They want me blue, but I'm actually lilac.

Or green, pink, grey - it doesn't matter to me.

I'm not a rainbow because that's too much colour for me.

I'm not a non-colour because I want to be more.

I dress in a mannequin uniform.

For every illusion, I have sesame left over.

Real sesame: bitter, bad taste.

May my tongue pity me.

My throat scratches with words that aren't mine.

A straitjacket soiled with various colours.

An invisible contract with many lines between it.

What they demand of me is nothing but pretence. 

.

Initially, when we look at music and all the debate that is created around it, we can see the ambiguity of the signs and meanings assumed and considered by different people who set out to build a critique of music. Talking about music and its qualities and ambiguities is like advocating a victimless crime case. Different outcomes, conclusions and theses are possible depending on each person's personal opinion. However, this is what it appears to be on the surface.

The debate about music must go far beyond a discussion about a quality that apparently "hangs over society". There is no way to reach a conclusion that doesn't make the mistake of "eternalising what has a beginning, middle and end". Observing music with assumptions that mystify the historical character of music reduces the debate to its aesthetic surface. Different melodies, performances, techniques, etc. lose their historical character and are transmuted into eternal things, as if they were an intrinsic part of an immutable human nature.

What history shows us is that music is, because it is a social category par excellence, a historical category whose form is always developing as the production chains and organisational form of human society develop. History shows us that art - especially music - has undergone transmutations from the passage from the ape to primitive man right up to the present day. And even within contemporary society, art and music continue to undergo transmutations as society itself develops. The various industrial revolutions during society's capitalist period exemplify how the development of production chains directly and indirectly interferes with the way we produce art. Whether it's through the development of our ideologies that change the way we organise ourselves around work and life, or the synthesis of new technologies that allow for the creation of new tools that encompass new creative possibilities. In any case, art never remains stagnant.

This perspective that "eternalises" the social category of art consequently reduces it to an object of conformation. It turns the dialectic that art represents as an object for resolving real contradictions into an empty form that only mimics what it is concerned with. This type of "eternalised" art becomes an "anti-art", an "anti-being", and the remnant of "life" that remains in its carcass is aesthetics - the affirmative character of art has become omnipresent and the playful form of a piece of the human spirit that once represented it has been reduced to a provocative and ironic grimace. What once rejoiced in modifying existing consciousness seems to exist only to reiterate it. No art form escapes this reduction, even if these different art forms go through different production processes. In the end, this "mystification" of art reduces the provocative tone of art into an encouragement of the status quo - even if the work and its author have critical intentions, this mystification betrays the content, leaving only the necessary poetic subjectivity that satisfies the individual will.

We shouldn't mystify art.

I've been thinking about some things related to music:

I don't know how to describe it in any in-depth detail, but the music I've been making seems a bit non-sufficient. Not because I want them to have an absurd technical execution that shows everyone that I'm some kind of genius, but because I want to make something unique, something that I can call my own.

My latest songs seem to have been made simply by copying and pasting the ideas put forward by Aphex Twin. The only one that I feel had a shred of originality was recently posted at the time of writing this blog (Pe009n33_2).

I don't mind that every now and then I make a song or two based on an artist I like. The problem is that I want to create my own style, my own way of making electronic music. I want to be able to listen to what I do and feel that I've been able to revolutionise my own taste in music. I'm really tired of listening to the same artists and making a kind of "stagnant" style of electronic music.

With the current state of my non-inspiration, I feel that some of my work has been unable to satisfy me personally. I'm my biggest fan and I want to continue to be, but I don't know which path to take to achieve this feat of having a unique style. I believe that I should continue to listen to music in order to achieve this goal (I would also be grateful if you could recommend any artists - electronic or otherwise).

Sometimes I feel like I am wringing blood out of a stone.

Anyways, this has been Meuny. xoxo

I don't like when people post something that is almost NSFW as if it was rated E for everyone. Mate, there's a fucking female nipple half-shown in your drawing, it should be at least for mature people. I don't mind you being horny and wanting to post your stuff. I actually find it really um ahem good looking ah ahem, but y'all gotta keep in mind that there is a shit ton of minors on this site. Y'all gotta be responsible.

I am a big fan of Gojira, Blonde redhead, Aphex twin and Bjork.

I am open to new genres.

please, i need something to listen to whilst i study!!!

In an empty bowl full of nothing.

An eternal sink of ideas I've never seen.

A succinct inexistence that is ungrateful to me.

Soft noises that have no rhythm.

Poetry full of concrete emptiness.

Truth so in-your-face that it leaves me incredulous.

Obviousness so explicit that it seems insincere.

So shallow that it seems to smooth the brain.

Offensive affection that imposes stupidity on you.

Preposterous ideas full of belief.

Light so strong that your sight can no longer see.

I could call it baby food.

O! Empty poetry of noodles!

It fills me up when I'm hungry.

Soggy with generic, I feel disgusted.

Just close your eyes and nostrils and the disgust goes away.

I saw someone crying because they felt excluded, which hurt a lot since I couldn't do anything to help...

This person was mumbling some things about their "inner-self". I don't know what was going through my head at the time, but I couldn't help noticing that this person was talking about something that simply doesn't make any sense.

If there is an "inner-self", it works together with me, even if I don't realise it, it influences my most immediate decisions. After all, if this person already doesn't like themselves, why should they look for a part of themselves that is even more truly intrinsic to this person?

I get it.

For someone desperate in the midst of darkness, any illusion of a glow is capable of attracting them. Because they don't know the root of their problems, they create solutions from the little empirical experience they have.

I don't want to be hypocritical, because when I suffered I thought the same as this person.

It is called Wind pip

I composed its chord progression based on something I did on my dreams, trying make my very own version of "Xtal" by aphex twin.

In this desert of dry people;

In the unfaithful kiss of the prodigal man;

Spark by spark I make you a sadist;

Humble sense of neglect;

Hovering over the hay will be the beetle;

Confused and idyllic paradigm;

Inherent in the setback of the suffering intimate;

Painting the wall indigo red;

Cruel dislocation of partiality;

Whirlwind of Lutheran lust;

Insipid smoke from an old cigarette;

Uproar presented in a cornucopia;

I'll make you my wretched angel;

Repetitive subtlety in tinsel;

What am I but a false poet?

I play with words, but I get nowhere.

And at the dawn of life comes the dusk of emptiness;

What's the point of talking if I don't take myself seriously?

Even in my desire, I'm still a little uncertain;

Meaningless words make me a sceptic;

Cynic par excellence, they make fun of you;

A rain of stones that breaks a slab;

A trick to cut through the thickest flesh;

A sharp knife to cut through stale bread;

Special care for a suffering heart;

If today I'm a poet, tomorrow I'll be a fake.

True is now, then I'll be lying;

Word scripts full of untruths;

Locutions that are badly made on purpose.

I'm a faker every dark night.

Another tragic stanza dies necrotic, full of the desire to be something more; It can't go beyond what is real. Rooted in the material, the pen doesn't take me beyond where I am. I can even try to go beyond the now by returning to the past, but what would I be doing if not conjuring up dead truths? But if I don't, how much more alive would my work be anyway? I can no longer cope with the nonchalance of my fellow inkers. I'm offended by the laughter of their petty art. I won't hold back my urge to vomit until the truth is told. I'm no better than anyone else, but this emptiness pains me. I see the melancholy tragedy of these people reduced to a lament; hysterical laughter limited to a small smile because if they laugh at the miserable they are being cynical. Lying hypocrisy that insists on this minimum. 

I saw someone trying to mock society and instead of laughing at those who mistreat them, they ended up laughing at the beggar. they reiterated the status quo of a false sense of enlightenment. They humiliated a brother in Christ while claiming to be a Christian. You pointed your rotten finger at the flesh that did nothing for you and sold your soul to the king who made you poor. You committed the gaffe of an exemplarily superficial humour that only reflects in itself the image of our bloody reality. I can no longer tell who is more hypocritical: you for making fun of your brothers or those who consider you an exception - and if anyone laughed at what you said, it proves that your words are not nonsense, but the anthem of a narcissistic collective that can't see beyond its own nose! 

The laughter that once pointed out the irreconcilable has now become the weapon of such petty people. We can no longer describe our tragedy without a hypocrite comparing us to our executioners! The more society appears to be faltering, the more we will renounce the spirit of enlightenment we were promised! The comic is crumbling into agony and darkness, and laughter has become nothing more than an inhuman predicate. Poetry has been transformed into gratuitous offence, and art, which was once the playfulness of the human spirit, has become the provocative and ironic grimace of advertisements. 

The human spirit has been destroyed and what remains is the spirit of conformity!