I found a great Facebook page, I had to ask them how to sign up, and then they asked me three questions before accepting. The first one was simple :
“Who are you?”.
I thought about it for a few seconds then I answered : “An haecceitist”
– which mean nothing, I agree, but I explained.
What is asked here? My job? My age? Who am I, really? Along the day, I’m
- a dad
- a mammal
- a solitary man
- a watcher
- a photographer
- a musician
- an heterosexual
- an ex
- an internaut
- a walker
- a reader
- a blogger
- a hungry man
- a reader
- a quiet guy
- a sleeper
- a lover
- a bookseller
- a cook
…and many other things, right? Plugging to possibilities. See “Haecceity”
When one answers to the question “Who are you”, one lies. We are legion.
When I hear someone who has a job and makes plenty other things than what the job should be, I’m in alert mode. I don’t know why. There’s something wrong. The accident is near.
Dominique A is a French singer who has a trait I love : his chant sometimes gets out the harmony, which creates a tension before it “comes back” in proper harmony. Chords live their life, they do what they should do. The voice dances with and into it, but a single word can, at times, places itself out of what it should be. It’s like a smart and slightly irritating way of modulating…
I’m obsessed by that.
- My musical brain suffers a bit because it’s wrong, and at the same time wishes and craves to fix it – thus I often hum the “correct” note over the singer. I like this movement.
- My musical analysis flow stands up, listens carefully and wait, kind of desperately, the return of “harmony”, the… resolution of this.
It’s the last word of each verse’s first sentence here :
I’d like to think about this as a tool. How could I pattern it?
Take a classic form (a photo, a poem, an advertising, a recipe, a song, a painting). Add a… purposed mistake, which “annoys” the form and the frame, then resolve it.
It’s just an example of strangeization.
The pleasure in Proust is : he knew how to define everything.
It’s true. Some musics you listened too much become flat, no taste. Some months later, you take a CD (or you just find the folder on your Macintosh), and the weaving is magic again. This just happened to me with Röyksopp’s
The music we play / The music we listen to.
Were the Romans the Americans of Antiquity?
Charles Baudelaire :
Que les fins de journées d’automne sont pénétrantes ! Ah ! pénétrantes jusqu’à la douleur ! car il est de certaines sensations délicieuses dont le vague n’exclut pas l’intensité ; et il n’est pas de pointe plus acérée que celle de l’Infini.
How penetrating is the end of an autumn day! Ah, yes, penetrating enough to be painful even; for there are certain delicious sensations whose vagueness does not prevent them from being intense; and none more keen than the perception of the Infinite.
Have a nice day! Thanks for reading!