Giorgio Tuma

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20/05/2011

"In The Morning We'll Meet" article

Giorgio Tuma In the Morning We'll Meet. I've been writing letters for the last few weeks. The modern equivalent. I've also read a biography of Heloise & Abelard and perhaps it is the atmosphere of their mythical atmosphere and the eternal beacon it casts forth on a whole swathe of human history but I am feeling bound. The power of words, the surprise, the unexplored avenues that flower in possibility. A fraud. Giorgio Tuma have been the soundtrack to a marvelous week. It's a week where the strongest emotion is positive, where I feel this glow through fingertips and ends of follicles. As if I've swallowed the moon and it can't compare to the luminescence of my being at this moment. It is all still a fiction at the moment, pages written and scoured for clues and mysteries alighted and some still not yet understood and always will they remain. But there is possibility and to have a set of musics to ease my transition back into my actual life and away from dreamings is splendid. A Ghost On Our Way, soft, delicate, the entire record is molded in the same fashion. But with substance and joy and heartache. All of these are imaginary beings on a planet populated by others. In this world, in our world, I feel nothing at all. I make brief forays into the world of emotion and am rebuffed first casually and then with diatomaceous showers, with cobras spitting venom, with tiny animals that live under floorboards coming out in the evening and unscrewing the drain plug at the bottom of my heel and allowing the essence of life ot fall to the floor to be absorbed by moth wings and lint. This is the extent of happiness in this world. Imaginary Soundtrack for Yuri Norstein, this is the theory of summertime in California made whole in pop song, it is an empirical study in beauty, in human voice, in loveliness. It is short. It is already over. The next song, just as magnificent, twinkles coaxed from pianos and melodicas and their voices and the words, heavenly. And over, again. This world is ephemeral. Especially moments of happiness and the emotions coupled to that human state. I will walk through the botanic gardens alone today, always alone, and I will think of things I want to write in the future. Happiness. I would love to write happiness. There was a previous entry. it was happiness. Now, loneliness. Eternal. Soporific. Now the first single, gentle folk made by gentle folk, summer folk made by people from a golden land of sea and sunshine and olive vines and vineyards and magenta and cyan. The sky melts in appreciation. I melt but I am amorphous, I don't embody anything at all just a passionate thrall to dead beings from higher plains and a few notes stored on resistors and silicon chips. It is a great circle, the sun, the sand, the semi-conductor. All fused from heat, 'but instead of a soul, a cigarette lighter that doesn't work'. And more twinkles for this intermission. Life as an intermission, filled with twinkles and starlight but ll of these things exist on the periphery and when you try to consume the moon, or betelgeuse or even the spark that emanates gracefully from the living it is extinguished by this shroud of antipathy. My life as a pop song, empty and sentimental and without meaning. Innocenza Centra, the multi-tracked vocals and strings and all of the songs are harmonically similar and structured along a template as if there was a greater design, a master plan to tap into this energy of possibility. But the keys to the kingdom are invisible if you lack the gene of human emotion, of human interest, of being dear and kind. They could be jangling a few inches in front of my nose but I have no ears to hear them, no eyes to adore them, no hands to unlock them. Just a poetic existence of the lonely. Cocteau says that everyone carries their own death within them. That is all there is. These beautiful moments in song are merely the prelude, the flashes of images that accumulate to populate your final moments that for some result in rapture and in others just a timid sigh farewell to the void. An Enchanting Blue. Parts of this were made as a nomad. I am a nomad of spirit, I read books and listen to music from all over the earth, and watch Wolfgang Ketterle on my computer and escape for moments at a time and yet I don't have a desire to move into a lifestyle of transience and ephemerality that covers all things above happiness. The Colorado landscape is verdant and boastful at the moment, a torrent of rain in the last few weeks has spoiled the flora and it is exhibiting without inhibition and it is beautiful and romantic and who knew that the west could be such things. Must I learn the same ferocity, take these small moments of joy and consume them quickly and yet somehow store their sparest portions for my long journey into solitude. Armed only with Giorgio Tuma songs and dreams of how things should have been if I had a lion's heart. Now the period of languid romanticism, the longer songs, the still relaxed light of the world sheltered in warm spaces created all over the world. I can imagine that the Giorgio Tuma travelled with a warmth and glow that they unpacked in each location where they made this record, they opened the window and in deference to the second law their glow traveled forth under the window pane and infected everyone in near proximity. They grew extra appendages on their shoulders and hair on their teeth and an extra set of hearts to give away. These hearts grew on the outside of their chest, away from the jailer. There was an evening when i was happy this week. I thought that it was a shared bliss. I was wrong. Sails unfurled, the doledrums shall return, Giorgio Tuma is all there is. The epic centerpiece. There is less of the tropicalia that was on the last record, it is delicate and cold to the touch but it radiates in a different spectrum from that which glistens skin and toasts sourdough bread. It's a wavelength that is elusive to most detectors, to the depths of sudbury there are occasional flashes and the readings on alien machines are indecipherable but the sterile rooms in mines are already warmer than the imprisoned. I should live in a mine, deep within the earth, with tentacles reaching to the surface to detect the anxious footfalls of those rushing towards life and into the graves of those who have already lived. This is the most beautiful record I have heard in a long time. It is perfect. Is it made more perfect by the indifference of the world? it doesn't burst forth with pyrotechnics and charm filled soliloquies it fills all of the spaces that can be filled, it turns water into ice by stores that lost heat in a note that lingers forever in the light. 7 minutes, already over. Now to the denouement. The unraveling. The credits. A piano without words, it is more stark and less distressed, it is new, uncelebratory. Horns, a female voice, a torch song, glissandi, tenderness, sunset in an urban landscape, a scene framed by someone renowned for their body of work expressed in a marathon on the Lifetime movie network. Here is the jazz. We don't like the jazz. We like this. It could be Norah Jones. It could be Anita Baker. It's warm and forgiving, it's the calculus of your emotional inventory and anatomy in the final stanza tiny heart, let his wishes win the love, and disguised in his old ways, drowned in quicksand. It's brutal. But what of those who are sure of who they are in regards to themselves but have no idea of their existence or being in relation with others. How to define yourself among the remainder of the species when you have so little emotional contact. I was so cheerful this week. I spent time in front of school children and smiled broadly when discussing Buckeye trees and the exasperated hypoxic soils of Colorado. I may have been planted in those soils 12 years ago and it has caused all of my limbs to wither and atrophy and so alt that is left is this aqueous jar of obscurity and things that are unspoilt but without flavour. These two are short bursts of romance and gorgeousness. What power to create these monuments to the greatness of the living, the beauty of the struggle for survival, a compulsion to express the human instinct for loveliness and beauty. I don't possess a jot of it. Everything on the surface is without depth. I reside on the surface. Occasionally there are burblings and bubbles form and I take shelter in these bubbles and burblings but gravity always defeats surface tension eventually and we return to the desert. Last song. his voice, tender and gloriously beautiful and a piano and space, and emptiness, I migrate towards the emptiness and dissolve. Heloise & Abelard, Voltaire and Emilie Du Chatelet, Sarte and De Beauvoir, Lloyd Dobler and Diane Court, it doesn't mean love. The most beautiful thing, this is.