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Ambient -1: Music from Airports

by Absconding Life

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Ambient -1: Music from Airports 32:19
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I walk alone, my thoughts calumnious. I debase myself, castigating my own selfish self-humiliation. In a certain sense, there is a peace, an acceptance, a reverie. Lovelorn, of life, or of nothing in particular. I venerate, and dichotomously, I abdicate, nauseated by hierarchy. 4 a.m. - I pause by the river, slightly too cold for comfort but sufficient to keep me awake, thoughts still self-constructing. No free will, but rejecting the tendency to nihilism. Razed tradition, values lost as well. Justification of lies to fashion comfort. Ego and conscious life, inseparable. I walk to the canal, cars always careening. Dawn rises: a new day. I vomit in disgust, into my own mouth, then swallow it back down. Longing, unwanted, unappreciated. Gaslighting on the city structures. Repudiation in every moment, unconscious, unabated. Convinced of self-inadequacy, then encouraged in spite of it. Crushed by the subsequent insurmountable failure. Self-worth at a new low. Reinforcement of inadequacies. Hedonistic exhility, busied with shallow encounters. Words without meaning, and subsequently forgotten, inebriated, epistemic. No care for charity, days' worth of wages squandered, for poison, filth and future pain; but the numbing of the present, and pushing away of worries, justifies such violence, unimagined. Genocidal, capitalist casualty. Corporate consumer. Bodies within the gears of the apparatus. Sickening, twisting into nothingness. How strange to think you never knew how I wanted to be kissing you all the time, tonguing deeply, hands in hair, on escalators, pausing to walk hand in hand to there again, the next escalator, feeling against the actual self-effacing reality. Some stupid self-effaced misguided ‘piety’, trying to protect a love in two years blown to kamikaze shit. I remember your slurred speech from all those pills, on the telephone line. I remember the songs that played on the radio in the ambulance. I remember the smell of your stomach contents, regurgitated all from the very bottom into a cardboard bowl, beginning to soak through; and before that, some part of me wanted just to let you die, made-up, cats' eyes, liquid eyeliner and dressed in suicide costume ready for the wake; but the world is better with you in it. In some sense somehow constructed, absent from my experience, I am glad to say, "You belong here." Long yet may your dead eyes shine with no purpose before you are found, cold, having waited too long to be reanimated, purity of the soul unattainable in this fetid hovel of death. "Soul"? Even metaphorically I still delude myself. I begin to doubt Francis Bacon's once-popular aphorism, that knowledge is power. Perhaps no more, when there is nothing you can do with it. Failure guaranteed from the outset, a sick illusion to suggest otherwise. Just like the world at large, I was a fool to not see this as part of a whole. Now the knowledge just taunts, rubbing salt in my wounds, having kicked me when I'm down. Eyes calloused further (to the genocides of everyday life), minds already imprisoned. Not remotely free, no possibility of improvement. The lie of progress a deliberate siege. A siege of optics to sell (for profit) the illusion of hope. A hope designed to further enslave. And it will be so much worse. The suicide pact deepens our affections like the blood to spill from our future corpses. I imagine it thickening at the spatter edges, clotting, and I tremble with fearful excitement. Gaslit beyond memory, beyond perception, beyond logic. Yesterday we buried Angela. She drowned herself in the bath after taking an entire bottle of sleeping tablets. But when the casket was open I couldn't even walk up to it. I tried to, but when I stood up, my knees started shaking with such tremulousness that I must have subconsciously sat down again without even realising. My mind was blank, verbal thoughts erased, and non-essential non-verbal thoughts seemingly decapitated, blinkered, brutalised. A minute or so later my thoughts came back to me and I convinced myself it was too late. I couldn't cry. I was like a zombie, I cannot describe it sufficiently, so all there is is this. What I have the capacity to tell you is that the pain was unbearable. Her children were thirteen and nine. The older girl cried so much she could barely breathe, she collapsed to her knees and went bright red. Relatives crowded around her, bending down in quiet but panicked concern, trying desperately to act calmly in the hopes that their feigned states of being would convect. She was inconsolable. It was crushing, all I could rely on were automatic responses. It was like being extremely drunk and/or high and being incapable to function. Also, parts of it were like being blacked out. More so than when on autopilot and you arrive home in your car without remembering anything of the drive. It was the worst thing I have ever experienced.

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A threnody for hope, abandoned.

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released September 9, 2021

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Absconding Life London, UK

Not-for-profit experimental music project. Any money received by me will go directly to a registered charity of your choice. If none is specified it will go to this month's charity: The Orchid Project.

Please see the Tumblr post linked below for more information.

P.S. Hello Genevieve, I love you. You are great. ... more

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