| OF MEISHA
By Mike Tamburo
I first began my guitar experiments sometime during the fall of 1995.
I transferred to the Edinboro Branch and switched to part time work. I
also started attending Edinboro University of Pennsylvania. It was there I first stumbled upon a number of books -- Experimental Music: Cage and Beyond,
Conversations with Cage, Sensation on A Tone, Movie Journal, Cosmic
Music, Pierre Boulez's Biography -- that changed my life. I had already
lost interest in my classes, so I sat in my room for ten hours a day
with a guitar I had borrowed from a friend and a four track, trying to
understand all of the new concepts I was reading about in these
books. My ears were open now to repetition, chance operations,
overtones and prepared instruments.
One day while putting my equipment away after an exhausting day
of recording, I set my guitar up against the wall. This was before I knew
that you had to cut the ends off of strings after you put them on. One of
the strings somehow went into a plug socket. The lights dimmed and I
think I actually
heard a spark. I turned around to see and hear all of the strings
turning orange and detuning as they burned away. Fire spit from the
pickups and dripped from the nut, setting the magazines and books I
had on the floor into a mighty blaze. I just stood there, in a
trance, mesmerized by what I was seeing. I had spent all day working
on chance operations and now this. It was the most beautiful thing I
could imagine. I am not sure if I went temporarily insane or was
temporarily enlightened, but in the minute or so that I stood there
listening and watching my friend's instrument and my room burn, I
was completely changed. Somehow I knew anything was possible. Every
sound I could come up with was valid. I snapped out of my trance and
put the fire out and headed to the woods for some meditation. I
dropped out of school and returned to New Kensington, immediately
contacting my dear friend Ken Camden. We had always been close to
each other and both shared a love for discovery that has guided each
of us in our lives. The only problem I had was that I no longer had a
guitar. It wasn't even mine and it was destroyed. Metal was burned
onto the wood on the neck and the body, the nut and pickups were gone.
I took the guitar to a local music shop and instead of fixing it the man
laughed at me, but he gave me a cheap heavy metal Cort guitar to use.
I told him that it really needed fixed because it wasn't mine. He told me
to see a man who lived in Moraine County.
Ken and I had started Meisha and everything was going great. Pete
Spynda soon joined us and we all became obsessed with writing the most
beautiful and alien music we could imagine. Though the day my guitar
caught on fire continued to influence everything I did in my daily
life. Its aftermath (the burnt guitar) was quickly forgotten about
until the owner of the guitar asked about it. I knew I had to take a
trip to Moraine.
When I finally arrived I had to walk up a mile long driveway (it was
so rocky it would have been impossible for any
car to drive up it), I was greeted by a very humble Middle Eastern man.
I showed him the guitar and he gave me a stare that made my knees
buckle.
"What kind of music are you playing, sir? This must be that
high-energy rock music." He laughed to himself.
I told him it was very intricate and very overtone based.
"Overtones you say? What do you call your self?"
"Mike Tamburo."
"No, what do you call your project?"
"Meisha"
"Well, Mike Tamburo of Meisha, my name is Sayas Ser. I will fix this
guitar for you if you bring some of this overtone music for me to
hear."
I agreed. We were recording our first CD in a few weeks anyway. I
returned for the guitar after almost a month had passed. I brought a
cassette copy of what would soon become the first Meisha CD. He asked
me to sit and listen to it with him. We sat completely silent for the
entire 67 minutes. The music ended.
"Yes, that is good, but you are missing something. Your time is wrong."
I was a bit insulted. We had figured out rhythms in every odd time
signature we could imagine.
"Every time I begin to feel lifted, you make some sort of shift and I
am awoken again. You need to learn how to let time flow through your
music. Here let me show you."
__________________________
FOR SAYAS
By Mike Tamburo
"The three of you are like a machine. You are a Meisha machine! If
one of you is not working properly, the machine doesn't work properly.
You have to put everything you can into your music. You have to use
your entire soul to fuel your music. You all have your part. I want
you to think about music. What is music?"
"The organization of intervals over time," Pete said.
"Yes, that is a part of it. But it is so much more. It is the
universal language. It is the language of the cosmos. It is
everything happening at once in perfect harmony. The three of you are
in perfect harmony and balance together at this point in your lives.
You are fortunate. This may never happen again.
Be thankful that you have been this fortunate. So yes Pete, you were
right, but let's make it very simple now, let's break it down further
into what you can do with sound, into what makes up music at its most
basic levels. First there is vibration. Everything vibrates. More
importantly, everything that is vibrating affects everything else that
is vibrating. Pythagoras called this the harmony of the spheres. So
then, we now know the entire universe is vibrating and
resonating. It is up to you to tune in and be in harmony with the
universe."
"But if every sound is supposed to be in harmony, how do you explain
dissonance and atonality?" I quipped.
"Dissonance and atonality are still in harmony with the universe.
Think Michael think. Every sound in the entire universe, stars
forming, nebulas shifting, babies crying they are all going together
in a beautiful song. Now it is time for you to learn to play with
that song. Even if you are playing against it, you are still playing
with it in the flow of time. But if you play with it, you will learn
its secrets. And when you know its secrets, you will truly understand
what we all are."
______________________
THE SECRET OF PAUL GROPER
By Mike Tamburo
Sayas brought us to the woods for our meditations and studies. We sat
alone together for so long that when Sayas finally spoke, it was like
waking up from a dream. "You must be very careful with words," he
said. The universe was created with one sound. Imagine then how
powerful one word is. Look around you for a moment. I want you to
really see. See without words and you will really see. Look at this
tree, now allow yourself to forget that you call this a tree. Just
see it and really look into it. See that it is different from this
tree. See that it has a life all its own. When something has a
name, it becomes less mysterious. We humans have tried to name
everything, unfortunately it has made so much magic disappear. We
don't really see anything for what it truly is. And a name often
becomes the object, we no longer really see it, the mind automatically
makes the connection that this is this a tree and this is the grass
and we no longer really appreciate how every patch of grass is
beautiful and unique. Now what if this was a tree and this was the
grass. It wouldn't really matter what we called it because its
essence is still the same. You have to look deeply to see past words
and really see. Words are magic and hypnotizing." He walked over to
Ken and put his hand on his shoulder. "You spend your whole life as
Ken Camden. Everything you do, you identify with yourself as Ken
Camden. If you want to continue your studies will me, there will be
no Ken Camden. You must travel past Ken Camden now and become who you
really are."
Ken was startled by his new orders. "What do I call myself then," Ken pleaded.
"What does it matter? Call yourself tree or call yourself chalk. I
don't care. You have to stop being your name. Call yourself Paul
Groper, it really doesn't matter."
Ken wasn't sure that he wanted to spend eternity being known as tree
or even as chalk.
"I am Paul Groper."
And so he was.
____________________
DANCE ENIS DANCE
By Mike Tamburo
I am going deaf. I have had hearing problems my entire life and more
and more each day
the ringing gets louder while everything else gets quieter. It is one
of those things that I
have just had to accept. I have even through out the years quite
often joked about it even
going as far as naming a Meisha single The Deaf Will Still Feel Our
Vibrations. But
honestly, when it comes down to it, someday I will not hear and this
scares me no
matter how I try to console myself.
I often expressed these insecurities to my dear friend Sayas and he
always had a story or
an exercise that would bring me back to the present. These were often
exercises that pushed
the limits of both the senses and of concentration. Reality could be
destroyed by a pin drop.
We sat for hours with strings buzzing and lights flashing or sometimes
completely dark. He one
day told me a story of a brotherhood of deaf musicians. The story has
since played out over and
over again in my mentations and I feel that in it I will someday find
my peace.
"I will now tell you about devotion and focus. I have told you of
many of the brotherhoods I
have come into contact with throughout my journey, men who have not
forgotten and still practice.
Around thirty years ago, my travels brought me to Turpan, one of the
larger cities at that time in
Turkistan. My father had told me of small villages outside of Turpan
where there were still
brotherhoods living in much the same way they had for centuries.
After several weeks wandering
around Turpan asking those who would possibly know of these mysteries,
I was told of a
brotherhood that sat deep in the mountains on the other side of Mt.
Karawuquntag. It was a difficult
journey from what I was told and could only be taken by foot. I asked
what brotherhood I would find
there. "It can not be said," is all I was told. I obtained a guide
and began the three-day journey.
On the third day as we scaled down the mountain, I began to feel a
change in air pressure, not
just from the shift in altitude but something else. Something that
felt like it was actually rattling
my bones. I listened deeply and I eventually heard a roaring sound
that became louder and louder
as we scaled down the mountain. As we reached the bottom, my guide
Turi told me that he would
go no further and that I was to progress further into the valley.
As I followed the roaring, my ears were beginning to articulate and
organize. I had never heard
sounds like these in my lifetime. It was as if the entire valley was
acting as a resonator for this sound.
I pushed myself further as the sound took on a nearly physical form.
With each step I became more
and more lost. My entire body was resonating and I became ecstatic.
Suddenly I felt myself falling
and the next thing I knew someone was wiping the blood that was
accumulating around a gash
above my left eye. Even more alien than the injury I had just
received was the fact that the sound
had now stopped. My body felt like it was still beating from the
vibrations. I soon passed out.
When I awoke, the music had started again. I made my way out of the
dwelling to see something
I could hardly believe. I had fallen into the source of the sound I
had spent the last day following.
I was about 30 feet below where I had been walking just hours before
and right in front of my eyes
looked to be an ark of some sort. I approached it to find that this
ark was actually one giant
instrument with at least 20 men inside performing it. The feeling of
the sound being played was
overwhelming. I could feel it in every part of my body and at some
points I was almost overcome
by the urge to vomit. I finally came to my senses and sat down at the
foot of the ark and allowed
the music to envelop me.
Hours passed in ecstasy and I fell into a deep trance until again the
music stopped. I felt
somewhat rejuvenated and still quite ecstatic. I approached the
musicians, first speaking to
them in Tajik and then Chagaty and even Uyghur but I got no response,
Just a kind smile and a nod.
I was grabbed by the hand and led back to where I had been sleeping
off my injuries. My host gave
me dried figs and apricots and smiled at me with the most beatific
smile. I felt at ease.
After my stomach was full, I tried speaking in several ancient
dialects but still got no response.
My host got up to leave, turned back to me, smiled and motioned me to
come along. I tried speaking
again and my new friend pressed his hand against my neck feeling the
vibration of my voice then
touched his ears and shook his head. I was puzzled by this. This man
had just been playing music
and was now trying to tell me he could not hear.
Soon after this, the evening's music began. This time I listened from
inside the instrument with
the musicians. The sound penetrated deep into my soul. I examined my
surroundings and I
realized that we were all standing on a huge membrane of some sort
that was acting as a
reflector, whereas the body of the ark acted as the resonator. The
musicians played an assortment
of instruments including percussion, long strings and huge metal tongs
that reminded me of a giant
mbira. Somehow it was all connected to the ark and was essentially
one giant instrument. These
men were reacting and playing to pure vibration resonating into their
bodies. They all moved like a frenzied machine in and out of different levels of awareness. Hours
passed as I listened and watched.
I began to hear and see what I can only consider to be an advanced
form of communication. I had
discovered a people completely immersed in a language of vibration.
The entire group was one consciousness.
I stayed and listened, eventually joining in on the music, doing all
in my power to communicate
my thanks to be a part of this beautiful whole. I spent nearly a year
there with those people. I did
not speak and, to be honest with you, I felt more than I heard."
Some time after Sayas passed on, I was in a used record store. I came
across an old LP
by "The Korean Deaf Percussion Orchestra." When I saw it, a surge of
energy rushed through
my body. I had spent countless hours imagining how the deaf
brotherhood might have sounded.
I thought this recording might finally give me some idea. I had the
clerk put the record on and
what I heard was basically pop music played by a group of the world's
best deaf Korean
percussionists. It was honestly a little disappointing but it spawned
the thought that I
obsessed over for my next two months of traveling.
I began to write music for a deaf orchestra in July of 2006. I wanted
to write something
that could be performed based on vibration, rather than melody or
harmony. I set about
not only writing the music and fashioning an amplification device so
that the vibrations would
be felt in specific ways. I arrived in Portland, Oregon in late
September. I had been corresponding
about these ideas with my long time collaborator Matt McDowell. By
some twist of fate, it turned
out that there actually was a deaf orchestra in Portland. We decided
that we had to complete this music.
McDowell contacted Andrew Howard who was the director of music
programs at the Tucker-Maxon
Oral School. At first he thought it was a joke and nearly ran
McDowell out of the building. When
I came back into town, we both went to talk to him. I told him the
story that Sayas had told me
and that I was going deaf and that I felt that this might be the
answer that I was looking for so
that I could continue to make music for the rest of my life. Andrew
ran a series of hearing tests
on me and concluded that I was actually going deaf. He began working
with us shortly after that.
McDowell and I set out to write this music that could be felt just as
well as it was heard. We worked
constantly for the next month and came up with something we were both
very proud of. We gave
the music to Andrew who was to begin teaching his students
immediately. We set a date for the
performance a month later and went about creating the proper sound
system. We planned to build
a stage out of 20 speaker cabinets that we were going to place face up
and cover with wood.
After many long days of working with the musicians, both individually
and in the full orchestra,
our performance date arrived. Honestly, I was a wreck. I had been up
for days taking God knows
what to stay awake. Unfortunately, McDowell and Andrew were in the
same, if not worse, condition
than I was. Andrew told me that he could not possibly face the
parents in his condition and that he
wanted to cancel the performance. Selfishly, I said that I did not
come this far just to quit now. We
decided that I would conduct the orchestra.
The musicians took the stage and the music and the disaster began.
First of all the wood that we had
used to cover the speakers was too weak to hold the 20 person
orchestra. It split and three of the
string players fell from their chairs. I kept conducting, even though
many of the musicians had become
more interested in their fallen comrades. I began to panic and
started waving my hands faster, stamping
the rhythm out with my foot. The orchestra could not keep up with me
and the sound became
a hideous distorted mess. Suddenly the electricity went out and there
was silence.
The principal had cut the power. My dream would not yet be fulfilled.
______________________
JADE IS THE COLOR OF MY TRUE LOVE"S FATE
By Mike Tamburo
Each day I put off my return to Sayas was filled more and more with
pain, excess and despair. By the time I finally did bring myself to
see him again, I was completely exhausted by three long years of
self-destruction. I felt so unlike myself I thought Sayas might not
even recognize me. I arrived at his home and found him bed ridden but
still full of life.
"I knew I would see you soon. I started brewing a tea for you just
the other day. Put it on the fire and come tell me of your adventures
since we last spoke." I did as I was told. The tea was very strong
and tasted like the worst color of green. It left a horrid aftertaste
that made me want to spit back up all that I had just consumed. "Try
to keep it down just a little longer if you can. You have a lot of
poison to expunge. It's best if we can get it all at once. It's
important to start off fresh. Now, hold this liquid in your mouth
and do not swallow it. Just try to relax and let it take over. It
will hurt much less if you just let everything go."
As he spoke, my body began to feel extreme sensations. There was
no euphoria, I could feel death's chill moving down my spine. I felt
waves of electricity passing through my body. The pulses became so
strong that my body buckled and I began to have a small seizure.
"You have taken in so much pain and sadness. Why have you tortured
yourself so? You will nearly have to die so that we can bring you
back. This would have been so much easier if you had listened to me
the last time we spoke. You did not need to learn some of these
lessons. These were things you should have already known. You did
not need to suffer like this, but all children only hear what they want to,
I guess. It's time to stop suffering. Let it all go."
I continued to shiver and toss on the floor. The acrid liquid burned my tongue.
It started to seep out of the corners of my mouth and I could feel my
lips beginning to chap.
I could hardly hold it in.
"You should have taken the loss of your hearing as an omen. Think
about it Michael, for you to lose something as precious as that should
have made you realize some things. But no, you became so erratic and
full of despair. I told you to stop and listen. I know you thought
that was cruel,
but it is the only act that could have prevented all of your
suffering. You were so concerned
with what you couldn't hear. You totally ignored what you should have
been hearing. It was
a chance for you to just hear yourself, to really listen. Well
perhaps you will hear now. Extreme
conditions bring extreme results. Sometimes we need to make our own
paths. What is important
is that you arrived at this point. You would have gotten here no
matter how you traveled."
I began to think about all of the time I had wasted. I was extremely
nauseous, even though most
of the liquid had dripped out of my mouth.
Sayas took on a new form. "Don't Worry. What is time anyway? Some
things take longer than
others. Everyone experiences time differently. How long should it take
to learn a lesson? Some lessons take only a moment. Some lessons
take a lifetime. When will you stop learning? Even after your last
breath, you will still be learning. In fact, after your last breath, it
becomes what we call knowing. You are a song that continues to evolve
and change. To know your song is to know yourself. You will write
this song for the rest of your life, but right now it's time for you
to rest. Things will become clear again after you rest."
My body shook and convulsed. I felt a battle going on within myself
as I rolled to my side and vomited.
________________________
A FINE LINE ON THE THRONE OF TIME
By Mike Tamburo
Sayas and I often spoke while sitting in front of the fishpond feeding
the giant
goldfish. I often call these moments "the teachings," but perhaps I
should not. On one
level, I see these conversations as one friend helping another. On a
level above that, these
conversations have guided much of my self-development.
I sometimes thought of Sayas as my guru. He often warned me about
these thoughts,
pulling me back into the real world. He would jokingly ask me if I
thought this was a spiritual
pissing contest we had going on together. The humor was always there.
Behind everything
he ever told me there was something to make me smile.
Over our last few weeks at the cabin, our conversations deepened. He
began to shy away from
reminiscing about his own life and guided the conversation to my life,
all that I had gone through
and all that I now knew. His friendship and advice helped restore my
self-confidence.
One day, while sitting by the fishpond, we spoke while feeding the giant goldfish.
SAYAS: "I am glad that you have found your way back to me my dear
friend, but I must
apologize to you. Unfortunately, we have very little time together.
This body has grown old
and weak; it can barely contain my soul. I will hold on until I know
you are ready. I know you
will be ready soon. You have to know that you will be ready soon. At
any instant, you must be
ready to know this.
You can look past all that guilt you have in your eyes and begin
again. You will figure this out
for yourself, as you always have. Leave your indiscretions behind
you. It is time to stop this
pity. It's all a fine line on the throne of time. You already know
this. I taught you how to
control the instant, how to push a moment into infinity. Stretched or
compressed, you know
the way. It is under your control."
Sayas, smiling as the giant goldfish darts for the food, continued,
"You have ridden this wave
for a long time now. It is up to you to change the frequency. You
are ready for the frequency
to change. You can play whatever you want, it's just time to start
playing again. The time has come.
____________________________
SCREWING SIX BOLTS INTO LAST TUESDAY
By Mike Tamburo
Today is a very sad day in my life and in the lives of many.
My dear friend, mentor and colleague Sayas Ser was pronounced dead at
8:32 this morning in Pittsburgh, PA. He was 64 years old.
Sayas was born on February 3, 1941 in the Izmir Province of Turkey
near the coast of the Aegean Sea. His father, Jalal Ser was also a
musician, mystic and scholar and his mother Hastra Ser, made yogurt
that she sold out of their humble home. Sayas and his family left
Turkey in 1949 first traveling to Neuilly, France to meet and study
with G.I. Gurdjieff. Gurdjieff passed away shortly after their
arrival and the family sustained themselves during their stay in Paris
by making and selling very elaborate rugs. In 1954, the Ser family
decided to move to America, arriving in New York August 16, 1954.
Shortly before this period Sayas began to take music lessons from his
father who, in his time, had become a master Saz musician and also an
incredible Koomoi singer. Sayas took to the Saz quite quickly and he
soon began writing his own compositions. In the Saz, Sayas found a
whole world of tuning possibilities, constantly moving and rearranging
the frets. Unlike many traditional players, Sayas began to use his
fingers to play rather than a plectrum.
Jalal often gave lectures on how to integrate Sufism into western
culture and also began to teach classes in overtone singing. Once
Sayas finished puberty, Jalal wished for Sayas to begin to concentrate
more and more on his singing techniques and Sayas soon became quite
the Koomoi singer himself.
Jalal became ill and passed away in 1959. Before he died, he gave Sayas his
last lesson. It was time for Sayas to take the world as his teacher.
"The whole world is holy",
his father said, "look at it, love it and give to it". He passed away
later that
evening.
Sayas spent the next 22 years wandering through Europe, the Middle
East and Asia. He respected and loved all cultures and learned
wherever he went. He prayed at every church, mosque or synagogue he
discovered along the way.
He followed the holy days of every religion and made pilgrimages to
every place of power he could
discover.
In 1981, he returned to America and became a Luthier. He moved to a
quiet farm in Moraine, PA in 1985 and lived there until he became ill
a little less
than a year ago. Sayas rarely talked about all the time he spent in
Pennsylvania
before we met. He would simply say he was at peace and that it gave
him the strength
to teach. He built a collection of handmade instruments from around
the world and
taught himself the Karkiraa technique of singing, which he called his
greatest accomplishment in life.
It took Sayas 22 years from the time he moved to Pennsylvania to find
his first student. Fortunately for me, I was that student. From 1997
until 2002, Sayas
was my teacher. Many of my friends also became devoted students of Sayas. I
will be writing more about this period in the future, but allow me to
say that no other single
person that I have encountered has left me with so much.
It is commonly known that Sayas and I had a falling out about two and
a half years ago, but
it is not commonly known that we recently reconciled our differences.
I was visiting him in
the hospital several times a week and his spirits were quite good right up until
the end. Over the last three weeks he asked me to bring a tape
recorder and some cassette
tapes to the hospital so he could finish my teachings. Each time I saw
him, he recorded our
conversation. It was often difficult for him to speak and he would
have to say things over and
over again so that I would be sure to understand him. I told him that
I thought it was such a
shame that there were no recordings of any of his music, that the world would
never know him. He said that no one would ever know him, but at least
a few people came
close. He then touched the side of my cheek and began to sing. He
began with a very low
tone and added two higher tones. I don't know how long this went on.
It was beautiful and I
was suspended in time. Unfortunately, the singing was abruptly ended
by his violent coughs. He coughed and choked and gasped for air,
clots of blood spewed from
his throat like projectile vomit. I knew he did not have much time
left. Tears swelled in my eyes
as I wiped the blood from his lip and chin. He asked me to help him
into his bed. He quickly fell asleep.
I wanted to make his last days peaceful and comfortable. He often
complained there was no life in
the hospital. He longed for something familiar, he wanted to go home.
I knew he could not go home,
but I could bring some of his home to him. I drove north well above
the posted limit and arrived at his
home in half an hour. Sayas had been in the hospital for nearly nine
months; his home looked
abandoned. I filled my car with some of his rugs and tapestries, his
salvia divinorum plant, incense,
sage, a few of the small hand made instruments that he hadn't sold yet
to pay his hospital bills. I
got back into my car and drove even faster than I had on the way up.
I was worried I would be
too late.
I arrived and found Sayas still sleeping. I quietly arranged his
belongings around the room.
Sayas' favorite nurse looked around in amazement when she came to
check his vitals. She
wiped a tear from her cheek, patted my shoulder and called me a good
friend. She asked me
to step into the hall and then told that Sayas would probably not live
through the night. She
said I could stay with him. I pulled a chair up close to his bed and
sat down to meditate for awhile.
I awoke to the sound of crying and a kiss on my cheek. "Look what you
did! This is fantastic."
His spirit had completely changed. We stayed up the rest of the night playing
music, talking and laughing. It was nothing like being in a hospital.
Several times I looked up
to see a patient or hospital worker smiling, staring at us from the
doorway. Morning came and
went as it did the next day. It really thought he was getting better.
He told me great secrets
and how to be a better man. He was so open and caring, it made me
regret even more our
two years of estrangement. As if he was reading my mind, he whispered
to me, "there are
some things that you just have to learn on your own. Nothing can be
taught to someone who
is not ready to learn. Now let me tell you that the whole world is
holy. Look at it, love it and
give to it. Learn from everything you do."
He then closed his eyes and grew quiet. Several hours later, he
opened his eyes and said
that he was ready. He asked me to pick him some leaves from his
salvia divinorum plant. I
pick the leaves, arranged them in two groups of thirteen leaves and
handed them to him. He
asked me to burn some sage. I said, "This is a hospital, I don't
think I can do that in here."
"I am a dying man and this is the last thing I wish of you," he said
in a pleading voice. I burned
the sage and watched Sayas as he ate the leaves, one at a time. He
chewed silently for nearly
fifty minutes and then exclaimed, "there She is!" The smile on his
face was beatific and beautiful.
Sayas had made me a special tape to listen to after he passed. He
asked me to share what he had
taught me in whatever way I wished. He gave me the bulk of his
property, which unfortunately will
have to be sold to pay his hospital bills and debts. There is no
single possession though that could
possibly mean more to me than a single word from Sayas. I love him
and I miss him greatly.
________________________
By Mike Tamburo
THEY NEVER COME OUT WHEN THE LIGHT IS ON
I see you echoing the loudest day
An advanced form of solitude
Dividing levels and planes
Seeing behind stories
and listening to words
That are not there.
Still an endless direction
Coming from inside my mind
My imagination
The beginning of all things
That I see and understand.
I am in no hurry for the future or tomorrow
Because I know it is not there.
It's just an endless day
With constant dreams and possibilities
With more than random moments
Of my time spent unaware.
The day comes and widens
Into familiar images from past memory
Constant images born and die
at intervals of every moment
Every second going on and on
All breathing the same knowledge
Of the eternal shelter
Developing around us
In the always present situation
The constant moment times infinity
Passed on through every different face and perception
Of the entirety of everything we once called holy
But have forgotten is still there.
We spend endless durations
Seeking a truth so apparent
That we don't see it
Always happening
Ever changing
Always there
We rather break up existence into
Separate structures and abbreviations
That we have forgotten to put together
Without the subjective force of our nature
To see that we are only a part of what is nature.
____________________
MAN OF THE CLOCK
By Mike Tamburo
____________________
As I mentioned earlier, after I acquired the Evol cassette tape, I was sent off for clarinet lessons with Great Uncle and Mr. Giacolli. I am to this day surprised that I still play the clarinet after the extremes my class was put through during our music lessons. In fact I feel a sick nostalgia each time I pick up the clarinet, memories of being broken down and turned into nothing.
Perhaps there is something about growing up in a steel and aluminum town with no steel and aluminum factories left. There is little hope left in the people of New Kensington after all of the years of social and economic abuse by the forces of NEPHILUM UNION LOCAL 282 and that lack of hope is contagious. Misery loves company, or so they say.
I can still hear Giacolli, “ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!!” The anger behind his chant made my entire body tense up like a beaten dog. I never knew counting could be so horrifying.
I will never forget how Mr. Giacolli treated poor Abner Lechte. I don’t know what it was with the two of them, but it seemed like Giacolli had it out for Lechte. “ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! COME ON DAMN IT!!! PLAY ON TIME!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!!” COME ON LECHTE, WHAT’S THE MATTER CAN”T YOU COUNT? ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!!”
He would pick up Lechte’s music stand and bang it on the floor in rhythm. One time he stood behind Lechte hitting the rhythm out on back of his head. “ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!!”
Students often broke down during lessons. We were put through extreme exercises in breathing, volume and tuning, often playing the same note for the entire class. If tuning wavered, he stood in front of that student and mocked him, as if it were a silent movie, exaggerating every movement until the sight cut a piece out of every soul in the room.
Lechte hardly ever made it through a class without breaking down. Lechte was not a musician. It was not his fault. He was tone deaf and had no rhythm. I imagine it must have been frustrating trying to teach someone like that.
Giacolli’s sanity had disappeared years before. There were always rumors about Mr. Giacolli going postal once at the New Kensington branch. He had been in charge of the AUDIO WARFARE DEPARTMENT testing extremes in sound on young “carriers” to see how sound could be used to harm people. He experimented with volume, pitch and duration, the brown note and other sub audio frequencies, often subjecting a “carrier” to days without food with the same frequency cluster droning on at upwards of 90 decibels.
Giacolli’s involvement in the PO MEGA program cannot be denied. He co-opted many of the same experiments the Nazi’s had developed. He even worked out many of his sick fantasies testing The Feraliminal Lycanthropizer on young interns. The device triggers an animalization in the subjects, often resulting in a violent orgy.
It is just a simple box with a sub frequency speaker, a sine tone generator and four tape loops Two simple sounds - 3 Hz and 9 Hz – sine waves - beating against each other, both sounds below the threshold of human hearing; beating together to create and then further beat against an audible difference tone of 56 Hz. The tape loops are filled with sub-audible subliminal messages. These simple sounds together rewind the central nervous system to the vibratory level of what the harmony of the spheres were producing 10,000 years ago. It is a near instant evolutionary regression.
Before I go any further, please let me say that this is really dangerous stuff. I warn you. Do not try this at home. I may speak of some things with a certain amount of jest in my tone. I apologize for this. It is a coping mechanism of mine. Take my warning. It is not fun. It is dangerous. Okay thanks. I am sorry for the interruption, I will now get back to telling you the rumor I heard about Giacolli going postal.
Giacolli always remained in the room, just outside the machine’s four-yard range, during the testing. He wanted to be as close to the interns as possible, studying them in their environment. The machine was usually placed on a table in the employee lounge. The interns (both male and female) would be eating their lunches and socializing one minute, then would become ferocious, without warning or provocation, within seconds of the machine being activated. The total abandonment of fear was commonly followed by an orgy or violence. Other tests focused more on subliminal messages, often leaving the interns in a trance for hours.
Giacolli watched hundreds of orgies happen. He loved it - the reaction, the frenzy, the power it gave him. His fetish is ultimately what led to his going postal, as they called it.
Erotic strangulation was not uncommon during these sessions. The experiment began and several of the interns went on a sex/death trip. Giacolli saw that things were escalating out of control and entered the field of the machine to pull one intern off of another. Instantly, he was thrust into the orgy. A rush, like a dream, swept him from one world to the next. He completely let go and began performing all of the acts he had fantasized about hundreds of times while watching the experiments.
It goes without saying that Giacolli was a man of rage. And then rage became amplified by the power of the device. His rage took over and he began assaulting the interns, tearing the time clock from the wall and beating them, killing four of them. He was found just outside the machine’s range tapping a march out in time on the bloody time clock. “ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! “
Giacolli took a permanent leave of absence from the Post Office Audio Warefare Department after the incident. He started teaching music at the local Post Office-funded elementary school shortly after. He was the first man to teach me about music.
____________________
THESE FREQUENCIES ARE MAKING ME THIRSTY
By Mike Tamburo
____________________
I can still vividly remember my first night after returning to the Edinboro Branch. It had been so long since I had handled such volatile substances. I tried to shake off the remnants of the earlier part of the day. I stretched out, settling down on the hammock, finally ready to examine the effects of my carelessness while I was preparing the extraction. I fell deep quickly into the space the plant affords, listening to the pulsating sounds coming from the swamp. A constant ever-changing drone that I became so aware of, that my body began resonating along with it. I listened so closely that I could hear my breathing making waves within the nocturnal hum. My vision entered into various phases of infrared as my body vibrated with the momentum of the sound. I closed my eyes and looked inward, my visions rolling with the rhythm of the pulse. Within every beat, I heard ten thousand more and I am sure that there were ten thousand more that my ears are just to weak to hear.
I began to perceive the sound as being so incredibly loud it held me suspended in time somewhere within the upper harmonic partials. “What kind of psycho-acoustics is this?” I asked out loud, my voice sounding like an LP slowed down. I felt puzzled and slipped into a thought trance, trying to figure out whose voice had just come out of my mouth when again I was forced to mustered up enough courage to speak out loud. This time addressing Lechte, as he stormed up the steps of the front porch. The sound of his voice ripped through the very fabric of my consciousness. I was not able to comprehend what he was saying and we entered into almost a slap stick routine
LECHTE: Mintajnahokomonareapy.
ME: WHAT???
LECHTE: Bougie Bougie Walenhofney.
ME: WHO???
LECHTE: These frequencies are making me thirsty
ME: Huh?
Finally I snapped back to Eastern Standard Time.
LECHTE: There you go with that New Era Shit again. I thought living with you was going to be different this time. How am I supposed to talk to you when you are hardly in your body?
ME: It’s just this one time. I promise. It was an accident. I am just taking it to the end. No sense in wasting a good time. I wish I could explain to you what you interrupted.
LECHTE: Anyway, I met this girl named Polly. She’s working in the human resources department at the branch. She said she used to take clarinet lessons with you. She said you guys dated. Would you be cool if I asked her out?
ME: Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? We went out in the 6th grade.
LECHTE: Just checking man. Don’t want to step on your toes or anything. I’ve got to get some sleep.
I am not sure of the exact sequence of events that followed. I slipped time again and found myself in Lechte’s room holding a strobe light set to 7.8 cycles per second
right in front of Lechte’s face. What was I doing? My motivations are still unsure to me. I shivered with a nervous excitement as I tried to retrace my steps throughout the night. I still had not pulled the strobe light away from Lechte’s face. I knew this frequency so well that I entered into that state just by watching the light flash against Lechte’s face. This was not right. Even if somewhere deep in my psyche I believed Lechte needed to see this world, it was not right. He would have to get to know these frequencies of his own accord. I am not my GREAT UNCLE.
Shortly after this experience I built a simple dream machine using a 78rpm turntable, a 200 Watt light bulb, a large piece of cardboard, and a microphone stand. When Lechte came home that day, I told him there was something I wanted to show him. I punched a few different tuning ratios into the computer and the sound soon filled the room. We both sat in front of the dream machine and closed our eyes. I turned the machine on and light began to pour onto my closed eyelids. Mandalas and geometry absorbed me, colors pounded against my eyelids, complex designs of my inner structure laid down before me.
LECHTE: This is amazing! I love this. It seems so familiar to me. This headspace.
ME: I’m sure it does.
____________________
THE POSTAGE STAMP CONSPIRACY
By Mike Tamburo
____________________
Deep down, I had known for months that I would be leaving the New Kensington
Branch. Before leaving, I wanted to cure myself of my addiction and I wanted to
rescue my friend Anton Plank from the clutches of my GREAT UNCLE,
the Post Office and Shine.
I started looking around the Post Office for a cure, something that would reverse
the effects of Shine. During my investigations, I overheard GREAT UNCLE
having a conversation with one of the Post Office lackeys. The Post Office had
secretly begun mixing Shine into the glue on the bottom of Young Elvis postage stamps;
Not much, mind you, but enough to put many unwitting civilians into
a mechanical trance. Their goal was to put the Shine-glue onto all postage stamps.
When completed, this ultimate weapon would spell certain doom for the American public.
LACKEY: Mr. Kensington, this is an unexpected pleasure. We're honored by your
presence.
GREAT UNCLE: Enough with the pleasantries, Lackey. I'm here to put you back on
schedule.
LACKEY: I assure you, Mr. Kensington, my men are working as fast as they can.
GREAT UNCLE: Perhaps I can find new ways to motivate them.
LACKEY: I promise you, all of the stamps will be mixed with Shine as planned.
GREAT UNCLE: The Post Master General does not share your optimistic attitude.
You are two months behind schedule.
LACKEY: He is asking the impossible. I need more workers.
GREAT UNCLE: Then perhaps you can tell him when he arrives.
LACKEY: The Post Master General is coming here?
GREAT UNCLE: That is correct, lackey. And he is displeased with your lack of progress.
LACKEY: We shall work harder. The Elvis stamps have been circulating the
mid-west for weeks now. We are just waiting to get the art back on the Betty Boop
stamps before we send them out to get pressed.
GREAT UNCLE: I hope so Lackey, for your sake. The Post Master General
is not as forgiving as I am.
That night I began devising a plan to stop the Post Office from dosing America.
I told Lechte about what was going on and my plan.
LECHTE: Of course I'm worried. And you should be too, but that does not mean I
can rip off the Post Office.
ME: If I told you half the things I've found out about this conspiracy, you'd probably
go postal. Look, all you have to do is take the Elvis Stamps out of the machines and
put in these decoys.
LECHTE: I'm terribly sorry. I'm afraid of what would happen if they found out it was us.
I have a bad feeling about this.
ME: I'm sure that we can work out an arrangement that will be beneficial to you and
enable us to avoid any unpleasant confrontation. I have $700 I can give you now and I
promise that you will be taken care of later. You know how Italian I can be.
LECHTE: Okay let’s do it. We're doomed if we do and we’re doomed if we don’t.
At least I will have a chance to find out what’s going on with my brain activity during
the 6 minutes it is still active after my body dies.
ME: I heard it was still active for 37 hours.
LECHTE: Does time really matter at that point?
ME: HA HA HA!!! AH HA HA AH!!! You got me!!! HA HAHAHA!!!
____________________
GOD’S HORN
By Mike Tamburo
____________________
It took me almost three years to build the instrument I now call GOD’S HORN. I spent nine months hollowing out a deep cave in the mountain that would act as the resonator. It took three months to install all 718 tuning pegs and the 1306 bridges into the mountain. I designed each bridge (buzzing bridges like those used on the tamboura) out of bone. I devised a tuning using 96 notes in each octave and spent the rest of the time stringing and tuning all 846 strings over and over again until it was perfect and the instrument was able to hold the tuning. It was a difficult instrument to build and especially difficult to tune. 128 strings were conjoined to the other strings by forming a loop with one string and connecting it to others. All of the conjoined strings were connected to a special bridge system I constructed out of deer bone and the fender of a 1993 Buick Century. The strings to the bridge system are excited by a device I built out of an old fan and a slinky. Some strings have several movable bridges. The rest of the strings are played by hand with long mallets connected to a pair of gloves and a device I built using a stationary bicycle with 15” plectrums attached to each spoke.
The winter solstice arrived and I was set to begin my performance at 8:11 PM. I had sent invitations to my closest friends, but it was 7 PM and no one had arrived yet. I was nervously going over my tuning calculations when I heard voices behind me.
MR. GIACOLLI: It is quite a sight.
ME: What are you doing here?
GREAT UNCLE: Now what kind of tone is that? We’re family. Now be a peach and tell me, what on earth is this contraption?
ME: You know damn well what it is or you wouldn’t be here.
GREAT UNCLE: I raised a smart one didn’t I? Enough small talk.
MR. GIACOLLI – (strums the instrument) What do you think you are going to do with that tuning? You are walking in some dangerous territory with this one. Good thing we came to visit. I will tune this thing right up for you.
ME: Don’t touch it Giacolli. It is exactly what it is supposed to be.
GREAT UNCLE: You built this for us Tamburo. It is written. It was all for this son, don’t you see? Everything we put you through was in your best interest. All of the test tones, isolation, hallucinogens, sensory deprivation, sensory overloads and music lessons were all for this. You were special. Everyone knew it. I wanted great things for you.
ME: You tortured me!!!
GREAT UNCLE: Grow a spine Tamburo! I was conditioning you, preparing you and now here we are. Things worked out exactly as they were supposed to. It is a mighty fine instrument. I could hardly imagine it when I read the prophecy. Now, here I am; in front of it. It makes me proud to know it was constructed by one of my kinfolk. Let Giacolli finish the job for you. p>
ME: Over my dead body. I am here to end this.
GREAT UNCLE: End what Tamburo? You have no idea what is going on here. What do you think you know? You are delusional, son. None of it is real. You were talking to yourself. You’re nuts. You’re stuck in a Shine hole. Your mind is rotted and you don’t know what you are doing. None of this is real Tamburo. None of it. I am here to help you. You can live a normal life again. Let me take you to the hospital.
ME: I am not going anywhere. I was born to building and playing God’s Horn. This is the whole reason for my existence. You can’t stop me, Uncle. Tonight the prophecy will be fulfilled.
I turned on the slinky fan, put on my mallet gloves and sat down on the bike.
GREAT UNCLE: STOP!!! YOU DON”T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING!!!
The slinky fan picked up speed and created a dense drone. I began to pedal. The sound was huge and echoed throughout the valley. I started tapping out rhythms with the mallet gloves. It was majestic, unlike anything I had ever imagined. Giacolli tried to pull me off of the bike, but was electrocuted when he touched me. The ground began vibrating beneath me. Rocks fell from the mountain. Suddenly the earth opened, swallowing GREAT UNCLE and the Post Office lackeys he had brought with him. I played the rest of the night. In the morning, I collapsed. The mileage meter on the stationary bike said I had pedaled 3016 miles that night. How far would I have to go before this was all over? I still had four more performances and I was sure the Post Master General and NEPHILUM UNION LOCAL 282 would do everything in their power to stop me from retuning the earth.
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