http://www.cnn.com/2009/HEALTH/08/25/multitasking.harmful/index.html

Lampman, 'sode 2: The Platform

Chicago in the mid 22nd century has itself become a caricature of civilized living. Staring out the window of the 156 Bus towards the Inner Loop everything is in watercolor- shapes blend and colors run together. Even if I had been able to sleep within the last week I'm convinced I'd see it the same. I've always seen it like this. The city has grown much in the last millennium. Engulfing suburbs and erasing state lines. It more resembles swelling than growth. The government is spread thin and the city department has all but given up on any semblance of respectable sanitation. If Tokyo and Gotham city were lovers, our Chicago would be the dark eyed prostitute they would call to join them in orgy when their sex life waned. Overpopulation doesn't begin to describe it.

Why don't people move away? Why don't I move away? The thought never crosses my mind. I'm a lifer. I don't think I could leave if I wanted to. I get the shakes just going on vacation, jonesing for the city. Returning I can feel the city envelope me...the cold metallic hum starts my mouth watering. I'm Pavlov’s dog and the City is my bell.

Once the city's population reached 50 million souls, the flood began. People made exodus to the city like hungry insects to glowing blue electricity. The population of Chicago went supernova...no one really knows how many people crowded the filthy alleyways, cramped neighborhoods, and towers of Babel that compose Chicago. I believe the census was retired at 137 million. It was as if something amazing was going to happen and everyone somehow knew it was coming...and they wanted to be there for it.

But nothing happened. So I guess we're all still waiting...always have we been...and devotedly we continue.

My bus stops outside of my office. I exit the bus and enter the building. I work.

At a desk.

I stare a computer.

I spend most of the day wandering The Net, over-indulging on information that I will not retain and trying to look busy in case either Jesus or Santa pass through. There's nothing else to say about it.

After work I go directly to band practice. We practice. Temporarily I am granted reprieve from my apathy/exhaustion cocktail. It's something of a phenomenon. After practice I try to tell my confederates that I am struggling with insomnia.

"…and I think I'm hallucinating."

I announce this as we enter the car and the doors in a percussive triplet dissect the statement. Nobody says anything. It’s one of those moments when a statement made without much confidence sort of dissolves before it's even spoken. And although it is received by its intended audience, no follow up is required as it is quite easily forgotten. My fear of betraying personal weakness coupled with the fact that my companions don’t really have the ability to assist in any way with my dilemma is all the burial the moment requires.

The following night, the cycle repeats. But tonight I stay late after practice. I'm not going to sleep when I get home, I might as well attempt to be constructive. I dick around with a few chord changes and leave shortly after 10pm…

It's dark as I walk to the train station. I feel as though I could succumb to narcolepsy at any moment. I'm laughing out loud, not maniacally, just...well it doesn't really matter; people must think I'm insane anyway. Lately I'm beginning to wonder myself. I continue to laugh, I picture myself falling asleep, mid step, and knocking my teeth out on the concrete platform. I wonder if I would wake up or just lay there toothless and bleeding from the mouth as people step over me and deny their samaritanical opportunity. I'm still laughing...I'm having trouble stopping. I'm not really amused, it's almost a reflex like a wet dream of laughter. It just feels good. But I'm not laughing...I'm just…laughing.

"What the fuck are you laughing about?"

Almost immediately I assume I'm hallucinating. A middle aged man is standing in front of me. He’s slightly overweight and balding. A woman is sitting on a bench behind him watching us…a peroxide blonde with a trendy white scarf guarding her cleavage and hipster clothes indicating she's yet to realize her middle aged status...similar to the man in front of me who is reiterating his question.

"What the fuck are you laughing about?"

I replay the last 10 minutes in my head and hypothesize that I must have been unintentionally staring at the couple. As I stepped onto the platform, laughing like an idiot I must have stood in front of them unaware, staring. I don't have an explanation for this man. But he seems to believe I owe him one.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't laughing." I offer.

"The hell you weren't, shit, you're still laughing faggot."

The man steps closer to me and I finally smell the alcohol on his breath. Cheap tequila...if I had to guess. I muster enough focus to see this guy is hammered...and he's not too steady on his feet.

"Dude...you're fucked up." I'm still laughing I notice after I make this statement. I realize too late that my laughter mixed with that statement seem pretty condescending. Not good...I'm making this whole thing worse.

"Fuck you asshole."

"Tim! That's enough buddy! Simmer down and leave that kid alone." the woman behind him calls out to this man, Tim, apparently, realizing that this is going nowhere good fast.

Kid? I’m 28 and shocked that in the midst of this confrontation my ego has found the time to be wounded. I decide to explain my situation to this dude so he’ll relax and maybe buy me a shot...

"Look I'm really tired right now. I haven't slept in a few days and I..."

Lights explode from my left temple. The dude, Tim, just slugged me. I don't fall but I stagger back a few steps and sit down clumsily.

Fine. Knock me out. Maybe then I'll be able to sleep.

I raise my head to see my attacker and how much more attack I should be expecting. I notice suddenly I'm surprisingly calm about this whole thing. I congratulate myself. Something is in my eye. I reach up to inspect and my hand comes away bloody. Jesus, the guy split me open above the eye. I look at the guy. His hand is loaded with gaudy rings. Fucker hit me with his rings. Fucker!

I can feel anger rising within me. How did this happen?!? Why is this stranger on a train platform beating me up? What the fuck is wrong with laughing!? What the fuck is wrong with the people in this city?

"Stay down you fuck!" The man is now looming over me...for some reason the middle aged Barbie doll behind him is screaming. This concerns me...I hope it doesn't have something to do with damage to my face of which I'm yet unaware. There are other people on the platform. Watching. Confused as shit. Can't blame them, I'm a primary character in this little reality show and I don't get it either.

I lean back and look up at the man. Now I'm sure I'm hallucinating. My antagonist is no longer human...a dark shape fills the space that his voice emanates from, as if a cloak of black thundercloud had coiled itself tightly around the mans body. The cloud moves like fire around him. His head is illuminated through the skin in his face I can see a white orb, shaded by his skin shining brightly through his eyes and his mouth, as he speaks and blinks.

The terror on my face must be easy to interpret because the shape with the orb in its head stops for a moment. Hesitating, I can tell it is unsure as to just what it plans to do next.

My terror, and instinct for self-preservation takes control. This is some science fiction shit and I'm scared. I noticed my guitar laying on the concrete next to me. When this...thing...hit me I must have dropped my case. Apparently it had come open when it hit the concrete and spilled my guitar in the process. Without thought, I wrap my hands around the neck of the instrument and stand, wielding it as an axe. The orb-head is looking back at Barbie trying to calm her...she's still screaming. Can she see it too?

The orb is looking at me again. The bright spots where the orb shines through its eyes again lock upon me. My skin goes cold as we look at each other. I swing the guitar.

My movements must have been amplified by adrenaline because the figure in front of me made no attempt to move or to protect itself. I hit it square in the orb. And it was as though I had detonated a light grenade. Blinded I lose my equilibrium. Again, I fall and meet the concrete.

Am I finally sleeping?

Songless Lyrics: I am a Pyre

I am a diamond
That slits the underside
Of a circle
The We've been repeating
For oh so many lives
And the Gravity shifts
Through the fissure
I lift
And blink my Eyes
But there's nobody left
But the fire
The frees me from disguise...
Of the Monster

I am a Pyre
That holds
The focused Eye
to the fire
and melts our Illusions
Revealing light behind
Foregone conclusions
And spins our perspective
and cuts Us down to size
through the sinking
We part from the body
and prowl the astral sky
Like a Lion

Episode 1: Lampman

This is the first installment of a story. I hope to release a new episode every Friday. I also hope to eventually have orignal artwork to accompany it. I'm having serious deja vu right now...have I done this already? Anyway, the story begins:

(ps- if you notice, typos, eggredious grammatical errors or the like, let me know, I need good editors and will happily make corrections and cite your superior mastery of the english language)


I can’t sleep. Insomnia is such a cliché…it’s been done, discussed. One would think it a self curing affliction. At first, I wasn’t worried; I was almost amused, observing myself in this ridiculous predicament. Laughing silently, sanely, thinking, "what is THIS about?" Relying on the fact that my lack of sleep would eventually induce sleep…convinced that I would get so tired I would just...fall asleep. It seemed obvious that this would remedy itself. So I laughed to myself, silently, and watched myself struggling to sleep, pretending conversations with Tyler Durden. Naively, I assumed I could wait it out just like I would a head cold. My name is Connor Lampman and I’ve been awake for close to 100 hours.

And I’m not laughing anymore.

As a matter of fact I can’t remember the last time I really laughed. This preceded the insomnia…but has been exacerbated since. Sure…I’ve made laughing sounds and contorted my face in ways that I remember usually accommodate those sounds but as far as a true laugh from the gut is concerned…I can’t remember. I know I used to laugh…all of the time. But those memories are distant…hiding in the shadows of childhood. It’s not that I’m joyless…it’s just that I’m too aware of myself to lose myself to comedy like I used to as a boy. I wish I could laugh, maybe then I could sleep. But nothing is funny.

My insomnia has allowed me countless hours to consider my laugh-less dilemma…amongst others. Sometimes, feigning sainthood I trace the path of my condition all the way back to the Tree of Knowledge, the concept of original sin…not that I really believe any of that shit. Yet still I imagine when I, as Adam, became aware of myself and my position in the world, I realized the power of laughter. To laugh is to give power and not to laugh is to retain it. How twisted and evil is this manipulation? Nevertheless, fending for my social existence amongst the wolves of adolescent boys I found that the distribution of my approval was a method of attack and defense. Somehow I lost control and my ego has now effectively lost all contact with humanity’s most basic expression of joy. It’s not an inspiring epiphany.

It’s four a.m. A woman’s voice tells me from the time piece upon my nightstand. It’s a calm soothing voice. I can deactivate it…but somehow the reminder that time is passing soothes my sleepless existence, however marginal its effect. I’m still clinging to the hope that time will cure me. The same way it has cured...other problems I've had.

____

Light pollution pours through my window and shades of orange and pink mingle and blur. Casting shadows and illuminating particles of dust that hang weightless in the air. I swing my hand through them, hoping to harvest and examine them. I come away empty handed. Since my insomnia began, this has been my dynamic with the world itself…and it’s getting worse.

A side effect of insomnia is hallucination, at least that's what The Net is telling me. I’ve done the research and I’m aware. However the knowledge of impending hallucination does nothing to prepare one for the experience.

So it’s official. I’m seeing things.

I assumed that they would come as cartoonish caricatures of their reality based counterparts. Perhaps I thought it would be brilliant lights and giant dancing spiders. The truth of the matter is that they’ve come in a more unassuming fashion. A figure that seems to disappear when I focus my eyes upon it or a door that dissolves into a wall when I approach it; small things almost on the periphery of my perception…no unicorns galloping down golden rainbows…just shadows and movement.

___

My apartment is a small single bedroom on the 17^th floor of a modern high rise in Chicago. One wall of my apartment is all clear glass that can be shaded or opened as the whole wall turns into a sheet of glass blinds. It’s the only reason I bought the place. I’ve become intimately aware of my living space over the span of the last three days. My sleepless eyes have traced every line and corner of this apartment in their unending search during my dead-zone hours. I’d watch TV but I don’t own one.

Maybe I should go buy one now? No. I’m too fucking tired. But if I had one I could at least watch the news. But the news is depressing. Then I'd be exhausted and depressed. Thankfully I've been too indifferent for depression thus far. But I don't want to invite the possibility. Well, I wouldn't have to watch the news. I could watch sports or the home shopping network. But then I would probably buy a bunch of bullshit that I don't need and moving would be a bitch at the end of my lease. Maybe I could…

This is the kind of thing that fills my wee hours. It’s brutal. Incessant chatter of an exhausted mind depleted of the chemicals that facilitate amusement. Everything is boring. Only one thing eases my insufferable neutrality...

Sound.

I rise from my bed and pick up a little yellow box. It's an antique dynamic phrase synthesizer. It runs on AA batteries, another antique. Fortunately boutique electronics stores pepper the city; so I’m always able procure the juice I need.

The little yellow box doesn't have a key board but a touch pad to which various sounds, keys, scales, gated arpeggios, and drum patterns can be assigned. It's really a brilliant device. It has a built in loop sequencer as well so I can more or less build a wall of sound and let it fill the space where sleep used to reside. I burn batteries like cigarettes. I have a callous on the end of my tongue from tasting cold metal late in the evening, after the shops have closed, rummaging like a bum through the dumpster that is my bedroom floor. Desperate to find the juice I need to get my fix. It's my only weapon against succumbing to a psychological darkness that the incessant flashing lights of the city do not allow the night itself.

This is my defense. This little yellow box is my rifle. And the dead batteries that litter my apartment are empty shell casings spent in defense of my sanity. This apartment is a battleground and I am at war. My music is my army, we have won many battles. But the war rages on.

I flip the switch and compose a droning downtempo loop in F#. The melody is a halting arpeggio in harmonic minor, which gives it somewhat of an exotic, almost gypsy feel…I plug it into my laptop and record it for future reference. I flip on the Visualizer and watch my composition dance on the screen…sometimes it tells me things (another suspected hallucination). It’s the voice of the Universe translated through intricate visual algorithms that produce images of dancing light that interact with my composition. Unfortunately the Universe has no messages for me tonight…it never really does. I’ve always believed that the random mathematical equations that produce these images on screen are as likely a medium for extra-dimensional communication as any book or Ouija board. However thus far, I’ve yet to divine any clear edicts.

I like to joke about my computer as my personal portal to the beyond. Some people smile and muse along with me. Some people hate the idea, and make a few openly supercilious statements about whatever rigid dogma’s their parents instilled in them. You can learn a lot about a person by telling them God is a computer. I try to do it as often as possible. It’s a metaphysical riddle that I like to force upon unsuspecting victims. Truth be told, I don’t really believe it myself. I’m a byproduct of a scientific education. I’m more likely to attribute a mystical experience to a chemical imbalance, than a universal consciousness. I digress…the visualizer and the frequencies of my composition bring me back to the moment…I really like this groove.

____

I’ve loved music for as long as I can remember and I've spent my entire life trying to understand it. It’s the dragon that I chase. I can’t invest myself into anything else fully…this is extremely problematic when it comes to relationships and jobs; neither of which can I maintain for extended periods. The only thing I’ve been able to maintain is autonomy…and a small group of friends that seem to share this affliction.

Most of my friends are musicians, as am I. We have bands. We love our music and have had varied levels of success over the years with various sonic incarnations. And we are satisfied with what we’ve done. We play for ourselves and no one else. And as long as we’re playing, we’re happy. We’ve become comfortable with our routines and we still like each other and the music we play…we have a lot of fun. This, as far as I can tell, is a rarity. But lately I'm beginning to wonder if it's the sort of content complacency that maroons an individual or a group, within themselves. It's as though we have created our own languages and standards of conduct; so as to prevent anything outside of our little circle from intruding. Perhaps we’re afraid to discover how small we really are. Or perhaps we really are as elite as we secretly believe ourselves to be. Either way…I often feel as though I live in a big bubble that the city has blown around me. And I don't have the pins with which to prick it…and I'm not sure if I found them I could summon the willpower to use them. This is a dilemma that has reincarnated itself throughout my lifetime. It’s a crippling awareness of what I need to do in order to improve or change a given situation coupled with the lack of the willpower said action would require. It’s a private humiliation I’ve never discussed with anyone besides the ear in my mind. I would die for a cause or any injustice to my fellow man, glad to in fact. But when it comes to rushing to my own aid…I just look the other way.

I’m too tired to think about this right now. I get up. I pace the perimeter that the cord of my headphones allows me. A soothing female voice intrudes upon the low tones from the Yellow Box. She informs me that it is now 5am. I can now justify commencing the machinations that compose my morning preparation for work. Good morning.

the forgotten letter and reasons...

(the following is a letter composed to explain the reason that the band "Seeker" changed it's name to "The They". This lasted less than a month before "Seeker" was resumed...due to, arguably, popular demand)

The name Seeker meant many things to the people (arguably few) that came to know it. Ultimately the term “seeker” means an attempt to find…something. Personally I’ve always identified with that moniker as I’ve always considered myself to be on some sort of quest to find that which is beyond form…some essence of the supernatural or a ubiquitous source of energy that transcends my body and ego and unites me with the ultimate source of “is-ness”. It’s simply the acknowledgement of a basic human desire which is to find something that exists in the places and times when and where I can not.
Appropriately enough, music to this day is the only thing that has given me any tangible sense of that which is beyond the physical (beyond physical being: that which is beyond my five senses). My spirituality can more or less be measured by how musical I am at any given moment. Often when we play well I find myself in a space of silence- where there is no thought, no “mind noise”, there is simply Song. I wish everyone could have this experience. This actually became my philosophy as a music teacher: everyone should learn the guitar (or any instrument) if for no other reason that to induce some small amount of “zen” (calming the mind noise). I often shared my philosophy with my students and parents of my students. People would always ask me how I had so many student referrals. I believe that it was my philosophy and the truth it contains that made this happen. I wanted to get people away from the television and behind a guitar…and this resonated with people for some reason. Using music as a tool to wage war against the brainkiller called Television. It was my personal mission. So as far as a band name goes, Seeker seemed to cater to this concept of quest; searching for something, and particularly: discontent with the ordinary.
I wrote extensively about this idea- the idea of Music as the only source of spirituality that could be demonstrated and experienced so simply…which did not require a foolish amount of blind faith. I actually wrote my senior thesis on “The Physical effects of Music on the Brain and Body” and did extensive research on how music actually makes the body react. There is more sound research done everyday…but I digress.
These ideas eventually found their way to my childhood obsession with comic books, science fiction and fantasy novels. As my adult research and childhood dreams merged I began to write a story, if only in my head at first. The primary message: Music as a means to enlightenment.
I suppose that I might define enlightenment at this point, or at least what I mean when I say that word. The problem is that words are merely symbols for ideas. So let’s make sure that you understand my symbols.
I hesitate to use this word because it is so heavily connected to the Christian ideology but let me make clear that this has NOTHING to do with religion. That being said, I will continue. In Greek, the word Sin literally means, to “miss the mark”. Sin, classically, has been that which keeps us from reason and happiness; which is essentially the obvious goal of being a sane human being. Enlightenment, when I refer to it, indicates not just sanity but an elevated level of sanity…super sanity; a state in which you “hit the mark” every fucking time. A state in which you do exactly what is fresh, original, creative and appropriate for every situation you come into. One no longer views themselves as having a “persona” or a “role” to play which dictates their actions or reactions. There is no calculating self interest in their dynamic. All interaction is genuine and true. If you’ve ever met anyone like this you would recognize it immediately, although you might not have known what it was that you recognized. I think I’ve only met two people in my life that seem to posses this.
So how does music help to bring this about? If I had to describe it simply I’d say that music helps through the natural concentration and focus that accompanies it. It silences the egoic cacophony and allows room for more subtle messages to be relayed…along a frequency that we all share. This kills Them, or that which is other. It is a natural wall dissolver, when we play together as a group the walls between individuals (ideally) blend into one. We function as a singularity, we move together and know changes before we make them.
Then of course there is the dissolution of barriers between musician and audience. When we go to concerts we get high off of the shared experience of sound, dissolving walls between audience members as well. In this way even solo artists can experience this same sense of oneness with others.
Through music we find a wormhole that leads us directly to what has been historically considered the key to experiencing the essence of something higher than self, or a shortcut to transcending the ego. Bluntly this is ceasing to see oneself as isolated from others and feeling as “one” with others…it kills “them” and gives birth to a united consciousness.
The They symbolizes all things that are outside of us. There is only “them” and “us” and if we ARE the they…we are one. This is my philosophical affection for this name.
With this idea of The They in tow, I can begin to describe their role in the Rays of Dawn (my tentative title for the book that would eventually encompass the story that we have begun to tell musically). The They are all things that keep us separate from others…these traits over the years have been broken down and identified. They are seven: Lust, pride, anger, greed, gluttony, sloth, envy. Think momentarily- all things that bring you pain can be identified to have been caused by one of the 7. Think about it…can you identify some source of suffering that does not have its roots here? No really, please think about it…I would love to find one that is not caused by this…but I can’t think of one for the life of me.
So the The They is born in this seething mass of a city that covers one entire half of the planet. It is the highest concentration of humanity that has ever existed, which has unprecedented results. Evil manifests itself physically as it is so highly concentrated (remember this is science fiction, so suspend your disbelief, thank you). It breaks into seven factions. Each symbolized by an animal. We can go into this later but basically, The They is the 7 manifested through the high concentration of human consciousness that puts these “vices” in such high regard. Essentially The They IS everyone. We are all The They. As the city is ultimately corrupt there is no group of men in a room that are The They. There are individuals from each of the 7 that represent what would be considered “figureheads” for one of the traits that bring The They to life…but they do not consider themselves part of The They…they too fear The They although they are primary in continuing it’s existence although they are unaware of this. An example is the CEO of a major sex clone syndicate. He is the Cow (symbolic of Lust). In this society women of significant beauty are considered royalty (yet treated like slaves) and are cloned so that their clones can be “rented” to men or women for their uses. Women of beauty have no choice, such high value is placed on beauty that it is considered to be for the benefit of mankind to have them replicated and enjoyed on a mass scale. The more elegant, sophisticated and beautiful the woman…the more expensive; Mnimi comes be be cloned as such and a replication, #71, is discovered by Kno…this causes significant complications.
So how do you defeat something that has no identifiable source and is perpetuated by a teeming city of many billion souls? Good question…but I’ll bet that music has something to do with it…
But the problem remains: we are all The They.

Ruckus

I want this...

hands alight with white fire

I've started blogs before and quickly they've atrophied. My problem with blogs is that I'm essentially a private person and "web-logging" is perhaps one of the most public activities I can conceive. Another problem that I have with blogging is that I tend to wax somewhat metaphysical while blogging. I think it has something to do with the perception that my contribution to the blog-o-sphere is may live longer than I do and that as a medium it can reach to the ends of the earth. Any living soul with a computer and basic literacy can get inside my head. It's intense. It's kind of like trying to consider infinity. It staggers you if you REALLY try to imagine it. Other problems I have with blogging: I tend to get soap boxy and that just wreaks havoc on my humility. Concurrently I tend to talk about death, god(s), consciousness and farting. None of which too many people really want hear a random citizen talk about. Here's a cool trick (warning: this may backfire if applied while intoxicated): Next time you're talking to someone and you really want to end the conversation steer it towards any of the four previously mentioned topics. I'm going to bet that 9 of 10 times your going to alienate yourself and quickly find yourself free of the aforementioned undesirable social interaction. Don't believe me? Fine, I'll try it right now:

Now I'm not morbid but often when I meditate I think about death. It seems weird but of the many meditation/philosophical/spiritual practices that I've studied this idea is constant: to confront one's fears facilitates transcendence. Through my own gnosis (knowledge) I've found this to be true. When I think of death, and that I will most likely die (however thanks to Robert Anton Wilson, read him, I now consider the possibility that I might be immortal) an instant shift in consciousness occurs along with priority realignment. Often this will immediately relieve stress and mental static. Aside from physiological and psychological benefits, it usually sends me in to a very intriguing path of contemplation that can lead in many directions. I fear death just as any conscious man or animal but I consider it without fear, from still and quiet place, and I believe that I have calmed the small voice that constantly threatens mankind with remind us of our mortality. Of course you could subscribe to any number of religions for security in this department. However this membership has all kinds of hidden fees not to mention a series of outdated and archaic rules and regulations to follow. However some consider this a small price to pay for piece of mind...even if they don't ACTUALLY consider it. For this reason, through all of its flaws, I believe that religion itself is not bad. It's just like government and marijuana. It can both create and destroy. How YOU drive the vehicle will determine its course.

Did you see that? No, you didn't. Because you aren't reading this anymore. Mission accomplished. I attached a picture of the Dali lama to exacerbate the sense of meta-physical content and amplify the off putting nature of my subject matter. I also think it's, like, way aws(ome).

It also is a sign-post for those that did read, and are still reading. You are the ones I want to keep. We are the Hands fumbling for the Lamp.

seek.

ps- if you notice any grammatical or spelling errors feel free to judge and dismiss me entirely. I'm not going to edit this drivel too obsessively as I now remember the other reason I don't like blogging: my tendency to spend an hour editing a blog entry that nobody will read besides myself and that kid in Lithuania.