For the last couple of months, I've been experimenting with the abstract concept of "painting" with sound. I'd say FFO Sunn o))), Nadja, even Jesu, but to me, it's quite hard to label things, worse if I'm the one behind it.
The whole record is mostly improvisation, but the "palette" was pre-defined, meaning that first I worked on the sounds and once I had the right "color" I started playing and building the songs.
All sounds come from electric guitars and pedals. Nothing else.

TEOAY – Rules for becoming invisible


Creativity comes after necessity. I began to explore these sonic labyrinths as I needed to fill (or empty) my studio. That need fell victim to a more intense need, literature. As I fight it, I bleed, die, and revive trying to write an unwriteable book, trying to put words on top of pain, pain as intense as life, as painful as to be human, as careless as destiny, as infinite as the metaphor of the gods.

I dreamed of a man who dreamed of me. He asked me not to stop dreaming about him, thinking about him, feeling him. He revealed things to me that I never wanted to know. He told me about bottoms that have no bottom, about the prison of the present, and the incorporeal chains that I drag through existence.

He told me there are rules for becoming invisible, that its ways and secrets sing tirelessly with mute voices (the invisible of sound). He told me about the pendulum that swings unshakeable, and absurdly throws us into a future that will never be ours. He whispered in my virgin ears we can paint with sound only when she (unique, all and none) takes you. He told me about the lie of individuality, about how we always take someone else's hammer to recover stones that were never ours, and then to create something that will never belong to us. That made me think that perhaps we are the inconsequential hammer, we, word creators, the simple metaphor of the instrument.
I cried without being able to cry for a past that is not even mine, worse, I hid myself, from this unbearable present, in past painful guilt, as if a past-known pain were less painful than an inevitable present. And there, when the man who dreamed of me saw me trapped in my own mess, he gave me the secret that choice is a lie. I fell into a drone, a G that I guessed (or defined) to be a G minor and then evolved into a grey-eyes cluster. She kissed me and allowed me to continue dreaming. I meditated for long years (or a moment) about death, the end, the last chord. I chose, knowing that choosing is an impossible truth, I chose to die alone. But when I died I was at the door, again, every time, forever.




TEOAY – Reglas para volverse invisible


La creatividad es posterior a la necesidad. Comencé a explorar estos laberintos sónicos ante la necesidad de llenar (o vaciar) mi estudio. Esa necesidad fue víctima de una necesidad más intensa, la literatura. Mientras lucho, me desangro, muero y revivo en el intento de terminar de escribir un libro interminable, en el intento de ponerle palabras a un dolor tan intenso como la vida, tan doliente como lo humano, tan caprichoso como el destino, tan infinito como la metáfora de los dioses.

Soñé con un hombre que me soñaba. Me pidió que no dejara de soñarlo, de pensarlo, de sentirlo. Me reveló cosas que nunca hubiera querido saber. Me habló de los fondos que no tienen fondo, de la cárcel del presente y de las cadenas incorpóreas que arrastro a través de la existencia.

Me dijo que existen reglas para volverse invisible, que cantan inagotables sus modos, sus secretos. Con voces mudas (lo invisible del sonido). Me habló del péndulo que oscila inquebrantable y nos arroja absurdamente a un futuro que nunca será nuestro. Suspiró en mis oídos vírgenes que se puede pintar con sonido únicamente cuando ella (única, todas y ninguna) te toma. Me habló de la mentira de la individualidad, de cómo siempre tomamos el martillo de otros para recuperar piedras que nunca fueron nuestras, y así crear algo que nunca nos pertenecerá. Eso me hizo pensar en que quizá nosotros seamos el intrascendente martillo, nosotros, creadores de la palabra, la simple metáfora del instrumento. Lloré sin poder llorar por un pasado que ni siquiera es mío, peor, me escondí de este presente insoportable en pasadas culpas dolorosas, como si un dolor pasado y conocido fuera menos doloroso que un presente inevitable. Y ahí, cuando el hombre que me soñaba me vio atrapado en mis propios enredos, me regaló el secreto de que la elección es una mentira. Caí en un drone, un Sol que yo adiviné (o definí) ser un Sol menor y que luego evolucionó en un clúster de ojos grises. Ella me besó y me permitió seguir soñando. Medité largos años (o un momento) acerca de la muerte, del final, del último acorde. Elegí, sabiendo que elegir es una verdad imposible, elegí morir solo. Pero al morir me encontraba en la puerta, otra vez, todas las veces, para siempre.