connection between unending strength and constant movement: recombination by bombardment.
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Track Name: esther begins to dream
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My warm glowing heart, the face that rests; they are those words, this passage, striking, crucial if dreaming human dreams: explicit event, without announcing – wrapped in the fabric of bridges, the language of projection, sphere of points – lapses into nightmare, an encounter with light, the perception of textures: coincidental, intimate, the sleeping product.

Clear, bright sounds can be heard in the kitchen.

Fear the dreamer in daytime, repressed – their emotions, bizarre objects altered by bizarreness, camouflaged matter, distorted discernment. Ancient vision, strike weak, absent persona. Deep images are loaded with symbols, dehumanized by distortion. Mineral domain animated, ominous – incompatible moods, brown eyes.

The oil lamp stresses blood by increasing the weight of artificial limbs to suppress a replica: limited, rigid, curious, grotesque, peculiar, disguised. A twofold spectacle becomes a clown. The church arranges a bath before the fire.

Nature changes, is flashy, sensuous, a soft chorus, a flame glowing like a black walnut, both dead and alive. Subordinated structures come to life, a rosin yellow between the black cracks: the night winds, whispering against children, molded into lips, faces – and above this, the winds sing of a soft face that fits in the tree-tops. Shadows of the sun, gold-glowing gray dust form first steps in light, replaced with singing.

The hen’s death is impressive, innocuous bait. The nervous key is amused by shouting through the window, seemingly half-burned, heavy with passion, ridiculous with prostitutes, never puzzled by knees. The night totters, and finally sleeps.
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Track Name: curse of the colonel
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With his long hair and intense stare, he paused between spoonfuls of mushroom, bacon and rice. He had already undergone a difficult surgery and blood transfusion. Some people called him Mr. Wastewater Treatment. A pair of dentures, loosened from his gums, protruded from his jaw. He was soft-spoken, religious, and bookish, brazen and shameless, so very left-handed. After a courtroom brawl with a client, the colonel knelt over a dust-caked body bag. He never backed down from a fight, which served him well. He soon gained a reputation as an adorably fearsome dictator and prodigious scotch drinker. For forty-five years, he operated a hastily built steamboat, his route stretching from some tropical southern island into the desert oases of the ancient Silk Road. He would host parties for the families of boys who have just undergone the religious ritual of circumcision, offering an ice cream dessert consisting of lemon sherbet and vodka, sometimes briefly pausing to wonder the distinction between killing and murder.

Bursting into an impish smile, descending on ropes from helicopters, his language was notoriously salty, getting weirder and weirder; the benign-looking figure beaming down used pressure cookers to perfect his congee, a rice porridge that can feature pork, pickles, mushrooms and preserved egg. The colonel, whose shin had been pulverized, had also been shot in the chest, unleashing scallop croquettes with crushed seaweed. He returned fire and wounded the muddy river bottom, revealing a strange corpse. He saw that it was that of an old man – unshaved but not bearded, formerly a man of daunting physical stature and reputation, with an angular face and cropped graying hair. The colonel was not prepared emotionally for the impact of seeing dead bodies. He tried to look the part by growing facial hair and donning a black frock coat and string tie. To help other men overcome the stress of killing, he arrived with a clear sense of purpose: to subdue violence with violence, using a pocketknife, exchanging his gun for a paintbrush, offering the warmest embrace imaginable. There was a ritual significance, over the last several centuries, to rural dialects in the west; a street war raged between local competitors, aggravated but also capable of fresh-cut fries.
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Track Name: brightness
Brightness:
a kind of ritual
vessel. In the center of
the earth is a mountain;
brightness enters into
the earth, hiding.

Hide your light, so nobody
can blow it out.

Pitfall; no mourning. The sun is
not eaten, another corona. One
must consider the borders of what
one can demand or tolerate:
heavy rain, sudden
rain, violent wind, relentless,

flourishing; the dream
bodes ill: a bird’s nest
is burning; wind
follows wind.
Track Name: wonderful hair
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Colossal bones stood motionless, hideously out of place in the middle of the little room. In the air, a faint smell of black walnut, eggshell, gray paper – heavy, intimate, redolent. A long gold candle softly thrust out pale gestures on the floor, bright flowers against the wall. Two clean towels, pink and green, hung obliquely, gingerly from a half-open closet door, while a disengaged mouth stood ajar, a nest of breaths pressed down by the weight of flowers, jackets, woodwork. A tiny talismanic mirror with spiral legs stood opposite a narrow green bed in the corner, tipped back as though looking softly about the little chamber. Pale, round eyes covered the walls – discreet, infantile, nearly invisible, enervating. A window opened, gathered marvelous, delicious, supreme, royal hair from all corners, plunging all vision into vividness, and that was all.
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Track Name: ritual ritual
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Thresholds, mutations vigilant guardians cautious, stumbling beginnings, surrounding existence, destined transparent, neutral possible, observable, measurable indefinitely, beyond reborn, utterly point; continually departure: simple transferred, by remarks, quickly existed, interrupting employed, infusing relative, mobile objects, methods them, without disease; botany congestion, fermented think: certainly experience, imaginary object, thanks object, calling earlier, denying restrictive, constraining subjects: none ritual; ritual behavior, circumstances complex, exercises utterances; questions world, scattering radically, apparently reversal, first face, leaving notions: event perceive – beyond battles, decisions subjects; what happily – disappeared here: that affirmation – certainly motionless, waiting uncertain, mobile desire; mathematics.
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Track Name: seeing beneath (w/ Ellul)
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Seeing beneath a sea, quietly; extremes of trash cans throwing away a universe, a frigid body of water – decaying, perhaps; we must be careful here, rather than decay: the pathway could redistribute a stubborn field, which should lead us no more; thick curves trace behind forgotten pedestrian: pedestrian, just extend between two different worlds from this angle; discrete, emerge – invent, maintain, contact in the language of talking birds; forbidden trajectories sing in intensities which vary according to time; graphic turns intersect to form a fertile pathway, opened up by deviations, defined by walking, stylized insofar as both displace a tremulous image: the photographed object, the analogy or architects, the drifting of reality: faceless verbal pedestrian manipulates panoptic shadows, inserts itself, encounters a peddler carrying two, two sails, a brick, a bicycle: relics, fragments, islands – these swelling lapses, linked, substitute structure, concrete, trees; they move, play, dance, transform, fleeting, dancing subway trains. It is true that forests cannot be captured, circumscribed; some parts of the city disappear, immobile dreams, pedestrian inventory: the dreamed place is absent, multiplies, makes itself immense, broken, tiny fabric placed under traffic, shuffling, rented, haunted, dreamed-of; entertain that absence, attracted by shadows, light without obscurities. One bear brutally steps along paths disposed of like worn, detached flies: constellations of emblems, they decorate footsteps, wearing away forbidden routes, withdrawn memory: infans: symbolic memory that eludes names, emptying phantoms that still move, concealed motion imposing, preceding, altering, detaching people from a void, a void that opens up within an annex of numbers. Urban witch, a woman marked by memory, by shadows, silences, cellars of reversal: deserted memory, dreams that invent debris, furnished framework. Punched and torn bushes open up into private neighborhoods, substitute for memory, anti-museum objects, hollow acts of walking in revolutions; slumber is only our wordless stories, striking the presences of absences, fragmented memories hidden in the panopticon, in the basement of a building, broken into pieces, silent, a fleeting glimmer, metaphor of the mother’s body, detachment from the mother’s body; departure; the game of a mirror, the passage of silent experience – to move toward – tramping pedestrian unfolding floods, dreamed architecture suddenly shaken.
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