Manafonistas

It is a distant beach, out of reach for any flight company. People gather on the beaches playing congas, bongos, everything you can hit on. A summer of love vibe in the air and I don‘t know the exact moment where I understood, oh, I‘m dreaming. It happened maybe fifteen years ago (in real life), I always loved the idea of being part of a community who has written peace and love on their flags, and really lives it.

In this dream I am looking for a woman of my dreams, and there she is, I leave out the details of her features, her dark brown skin. We have a lovely conversation about Antonioni‘s movie with the big villa exploding in the end. I tell her how similar this scenery is to the Hippie shangrila of the movie. She says, this is not a movie, and I know, this is a dream, but don‘t want to make things more complicated. She is so real, and her kisses full of life and extravaganza. I tried some of the tricks to stay inside the lucid dream. Quick turnarounds of the body, keeping yourself saying this is a dream. Interesting, all these strategies didn‘t interfere with my romantic feelings.

After another series of kisses and dense body contact – I never came closer to an orgasm inside a lucid dream without awakening – she‘s standing up being worried about the dark clouds appraching the sand with a surreal hurry. Within seconds hard rain is hitting the ground, and everybody‘s looking for shelter. In this tohuwabohu, where everyone is strangely on his and her own, the whole idea of  community is replaced by a nasty fight for survival. The rain coming down so hard, it hurts, makes all of us run, run, run, without thinking, without empathy, and I lose every bit of knowing the state of my mind of being inside a dream.

Cause, otherwise, I could‘ve stopped the rain.

„Miniaturen. Essentiell. Auf das Wesentliche reduziert. Ein Spiel mit bekannten Instrumenten, vorbeigelaufenen Geräuschen, unbekannten Perspektiven. Intim und sehr persönlich. Ein Spiel mit A-Synchronizitäten, Primzahlen, Chaostheorie und Quantenphysik und nicht zuletzt der Unschärfe von Musik, Klang und Geräusch. Warm und beiläufig. Ein Soundtrack zu einem unbekannten Tarkovsky-Film. Inspired by nature. David Sylvian gibt ein Lebenszeichen von sich und trägt das Gedicht von Arseny Tarkowsky vor. Unikate. Ein bisschen wie die Jane-Stücke von Harold Budd. Aber ausgearbeiteter. Subtiler. Tiefer. Abwechslungsreich und doch ein homogenes Ganzes. Und eigen, einfach sehr eigen. Async.“ 

THIS NEW SERIES ENDS BEFORE CHRISTMAS. IT CONTAINS SNIPPETS OF TEXTS MANAS HAVE WRITTEN DURING THIS YEAR. AND SMALL SEGMENTS OF COMMENTS, INTERVIEWS, EVEN LYRICS TAKEN FROM SONGS. SOME OF THE TEXTS ARE AUTOMATICALLY GENERATED. OTHER ONES CHOSEN WITH CARE. NO NAMES REQUIRED. IT MAY BE REGARDED, HOPEFULLY WITH A SENSE OF WONDER, AS A RELIGIOUS-FREE HYPER TEXT ADVENT CALENDAR. EVERYBODY IS CREDITED AS COMPOSER IN THIS MANAMORY GAME, AND CAN CONTRIBUTE, OR FEEL COMFORTABLE IN THE ROLE OF A PASSIVE OBSERVER. THREE QUOTES ARE THE LIMIT. ZERO OR ONE (NEW!) PICTURE. THIS FIRST ONE IS A „ONE-SOURCER“. OUT OF CONTEXT, IT CAN BE READ AS A POETIC INSTRUCTION MANUAL FOR ALL THE MANAMORIES TO COME. SWEEPING ECLECTICISM. JULIO CORTAZAR WOULD LOVE THIS PLAY. THE JUKEBOX PLAYS TAKE FIVE.

They were terribly wrong. You could see them, with long black coats, on Bakerloo Line. Or in Paris, near the grave of Jim Morrison. They appeared in other stations of the metro, in Paris, New York, even Cologne. They knew god, they even knew his name, though, the names were different. It was never a white goddess. Wankers all of them. They were possibly drugged when they wrote the universal truth (their versions of it) on fucking granite walls, stone walls, paper walls. ERIC CLAPTON IS GOD. BRIAN ENO IS GOD. JERRY GARCIA IS GOD. STEELY DAN IS GOD. The list goes on, but you understand the pattern. No matter how great these artist were, they didn‘t get the point. So here comes the name of the one and only god. It was a lot of soul searching, and digging archives, second hand record stores, witnesses, friends, but finally the truth is revealed. FRANK ZAPPA IS GOD. Written on a closet wall in Truro, Scotland. I saw it, amongst mobile numbers offering cheap fucking and instant blowjobs. Sometimes truth goes mysterious ways. Good night and good praying. Don‘t miss to listen to „Joe‘s Garage“, three vinyl records of holy shit!