secret tracks and secret bands: pluto and neptune: secret futures: secret activisms

(written outside nick maybury's top secret music studio)

for the earth, the future, the homeless, the animals, the suffering, the sad, the lonely, the afflicted

and for the sake of publicity i want all the nick maybury secret tracks on the internet!!!!!!  please help me beg nick to release on the moon, two mermaids and two dolphins, spanish electro, i want you to know, love, hubble bubble . . . etc

Absurdities upon absurdities. I walked today up beechwood to see cam powell and give him a buddha necklace as he has given me so much. He was not there. Instead I gave it to a little boy with red eyes.

I have not overcome my desire for this necklace. I was trying to lose it, to free myself from possession. And then it was spared me, and I became safe in its presence. And then the spirit of a lost boy from missouri held me rapt. His beautiful hands and soft-spoken ways hid the agony of homeless life on the streets of LA. I'll never find him. I quickly realized he might sell it and told him sell it for five dollars. He said he will hang on to it for a second. And then we agreed that the spiritual content of the necklace is summed up in the material illusion philosophy.

I am so lonely as I wait out for another pluto show.

In a year with thirteen moons is a film by ranier werner fassbinder. The rare chance of two full moons in a month is a time of astrological wonder.

someone told me it was this year but i think it is not so . . .

It was rebecca of neptune who overcame my strife, rebecca black of miraculous strength. Her certitude weighed through the smog and gas and smog and gas as I say goodbye again to the smog diaries in smogtown.

Last night in nick maybury's studio I and dustin mosley and nick maybury and two victorias, one noll and one mordoch played spooky noir heaven. Noll had a hayden piece transformed into a glorious mellow folk rock. Dustin had his iphone sitar. Nick the drummer appeared in a top hat like a cheshire cat, and vicky mordoch played guitar in her gold dress.

I didn't exist and I wasn't there, but sang in languages not my own, straight out of the camps. Noll asked if I was german jewish. I said yes. I sang of auschwitz and of lost mothers of fathers and many books. I sang whatever words I could remember in pitiful declensions.

Dustin mosley of a very compatible dark wave aesthetic inspired me as he sat in at drums and I invoked gods of yesteryear, einsturzende neubauten. And then wonderful things like the austere sculpture of miroslaw balka appeared, frightful berlin. I felt exorcised. Of all people it was nick wheo then pulled me to the microphone where we sang in an intimacy of warm breath on warm breath, a place where I feel comfort and a keen listening ear.

He had to text me about how great. And do I have footage. It is on youtube.

As I sang I thought of the holocaust studies which absorbed me as a child, and the philosophy of genocide. I told dustin a year ago I was typing my old paper on the end of language and the writing of the disaster, shoah, of blanchot.

Energetically I cannot handle the chaos and mania of hollywood boulevard, a place of ghosts.

I am curled outside the studio, ready to revel in music again, when nick wakes from the nap he takes as we overcome the all-night holocaust requiem.

Noll asked if I was on cocaine. I said no, but rather hunger. Homocysteine.

Obssessed again by the panic of cachexia, of salvador dali's self-starvation at gala's death. Obssessed.

Everything seems more fleeting than before. I wonder if I might die or expire before the tree bears fruit. Yoga is everywhere, the electricity of the city is turning my body into a coil of magnetism.

Biggest talkers know nothing. As every word falls flat from my lips like a lie, a hollow lost murmer, a croak, a crickets chirp in the animal love, the animal sacrifice.

The electrocution executions of tender minks, fleet foxes.

My body is so tired, tomorrow I will recline on a train to portland.

There is no merit to confronting the ghosts of black magic.

In the requiem, I called out to the witch doctor from camaroon, to take his ugly words away from women, so that his power might ascend. Completely aware of my own physical force, in calling then, under aegis of my new amythyst pentagram, might I help him recoil against the bourgeois barbarity of the vulgate, or take of the imposter mask of money and lies.

Nicky said imitating my cheerful voice, you'd say “oh you are perfect, you are who you are and that's wonderful, I think you're great” which is really what I feel about everything.

I felt like a wolf at the door. First today at cam powell's waiting for his return. I sat down to watch the pluto set from nick maybury's music consortium. That and a bag of chips and the nourishing energy of a queasy vigil propelled me on to the lost boy. Creeping down to the studio, too tired to seek coffee, or to desolate and apathetic to care, my heart warmly met the goddesses who told me of amma, a female bodddhisatva.

I wanted to give val the quan lin female buddha necklace. It remains.

Nicholas alexander maybury is a boddhisatva. He said music is a calling. Like his mother a midwife, a calling. I have crashed reality, a vagabond in the wrong city, crashing my best friend's party to put it on youtube and have the best nights of my life, over and over again. Now i'm sitting outside the world like a lost puppy, or an ignored bulldog ready to fight for the internet immortality, as though that were the essence of anything.

The art on his walls is my way of making candyland out of the dismal orwellian world. I can't take back the years of wrong steps, this side of oblivion.

I came for pluto and leave with neptune in my heart, or the cyborg opera.

Nobody else ever opened so many creative doors for me. I was blocked, apathetic, lifeless. Melody heals me. It restores and realigns. If no other purpose is achieved, it is the beauty of this music, the melodic sense of nick maybury, which nurtures me like the giddy rush of rachmaninoff. It spurs me on to new tonalities.

I told him we need sweet emotional melodies.

He has so much on his plate right now the last thing he needs is my adulations. But adulate I must. There is no other person in the world who has so powerfully affected my conscoiusness. I constantly feel like I am drowning and dying. And were it not for his steady hand, his patient enthusiasm, his beaming smile, I might truly wither. It is his vulnerabilities which I understand, and seek to protect.

When I pushed us sonically off the deep end last night, channeling holocaust, pedophilia, the civic oppression of women, the bp oil crisis, I felt we were going together, in a journey to the end of the night, the heart of darkness, how it is. And therefrom sprang joy.

When I found rebecca black I was singing/chanting/rapping in spanish, “me gusta la puebla latina mucho” and it was there I felt as a little lost child let into the temple in jerusalem, or the safe house in the apocolypse, the holocaust raging.

I had just recorded on the sunset bus a rhapsody on a theme by nick maybury, my theft/collaboration with my dearest friend nick maybury. It was me filling in the missing words and making the part for the other voice and singing the song back, for how much it means to me, “i want you to know” prized by me for its rarity and joyfullness, and for the commercial blackout imposed by the restriction. So as my mind has been poisoned with its beauty. A song as wonderful as a beck or graham parsons or an elliott smith song I wonder why is it, how can I bite my tongue when I want you to know how sweet it is, how sweet life is, how sentimental and tender sometimes.

It fused into “oh mary, i'm crazy about you” from a june 2010 jam. And then took inspiration from the low fi elliot smith videos of the nineties. Like hey, I am a poor girl on the bus with a lousy camera. In the future there will be no big league. Everyone is an imposter. Who has money or fortune? Who cares? Who has safety? Freedom? Happiness? Integrity?

Living every day as though it might be your last, taking your art seriously to that level of expression is something which obsessed me.

And then it fell by the wayside in apathy.

My philosophy professor idit dobbs weinstein spoke of “why I am obsessed.” this was thought to be an ugly word once.

Now I see it as keyoi, as life force. My teacher of many metaphysical things retracted into oblivions. And echo chambers gave way to the changed name, there is no honesty in words, words were ever lying.

Envious of the obssessed, my apathy terrrifies me. I lose my appetite for years on end. It is the sorrow for the earth. It is the pain in my heart I thought was killing me on the 22^nd of august. I had to get to the pluto show.

As gala dali was a muse, so nick maybury is mine.

Salvador dali loved gala unreasonably. She was the repeated divinity, an incarnation of light, an eternal return to innocence.

When she died, he followed. He never ate again.

The magnetism I feel is extraterrestial. I am so happy to have broken free from the clutches of los angeles, smog town. But flying in to this chaos, I felt the hum of electricity, electrifying me. Jimi hendrix was using a new medium, electric sound to heal the afflicted. Afflicted by the vietnam war, afflicted by the pain of racism in america, he set out to heal, or so it seems.

I don't want to give grandiose visions excessive force, except that that is what history culture religion and civilization do. They give this life meaning.

It is all so entirely hypothetical.

Every sentence seems a lie in the linguistic hall of mirrors.

I did not understand salvador dali until the BP oil spill. I had nightmares of the birds coverred in oil. I dreamed of melting clocks on the desert.

When I went to see shay raviv of violet vision, he gave me a book of the kabbalah conference. I gave it to nick. I had been working on kabbalah in the airport, in a book for nick.

I realize now, that the beautiful music of violet vision is the transcendent exaltation responding to bombed out life in tel aviv. Shay's friend's told me that the never ending wars suck so much, that the kids just party all night, with amazing music.

Seeing shay I realize it is the war in his aura, the exile, the formation of israel, the ghettoization of the european jewish people, the perpetual war-state, criminalities and cruelties of a demonic will to live. Shay and I both hate war. I began to cry when I saw him. He was confused. I told him he meant so much to me, his friendship, his steadfastness. He said I should get a boyfriend, as though that solves anything.

He is too me as is nick, a muse, a spectre of the life after hiroshima.

Nick thought he had lost his kabbalah book after the last pluto show. And I wanted to bring him more, a new one. I gave him him shay's book in honor of the fits and starts. It was a friendship of the future. Shay raviv fell instantly for the pluto sound I recorded in 2009 cinespace and wanted it for a vietnam film project.

The email got lost. Now time it is to not let this significant way fall to pieces for shyness and defeatism.

Beautiful sounds cascade through the halls at the hollywood rehearsal space. Next to the juice fountain. Get some carrot juice!,

I am so honored.

I was thinking of how meeting nick for the first times was like falling in love with a character in a book. Indded he is the main character of my book. And maybe future books too. He resonates many things, f scott fitzgerald, the great gatsby, proust, rimbaud. Dorian grey, fin de siecle elegance.

To see him in silence, with his eyes closed, I can see his chakras align, and see the mysticism of his music.

He said, “I feel like I am here to share good energy.” he is really a healer. Now who might be able to harmonize synthesize is a tender question, as it relies on the delicacies and harmonies of chemical synthesis. Just because you dont put cinnamon in your chili doesnt mean cinnamon is a bad spice.

As I contemplate the many many eager talented people who want to work with him, I wish to say: be patient, breathe, unlock your own inner divinity. Give him a moment to breathe. He plays with say five or more bands at any any given time. You too are divine, you too are a boddhisatva! Nick's very obvious brilliance, like the brilliance of a talented gymnast or dancer, is something we might behold with delight, so that we might be proud to be human again, and not so ashamed of the crimes against the earth and animals and the people who die and suffer in the greed wars.

When I have had the rare and amazing experience to sing with nick, I would describe it like this. Our voices are soft-spoken, eerie, gentle like elliott smith's. Head-voices. We could be rah-rah obnoxious like mick jagger but it is not in our nature. It is more of us to whisper with subtle tones in the night, like howling at the wind. Just as I understand his whispers. This may not be yet suited for a stage, who knows and who cares. What matters is that it feed our soul, and give way to a creative mentality, and a creative way of living. Such that one person, nick maybury, is a catalyst for a new way of living.

Intuitive, analytical, particular to an extreme, discriminating in matters of taste, he is one who knows his comfort level, and has such a high degree of self-respect as to know his limits. And his fears and vulnerabilities might be made plain. It is in self-love that we might love the other.

And as he teaches me more to love myself, so my love for him grows, as his melodies rain down like petals from the sky, into my awe-struck ears.

And then in this he has opened me up to new ways of living. I bought a dulcimer. I am trying to call everyone darling and dearest. I am trying to care about looking beautiful as he is always looking like a prada model these days especially in his grey moods of norway jacket. There is no happy goodbye.

I cannot live without him, and there is no goodbye, my love and enthusiasm span years, and unreasonable eons in the maison de lumiere where he takes me, to float on clouds of unbelievable bliss.

Waiting for godot. Even though I can hear him breathing. And hear the white noise, the eno, the tarantulas, mona.

Yoga in the corridor. As mystified as I was when I first heard hardcore music at twenty after a life of classical radio.

Where or what it was a mystery of obscure zines and gorgeous people I was afraid to speak too. Lucy's record shop, indinet, kung fu coffee where I met the man who raped and nearly murdered me. Love of art and music and people led me so close to death.

Skinny vegan boys in murdered minority who beat their chest like drums against animal brutality. Straight-edge! John sewell it was, a beautiful superhuman person who led the food not bombs.

Only in my weird biography would feeding the homeless lead to incarceration in the mental hospital.

Sad thing is that my mom and her whole generation will die and none of it will matter one bit, especially not to me or to my real friends who really love me.

Except the abysmal breach of human rights. That offends.

My mother thought it was dangerous for me to care so much. So much for philanthropy. Like jesus was just kidding and should go back to the suburbs and spray himself with some spray tan and count his money.

Anyway.

Other rad things at hollywood rehearsals a gal punk outfit Mona for now and a Tarantula a pretty rad screamo-y metal thing.

Finally found it, and I plan on finding it again in portland where life is a bit more mellow, in a golden smiling way, with art everywhere, trees as tall as the endless towers of concrete in LA. and beautiful people everywhere. They just don't know it as much as the angelenos, the beautiful and damned. It is the beautiful inconnus of grace who fascinate me more, the humble . . . among the roses, in innocent spaces, would someone lay me down?

Awake from slumber.

I find him and ask, what was it of mink, and animal rights and was there allowed a connection? He said it was of peta and the producer.

Now that is a wild story, an animal rights band named mink.

I love nick maybury more than life, more than animal sacrifice, more than money, more than any glory, pleasure or esteem. He is so sweet, and so too his angelic friends high on the narcotic poison smog of smogtown los angeles.

Now another funny real way to look at this is this is that I had to travel 896 miles for a hug, or for a little kindness and understanding, or for the only music I want to hear.

Songs of nick maybury

egyptian bird---the lovely easy song

freaky liquid a repetitive guitar loop

the original acoustic love

two mermaids two dolphins---my absolute favorite---dolphin music I once wrote in notebook about the nick sound.

No actually on the moon

or shiva the goddess or

so lovely for moods of norway

Sex vox, aka pieces of my love

oh my god, and “war drum” an industrial loop.

An “e minor thing” from early demos.

Isolation and saturation, extra kling klang extra experimental. For the surreal film.

The “quark's fuzz” from sonic quark album

Nick said he was writing songs since he was eight.

Whatever this is the “nick song” from the simon bell sessions

spanish electro

hubble bubble

the road to you

not to mention the known things

forgive typos no internet on the train yet