FRANCIS RAVEN
Francis Raven
- Writing Through the Music
Francis Raven
USA
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' precursor 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?
FRANCIS RAVEN
192.211.16.13/individuals/ravfra03/body.html
ted@warnell.com
