a Room without Walls


Francis Raven
    Writing Through the Music

Francis Raven

Writing Through the Music

(I wrote through the entire New Music Northwest festival on 11-6-99 at The
Evergreen State College. I know that's rude, but I did it. The titles are
the titles of the music pieces. The writing is me not paying attention and
writing through them.)

Writing on the Surface, by Bret Bailey

To take attention spaces
grind them into your pulse
and approve.

Change the lighting
and offer a response --
Shimmer or reflection.

Oddify the possibilities;
through, of course,
dawn in the midst.

"All four speakers will be used,
so your listening experience
will be intended

if you
move towards
the center."

Do not quantify,
but offer what you were
in the presence of that art.

"Do you, do you like yourself
in that space? Do you like yourself
when you are with that music?"

I enjoyed myself,
I liked myself there;
but I've been told to be skeptical.

Aural equations break glass
and come full circle
at some points; at some pointed sphere

touching one side, then another -- two voices
in the midst, making what my mom
would call "complex recognizable patterns".

Slide tube and crackle sound
of now leave me airplane --
"honey, the runway is wet; I'll pick you up."

"Would you pick me up
after this piece ends
and leaves me shattered?"

"Honey, stop writing.
You're at a concert,
listen!." too intellectual bullshit.

Now change the scene --
Small of a siren's warning;
dark of an alcoholic's felt doom.

Metronome and make me
applaud for the lights
turn on and new vision in absence.

Opportune Waves, by Peter Randlette

Really quite funny,
looking like a small rock-star,
only it's difference.

It's experimental funny --
the screen is on and
I don't know why,

but as I see you
the edges blur --
realize you're not playing the bass.

You're playing electric;
the photo out of focus.
Sexy abrupt edge makes it clear.

Did you feedback
and make it certain?
Ohh no, the feedback is taking over.

Swallowed whole
like two hands around a bell,
but I can't see the ring

not even the brass.
I'm losing for myself
as the photo becomes clearer.

What did Yunnus say?
It's all in the body.
My body is becoming a cloud

slowly obliterated;
lucky for
the lights.

950 for Bob, by Terry Setter

"Do you want to sit
in my microphone
and make it white?

Well, not just white,
but waves of it
on a background you can't see."

"Honey, the waves are squirming;
the day is turning wet olives
over in her fingertips."

"Pull the pimento out
and make me happy.
Pull it out. You know you want to."

"No, I'm not going to.
Aren't you bored of
those washing waves yet?"

"No, not yet;
they hit me right here."
(She points to her chest.)

"But if you insist
I'll add some violin high streams."
"Don't you wanna add some video?"

"That's too much.
I want to penetrate you
with whatever you are feeling right now."

"I have to pee."
"That's what you thought
of my new piece?"

"No, I really have to pee."
"Ohh. But what do you
think about my new piece?"

"Penetrated with
whatever it makes me feel --
but I'm not sure, could be wrong.

And I still have to pee."
"But you can't just get up and leave
in the middle of my piece.

Listen to my piece dammit!
Listen, stop writing.
You do listening all wrong.

You need to take some lessons,
pay some money;
they'll teach you how it makes you."

"Stop it. Now you're back
to your irregular waves --
and I feel fucked

not with a cock
but with two hands
over my mouth --

a winding sheet
humming gracefully
in the background of a martini day.

But now you turn the screen red.
You want me to think of fire don't you?
Admit it! You want to embarrass me.

Well, I'll embarrass you --
Cunt!! Cunt!!
Cunt is like a flame."

As the rattle-snake
crossed my ears
but I was not afraid

I was still wrapped --
warped now timeless
and you've stopped, now glittering.

A River from the Walls, by Linda Antas

They tell me it's water
but first I hear scraping metal --
you look like something's wrong.

But how can I be cynical
when you're playing the flute?
It's too big and blue out there.

You lead somehow
strange memories conjuring
lonely bachelor's trails --

suddenly, the suck sound of a fear
sewer: don't lead me there.
I'm tired and I can't rest on fear alone.

"Give me some bread."
"No, a flute has no bread;
only chambers of light trendy dabbled plates."

"Ohh, there's the meat --
but it's not in the flute.
It's in the backdrop."

The meat is like that same suck of dread,
but I desire it
feeding my soul with cruxes.

Again, on that trail --
deeper hour; maybe dusk.
"Are you talking about dusk?"

You don't answer my questions --
Listen to me!! I'm asking you questions
and you're walking so fast.

Thanks for stopping --
there are the birds.
I won't disturb them.

They're on a confidential conference call
all the way from one end of this flute trail
to the soft white pucker of the end.

Sleep me pillows to dream.
Sleep me breath of air --
now fast, now lion.

I thought you were quieting.
I thought you were going
to let me enjoy myself.

The gift of gab, by Arun Chandra

Finally some talk;
but if you're talking
I can't write and that's good.

I will anyway.
Mix me chatter bus-stop.
"Stubborn angle, aren't you?"

Here, you can do anything you want.
No one is standing over you;
but here, no one is watching.

A paradox of freedom;
a siren speaks exactly.
I love you redundant -- don't have to listen.

"But you beg, don't you?"
"Listen to me god dammit!"
Mix me dance-hall lovely.

Ouch, you hit me
with that wall.
Ohh there it is, I can hear the curves.

Yes, thank you.
I'll donate myself if you must.
Now I airplane

else mosquito pour of hourglass;
gab me, grab me
make me lullaby.

Accordion, by Amy Denio

Street corner beg me.
Now match-stick girl hum.
It's easter and you're pinching me.

My eggs tingle
again painted polka,
mimic that bird.

An accordion always sounds traditional,
don't deny, always traditional, eastern-european?
Maybe traditional experimental?

Add me strange --
there's a well trained
frog in your throat.

He's my prince.
I'll kiss him
if you lift me.

Scrito, by David Evan Jones

(Spop op art bubbles;
'Drink Coke'

is just being a kid
lulling 'paralysis' over and overs.
Pluck lullaby mixed burp --

Subtle, how harsh.
Apple me to the core,
so tempting you sweet.

Now drink uping the anti
more and hours
till it pops, spop)

how it sounds
when you.
You know. that thing you do.

When you're alone.
You know. that thing.
That thing that you don't

tell me about.
You know, and the keyboard.
You know, don't you subtle me and stop!

Ohh yes, let the breath out.
Picnic time. but don't do that thing
in front of your girlfriend.

It's experimental amazing
but not very sexy. always a clash.
She told me to stop. She told me too.

Deformulated commercial; you sweet TV hour.
Thank goodnesses it's Saturday
and I can write this down.

Tomorrow: neuro lab.
I'll take a break
and make that sound.

Cocaine, by Chris DeLaurenti

I told you the streets
were experimental music
to be (not) (again) or what it is)

but I don't hear those weird parentheses
that they usually have in the titles of experimental music;
it doesn't feel approved. Approve me.

To be (not) violins,
none there. and there's
none of that weird

fucked up distortion --
I can just let
the bum sings.

I can just let --
letter me while I write.
Listen to me tell my story.

Begging again, aren't you
or assault? What is (again)
resurrected (to become)

blocks the reuptake
of nor-epenepherine;
leave my vesicles alone you cocaine.

Not so experimental unless
you've never heard any of that experimental music
and you're 16 and it seems so fucking wild.

Not so experimental,
but the sound;
I want to listen.

Abrupt shift --
wind sound
winding the speeching.

I can feel it
in my no(i)se
s (to become).

But look, see here,
how can I be cynical
when his story touches?
Works in this Room copyright © 2001 by Francis Raven


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