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whatever feels good––– [26 Mar 2019|02:01pm]
"Old soul, waiting my turn, I know a few things but I’ve still got a lot to learn.”
– Slow burn (2018), Kacey Musgraves

Sonic catharsis exposes the soul as an accumulation of information, a span of knowledge with its fangs deep in its own tail. In The Divine Invasion Philip K. Dick elaborates his matrixing of the perceptible world in an inter-dimensional drama of holy pregnancy and cryonic time travel. Main character Herb Asher does not realise he’s living as a hallucinated experience until music from a nearby transistor radio bleeds into the block his body’s been frozen in, a moment in which he’s alerted to the precarity of any and all objectiveness. When the strings are transmitted into the world he’s inhabiting they appear only to him, like a song stuck in one’s head, confirming the state of dream the past years of his life has been in.

On the day of Dolores O’Riordan’s death youtube user Cecil Robert uploads The Cranberries- Linger (playing from another room) as a memorial gesture. The meme of equalizing songs into new but familiar ambiences points to the ways in which the phenomenal understanding of art might be the heaviest contextual factor in putting into motion the informational constituents of one as human being. It’s 3 am, you're rolling through the streets with your windows down. there, you see a strange stripclub playing lana del rey tunes... so you stop the car, windows still open, to listen. writes youtube user mabel in the description of their 80 minute video lana del rey playing at a stripclub. The low pass knob on the EQ becomes a tool for rendering what has, in the case of Lana, been described as a power to trigger nostalgia over memories one doesn’t even possess, down to an even more encompassing reality shift.

In the teen room, one is no longer lingering in times one did never have but in an experience as close to objectively real as it gets – the sound waves break through the cryonic plaster and, much like for Herb Asher, forces you to recollect; I am here, but I am also somewhere else. As much as I am sitting in my bed and not in a pickup truck on a dimly lit backstreet, I am opened up to the speculative critique of that fact. A rupturing of an otherwise solid perceptive linearity takes place in the simple possibility of a DIY memory, a history that is built from whatever one finds lying around. This minuscule technical adjustment done to a track before playing it out loud enables a lingering of temporalities that, instead of stacking horizontally, layer on top of each other and play out over and over again simultaneously.

Musics pseudo-primality, tying the ritual nature of being animal to the spiritual undertakings that comprise humankind, triggers cracking of the weak societal membrane that encapsulates our construing of time. It does not necessarily speak clearly, rather it whispers in tongues – and might this be why we hear a song with our eardrum but listen with our entire body? Why movement turned out to be the ultimate way to process music in real time? Old soul as in the core of one’s being as in irreplaceable for the subject as we interpret it to further exist, waiting its turn due to the lack of options one has while suspended in time.

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