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Killer. Obituary to a thousand songs

To Archie, in memoriam

[Maybe I'll die first.

-If you die first, I promise I will write your obituary. I will also play the most inappropriate music].

Now I'm going to talk. Now I am going to put all the songs together. Now I'm going to counterbalance the silence, because yes, because I got out of bed, because I came back from the dead, I tore the bullets out with my very long fingernails. Now I'm going to tell a story that started with Mick Harvey and he wanted to finish me off. Ah. More lives than a perpetual cat. Immortal Kamikaze. This is not over. Now I'm going to play all the music I had on me, as if I were at the gates of a prison or an asylum, as if I were stripping myself of all belongings. Now I am going to tell why it hurt as if it had been the last life, the last bullet, the last note of the greatest symphony. Now I will speak with the fragility of a bomb.

 

1.- Lamento della Ninfa - Monteverdi/ Half a duel 

At the back, about 40 paces away, there was a very saturated copy of Madame Récamier. I don't know what she was looking at me with the copy of her eyes or what grace I noticed in the copy of her feet, but I had to take off my shoes. It was a small bar, yellow and tavernous, one of those on the coast, whose windows look as if a puffin, any non-maritime bird, anything, was about to perch there. Fortunately no bird landed.

As I waited for the first drink -with little pain in agreement- I was enveloped by the feeling of having returned from a funeral. That feeling of sitting down and saying: It's over, that's it, I did what I could.

I don't know how I ended up there. Maybe I do. A couple of terrible silences. And there, sitting there, barefoot, and facing the false Madame Récamier, I thought of so many other falsehoods. Something had died. A story. A love. Let's call it whatever. I felt as if a rib had been ripped out of me to become a finally useless man.

There is a madrigal by Monteverdi that I play every time I feel that goodbye is very close, or latent. Lament of the nymph. I don't know why I do it, because of the search for a pain similar to mine or a peace similar to the one I aspire to have. The yearning to run to the forest. I don't know. I played the song when I arrived. My body asked for it. I didn't shed a tear, I didn't say anything. I sang behind Anna Simboli's voice. I wrote a message in the notes. I never sent it. I had said enough and I had been told enough. I put the phone away.

I wanted to cry. I tried to force it. Again I couldn't.

Monteverdi's nymph goes to the forest to cry because her lover does not love her as before, the voices sympathize and accompany her and sing to her. That had nothing to do with what I was feeling. I was facing a totally new feeling and so I leaned back in my chair and played the madrigal a few times. Nameless betrayals.

Where is the fidelity that the traitor swore to me? 

The death of things, the death that hovers over memories, subtracting their importance and majesty, whispering its forest song until those memories go numb and fade.

Shut up, he knows it well. 

Funerals inside. [Killer]. Disregard. People die in life, and it hurts as if all the forests of the world were burning in one's own blood.

Bring back my love, 

as it once was. 

The certainty of the coming pain is more frightening than the blow.

***

 

Andrew Bird & Phoebe Bridgers - I felt a Funeral in my brain/ The Promises 

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,

and Mourners to and fro

kept treading - treading - till it seemed

that Sense was breaking through. 

Emily Dickinson 

There was a very large television set on the left. They played one of those romantic English-language variety shows with images of Children's games. It's not exactly my favorite movie, but he gets married and she goes to his wedding. Everything ends chaotically. There are two young people who meet many times, that was enough for me to put my headphones back on.

«I felt a Funeral in my brain".

I grabbed my phone still looking at Marion Cotillard's grimaces. It's not going to happen again. So I said to myself.

[Do you promise me that we will always be lovers?

-I promise.

Always

Always

Always

What a burdensome word, precisely because of how pronounceable it is].

When Andrew Bird set that poem to music, I felt so much happiness. Partly because Phoebe Bridgers' voice was there, her voice containing fortunately lost afternoons. She meant all the love in the world when I was gifted with Killer and Demi Moore and when they told me the same thing those songs say. [Take a dirty picture, babe./ I'm a stupid in love.].

There is nothing more infertile and cruel than the promise of someone who does not know what he wants. The promise that is said only with the mouth. Soul apart.

[And I, and Silence, some strange Race,

wrecked, solitary here].

Fortunately my drink arrived before the music drowned me out.

***

 

Broom people - The Mountain Goats. 

Nope.

***

 

4.- Ode to the blue - Grouper / Back for a moment 

I wanted to go back to the first songs. I wanted to feel like crying. I wanted to cry. I couldn't either. That song is a whisper.

[I've been thinking about the way/ the light gets lost in your hair].

The memories remained meek as rubble, there was no warmth at all. Yet the cinematic tedium returned, the perfect scenes returned, the bodies hidden in a city that was not mine. That hurried voice near my ear came back. Like an old and forgotten song.

What became of us. I asked myself a thousand times. An emptiness. A song composed only of silences, the anti-song. [My last cat died and I said Where are you. I also said Why are you doing this to me]. I wondered why music was able to bring in such a sweet way something that had already lost its color and warmth. The song was over.

I called the waiter.

-Where can I smoke?

-Right here. But there is also an inner courtyard. At the end of the corridor there is a door.

El salitre is a rather bitter song.

***

 

5.- It's easier now - Jason Molina

The patio was circular. Four benches around a fountain with no water. Sand everywhere. And in the distance you could see the sea through a fence. It looked like I was a prisoner. Prisoner and furious. But the prisoner was me, who was on this side. With a list of 1163 songs. I ran to the grating, I grabbed with both hands. The saltpeter raised me and I know that the sea was listening to me. I don't know what I said to it. I felt tormented. All the memories at the same time. Words in my memory, persistent as the sea against the walls, capable of opening holes and sinking cities.

Someone telling me that I, the one with the kisses on my neck, was not a monster. [And to think that you claim to hate touch]. I remember that. A kiss on my face. Hugs. I don't know if at any other time in my life I felt that a song spoke so much for me as It's easier now. Probably yes. Angry sea. [Don't go away]. Rust and wounds. [I come tomorrow at this very hour].

The sea turned black. I saw it become opaque. I turned my back. It was not the sea. It was the mourning. It was the thousand angry songs.

I finally got it

[Don't hurt me.

-I promise].

A desert spirit.

I played the song. I opened a hole in the sand. With both hands. Very fast. Curious funeral rites.

Death comes now.

I remembered everything.

Hands full of sand. The sea on its back, calm and furious. The intermittency of the unbridled. The intermittency of the sea, which is a song alone.

I had to swallow the mourning as if it were a pill for my nerves.

I said to myself Who is going to attend this funeral?

Not a witness, not a cross, not a procession, not a black dress to keep up old appearances. The songs, all of them, falling into a hole. I tossed a coin. I remembered the last words...

And the next minute,

the next minute 

behind these eyes

Gradually I forgot about touch.

***

 

6.- The end - Sibylle Baller / The Dreams 

We dreamed things once. We dreamt of two bodies that later became two bodies sometimes. And we dreamed of an old age in which to visit each other, being very close friends [Give me some wine when you open the door]. And we dream of a Cadillac and a Gluck, and of being villains, and of bailing each other out.

[It's the end, friend of mine.

It's the end, friend of mine.].

And the Cadillac died, and the Gluck broke down, and if they had put us in prison we would have rotted in jail. Two prisoners smoking in adjoining cells, breathing the same air and the same smoke. Two quiet prisoners, already accustomed to the bars, to the early and scarce food. Without knowing who lives next door and what they are paying for.

We dreamed more things, some pretty bottles, some kingdoms, the count and the princess, a band, a gang. One of us knocking on the other's door to confess some small sadness. We dreamt it all sitting on the same bed, in a blue room. Behind the music.

And it's over. The door died. Those who sang at the concerts we never went to died.

[Time is over where we could simply say I love you.

Now you opened the door].

And the cup of tea died, and the desire to dream of gas stations, and that voice on the phone. The dinosaurs and the I'm close. I searched the staircase. And in another song, and in another. And in the childish sound of The Weepies. I found nothing.

Death is the silence that comes after all silences.

***

 

[And you left that afternoon. I felt that you were no more. And I kept my mourning for you and stopped loving the you of the present. And I prayed a song so sweet it seemed a lie. And I cried you a Requiem in life, damned boy. And now I can see your body and your face. Your long hair. The glasses on the table, before sex. It could scare the shit out of me. But it didn't. It was my turn to get used to your presence as if you were already an old dead man, one who prowls around but doesn't say anything anymore, doesn't play the pianos or pretend to be the least bit frightened.].

***

 

The obituary 

On the morning of a date I no longer remember - with my back to the sea, and after having fought tirelessly against certain oblivions - all the songs in the world went out.

Death, by a macabre transitivity, also destroys what is shared, even if it is physically shared, with all its molecular rigor. And on the morning of a date that I no longer remember, a sonorous sepulcher took place, the greatest. All the songs sounding at the same time. All of them crying. Praying not to be extinguished. Asking me not to condemn them. All the colors together add up to a darkness. All the songs together add up to a black noise that resembles silence and is, consequently, silence.

I wondered where those sounds were, the ones that cursed us. I also wondered about Zero Mostel, and about Killerand for Le Feu Follet. And for all the tragic cinema that was gone.

Le Feu follet. 1963. Time. 1996. All the time in the world passing at the same time. And finally death, my boy. Yours. The living death. The return to the past.

A hole in the sand: Mick Harvey. Fontaines DC. The Raconteurs. Townes van Zandt. Thom Yorke and the costumes. Modest Mouse and the Cowboy Dan. The Decemberists and the anger without cause. Alex G and his horrifying videos. And Alvvays with all the sweetness of our adolescence. And Blue Rev (who could have been better, honestly). The promises. Your hands on my face. The giggles. Kishi Bashi playing behind your eyes. And the rest of the stuff. Brando. Archie. Geneva. Casevattes. Y New year, same old flame. And a bathroom I don't recognize in the pictures. And the Shutups and your desire to open my chest and feed on my blood, and the repeated sex, the blue wall, the rest of the room, pushing your face. Magnolia Electric Co. and Kill me, if at all. Blue veins. Y Steal a diamond necklace. Tomorrow is another day (John Darnielle would have been a good match). I hate this. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. (Who would think you were capable of such dialogue). A message: But you know the killer doesn't understand. Mac DeMarco. Emily, I'm sorry. Belle and Sebastian singing the only song we know in its entirety. Bullshit. It's only the first verse.

We hate Tears in Heaven. You move your fingers and die at the same time. You mark the rhythm of the song. What was it? Yes. It was Be my thrill. Don't blame Ed Gein. The kisses that interrupt conversations. Conversations, anyway. All that doesn't fit in a box. A funeral I attend alone. No Kill Moon. A funeral with no music anymore. Life is complicated. But I'm a stupid in love. Warren Ellis is still dying and the phone doesn't ring. Tulsa Imperative. I had never felt this before. They all say the same thing. Weird goodbyes. And Slow Pony Home made me want to cry.

A sounding guitar. No one can sleep well with the soundtrack of SuspiriaI couldn't either. You don't know shit about Liszt. In love with these songs, in love with you. Your lovers on duty begging you for songs. Fuck it, I love you so much. (To whom will you have to explain all this, to whom will you have to invent that I am exaggerating. I don't care anymore, you didn't care either). $20. Bullshit of the day. I know what music you lie to and what movies you never really liked. I know how you hug and I know what was playing in your headphones when you came the third or fourth time. And you kissed me a lot, with your hands on my face. I know how you tell all your lovers I still don't know how you noticed me. I know what day you died. I know you promised not to leave me alone. Blue Rev is the least of it. Now the songs are dead, yes; and they only take on meaning if I go back in time, if we go on the run for 20 more minutes, on any given noon.

You saying I have no regrets.

You faking forgetfulness to save yourself.

***

 

I filled the whole thing back up with sand. It wasn't so symbolic, really. I knew something definite was happening. Then I cried. I cried a lot. I had the urge to stick my hands back in the sand. I didn't. I looked all around. There was no one there. And then I put my ear very close. Silence. It was to be expected.

I walked out. I opened the door and went in. I sat down at the same table.

The waiter approached.

-All right?

-Yes. -All right.

***

 

7.- Blue Cadet-3, Do you connect? - Modest Mouse

It's a magnificent song. And I close my eyes, in a very childish way, and I repeat it to myself. To see if anything hears me.

Blue Cadet-3, Do you connect? 

Tell them that I've gone crazy and that you're really alive, that you don't know what I'm talking about. You are protected by your innocent beauty. To you anyone would believe you, because with the world you are concise and precise, monosyllabic; because to you the world has not let you down. No one doubts. Your life has been spared more times than a life can be spared, the immortality of impudence. This too they will forgive you. Between music we live and it saves us. Anyway, nobody will believe that in the morning of a date that I no longer remember, all the songs of the world were extinguished, and that the symphony of the rubble arrived. And at last the cry. And at last the cry. At last the acceptance of the collapse. And you at your party, in a life I don't know anymore, playing your music and doing your silly dances, pitying your lovers, but afraid of being alone. In the other life, you. Meanwhile I close my eyes under the November sky, I look up, like on a new planet, like an astronaut who ran out of radio in the middle of Saturn. Like one who knows he is going to die and yet leaves the last words. By superstition, by stubbornness, by mania.

I repeat the requiem to myself like a mantra.

I put all the songs together. I already counterbalanced the silence, because yes, because I got out of bed, because I came back from the dead, I tore off the bullets with my very long fingernails. I already told a story that began with Mick Harvey. But who's going to finish me off at this point? Armored like a Hummer limo. More lives than a perpetual cat. Kamikaze immortal. It's all over. I've already played all the music I had on me. Not the last life, not the last bullet, not the last note of the greatest symphony. Now the bomb exploded without having played it. Baby, it's Halloween, we can be anything. Better times will come. Better dead will come.

I don't have all morning to play this music.

I don't have all morning to write obituaries.

Nothing is more persistent than the need to bury the past. Nothing is more persistent than the sadness that befalls the sand, the sea on its back. Nothing is more persistent than a burial, except these anxieties. post mortem to buy new dresses.

Avatar photo Wendy Martinez Voyeur of chess games. I'm afraid of clowns. More posts

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  1. daniela says:

    You will like Matt Elliott...

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