"The Seasons of Desolation"

by Octopi Mills

Here I cannot hear. I cannot hear Italy or her tender vineyards nor the mustard yellow of the rays of her sun. I fail to hear the sadness of the moon or her sequestered wolves below. Here I hear what I’ve heard before, and what could have been heard in five minutes I hear stretch into ten, and with minor diversion, what becomes to the math of an hour.

I hear and wonder if the studio was abused...I wonder if they could have done it had they recorded on wax cylinder or a cheap multi tracking deck. I wonder how it would sound funneled through a cave or a brass horn. But had it been another with the same production would it have worked for another? 

I realize that Tesla saw music as light and light as music. We have failed Tesla and electricity when we go the way many do and have and we fail the offices of man's best work; we fail to use the gifts of light properly. In the day of a simple archer who may have greased his long bow with bacon fat for a sharper shot we are no further than he now. What the first men who strung strings wrought from sound by the crackling fire we are supposed to be better and richer than he was then, a thousand and more years ago? At least he that kept such flames was allowed to have memory and heart...had he a studio then, imagine how much further he would be than us now? Damn you, I challenge you to imagine this and how we have squandered the shattered lantern light of antiquity and of the sage. When you have, and you have heard more in a waterfall or a wild storm or even in the insect's song, then you will understand....we are nowhere better today and this is the proof.