Car/Holly Herndon

by Travis Jeppesen on November 23, 2015



Side One

Robotic feedback fuzz, the language of malfunction. Suction-feeder leads into ambulate bliss bog, now I let the machine drownscrape me forward. Forward, foreword: the arm is a tomato. The waves of yr brain get scrambled toilet-like, if the toilet could electrocute you. I don’t want to live in a world with verbs. Do you? Crypto-bionic brainfuck warrior. An underlying suction radio fuzz, tuning the radio. “literally sleeping at the office.” A brand new trivia question. “This summer I will be in a car accident.” Head collides with windshield, death comes so fast. Joke about the obsolescence of technology: this is a cassette tape. Why don’t you join the twenty-first century already?

Who wants to be a part of the scanner ray. So nefarious, reading you. When it stops, to be a part. No mutant commando, no knowledge. No way to stop what has already taken place, the transcription as it guides by and by.

Chorus of automatic windows going down. Car soundtrack.

Then there are these dense vibratory waves that waver, their tones don’t stay steady, nothing is guiding. It is like to be a part of things. Thin electronic interference perhaps, someone’s car. This is just density, the body. No rhythms, no pop references, except what accidentally pops up when tuning the radio – the unbearability of (g)listening.

A siren in the distance as monotones fuzzed-out through distortion are intoned for an uncomfortably long duration. But the siren passes you by. The authorities not coming to save you. Is this horror movie soundtrack? I am thinking how I can be this, a human wristwatch.

Jolt and death can alike be such sexiness, no there is no body (a joke!) This is music that fuzzes out your head, wait are you dead yet. Music for a corpse perhaps, to be played alongside him in the grave. The suctionality of overbearing.

Matte-face? No. At least not ratte race! But as the suction of yr face might prove to be-go, oh all willilly. Eyebrow, a butterfly molesting yr lashes. As the souptones kick in. And the fins of variability know a knowledge that is pre-anniversary memories. Crinkle in the softness as the gege kicks yr spine. Suddenly a neckbrace might make the equation get unremolested. If only I could be myself to you.

Bass undertone kicks in no cut that out. Like another room. Still the scratch-crinkle that says this is darkness, no temporality. Nothing to be measured by. That is not a sin for me, really.

Bathroom toxins in that bass. The fundamability of a helicoptered silence. Stray to ray-in the radiance of that battled vestibule. Matte-face doesn’t want shit for a toxin. Matte-face only wants what’s breath to be the pure upon the horizon. Every breath that’s pure is one that divorces itself from toxin. I am ugly and about it, to be you is to frame me-lessness beyond loath-buttery.

The notes of dryness massage yr ears. Oh fuck, a thinness. Little breath synthesized through a repetition device called maverick insignia. That is what I cane here for. I mean a violence. Something with nails to live by. Through me.


Side Two

Starts with a breath but goes away real fast, kind of like after a car accident. The buzzing of cars on electronic night highway going on all around us. We don’t want to have “elements,” epiphanies of belonging. We belong in our units, from which we cannot mustn’t separate ourselves.

An aerial aether.

True, the gradual fade in, the crunch of the tires at arrival time. Within the exhaust pipe, low baritone emitted – see, play this vehicle like an organ (!?) The merveillance of projection, when to be arrived at implies some sort of implicit machinal fandangling into a spot. You know my name, creature. I only act out in order to fathom the pause, to create some confusional missteps on the way to the party. The bubbles might even have a seaness to them. Tap on car door to get re-let inside, you are in a dangerous hood, that McDonald’s just don’t feel right. You’re picking at the lid of the gas cap but you can’t remove it it is stuck oh fuck. Bugs crawling on me at a time I feel I didn’t deserve it. All the people spilling into my inbox this morning. Get in a car and drive away from them. I hear the sound of the air. A rattling goes about it. This music meant to drive a person insane while driving a car; the rain on the windshield; a noble pursuit.

Open the car windows up to the nature forces that are going to destroy you anyway, come on, let’s let outside get inside for once, it is sexier that way: sprinklers on the yawn, the scifi encounter that is the car wash. Car is a type of engulfment, the different scapes you traverse could actually be different planets. The need to get past then, there – what’s that – an artificial scream? I don’t even know where I am anymore. Morphs into a filterfuck. A slight beam.

The cars going past you that you have nothing to do with. Some dilapidated space age vehicle starting up – thinking it might throw you. Mostly it is lonely, car. Going from one place to the next, it is a bit like a mechanical failure to ontologicalize upon the right carpet. And now the sounds of the truck gods that will take you up to heaven. Yes – always to be there, waiting.

My ride just arrive and then something weird happened. Bubbles of melancholy spilled out of her car. What I wonder is if the safer zone dialect I’ve developed has any key-in to the numericals being shoplisted right off that value site. Crush bubble mechanics are crescendoing in yr ear as you hear this, you are in yr car, going going going, do you even know where it is you are going anymore, I don’t. Hear in the machine’s cruel whisperings a message from god. He wants us to turn off and just be for a little while, but so many processes are happening at once here. A cigar in my car, we are covered in smoke. You unseen a person that may soon get invited somewhere. You can’t drive you want the car so bad. Car envy, like diamonds. The thing that boxes us in, crashes us. Sexy in our onward coming. And when in another direction comes right up to ours on an otherwise empty highway road. Oh the engines roar, they are mechanical lions. When I get inside that animal, I will be it (a separate answer?) A zone cushes out the flagrancy of our tush loan. See you in the next blockbuster that needs you to explode.




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