I have this small machine and I call it fondly the Buddha Box. It is a weighty handful.
When I begin to feel the mask of myself slipping and the world slowly coming to tear what soul I have piece to piece, when the dry-heaving feels ready to take over the motor functioning of the body// when the nausea makes the head spin and gut churn, I half press the plastic dial and wait for the music to settle into it’s looping groove, stabilizing the tin can carrying my head.
This is noise to you, as well it should be: it’s klaxons
bah nah nah noouh noouh nuh nuhn-ooomph fa
a small tuba in the corner
oompah pah oompah pah -pah pah
small little tenor shards top right
i iii ii i ii ii- ii ii
It’s noise; it’s chaos.
It’s my little peacefulness.
— Realistically though how can I ever expect anyone to enjoy that? Try listening to 17 minutes and 19 seconds of that and try to judge yourself sane,, or make it to the five minute mark and feel yourself suddenly uncaged from the first half’s clatter din of prison.
I feel at those moments, when the song relents it’s attack on your, when the spirit and the tempo lessen and step back, evoke a physical space around you now; when the saxophone guides like siren call to rise with it’s intonations //& the choir exhales the human spirit from the depths of the lungs, our own personal aeolian temples; When the walls of my mind can recede enough to let me reclaim my space;;
This is a fraction of the feeling I get from this album alone.
I’ve got so much goddamn headspace I’ve cluttered with false memories and pains, I’ve got so many regrets and insecurities in boxes stacked to the got-dang rafters up in here. I’ve got spiderwebs where the lights went out long ago, and I’m too scared and sad sacking to go and get replaced, old memories I fear the repercussions of illuminating.
I’ve got all kinds of fantasies and fetishes strung about the place: it’s a mess of a goddamn mess that I should be ashamed to invite one into.
Philip Glass is spacey in a way the Chapel is so void.
That emptiness, the ineffable depths of those canvasses yearning to be filled, begging for the life of you to seep out and paint itself; nature abhors a vacuum;; Big Black Monoliths waiting to be remade in your image
An absolute empty signifier of a thing.
This is the great beauty of the Rothko Chapel.
This is how you heal yourself when all your answers stop seeming to fit.
That is why I feared for it.