Eric Jennings
he/him, dilettante, writer, invocateur, noise-maker, accidental yogi and dabbler in patamysticism which is the spiritual branch of pataphysics
Math and Aftermath
Who of them will come to be? How many of them are you and me?
The aftermath is the anti-climax. Lost in that. Lost in space. Lost in time. Lost in the black. Sodomy. Sodomized. Sodom Hussain. Rape of the mouth. Cocksucker. Faggot. I was turned away from possibilities. From being a faggot (bisexual). I was made the way I was. I am. I am not. Not groomed, nor a groom. Shocked like the monkey. My yearning for female approval coupled with fear of male violence made me a lover. A pussy. What I am. What I am not.
Do you want to think about the alternative? Do you want to think about all the alternatives? Do I want to think of the alternatives? I never did. I just reacted. Choosing wasn't on offer so I took what came and shut up about it. I never imagined I could be....
I am half certain that I was killed and shot into a dream. I was not a thing at all. I was a nothink.
I lost that time. I lost my time that time. Forgotten dreams of growing up. Initiated in a ritualized eradication of youth. Vim and Vigor lost.
Been spending most my lives
Living in a pastime paranoia
Been spending most my lives
Living in a pastime paradise (dream)
Been wasting most of my lives
Glorifying days long gone behind (dreaming)
Been wasting most of my lives
In remembrance of ignorance oldest praise (imagined)
Who of them will come to be?
How many of them are you and me?
Annihilation, Defloration,
Abrogation, Mutilation,
Conflagration, Strangulation,
Profanation, Transformation,
Obliteration, Transmutation,
Violation, Ruination,
Suffocation, Castigation,
Abjuration, Incantation,
Aspiration, Invocation
Vague shaped bodies misting in shadow against the back of my mind. White fog drifting across a black screen. Each cloud a phantom (wraith) passing through a memory. Whose ghost? Whose memory? Are they I, me, or mine? I was a they. They were, and always will be, them. We didn't have pronouns when I was a kid, so this is all in retrospect.
Who's haunting who?
This is the design for my newest batch of vinyl stickers. I just submitted the order and should have them in hand in a week or so. I sell my stickers on my Artisan's Coop store, but I do not profit from them. I also give them out freely. Hit me up if you want any. If you can afford to, buy them from me to help cover the expense.
If you have been living with CPTSD, you will probably get this. If not, it is simply designed to make you go, "huh?"
I'm sure everyone has heard of PTSD. Not so many are familiar with the variation know as "Complex PTSD."
Ever wonder why USian society is so dysfunctional and fucked up? Because for generations there has been epidemic of childhood trauma that has been ignored, or denied. Untreated childhood trauma festers, and anyone who has to spend a good amount of energy on suppressing, coping, avoiding, denying, struggling, and living with their symptoms, will find those symptoms multiplying and compounding the original trauma.
CPTSD symptoms can mimic other mental illnesses, such as general anxiety disorder, general depressive disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, cyclothymia, bipolar variations, ADHD, and even autism.
The good news? It's never too late to heal and have a happy childhood. I am living, walking, joyful proof. I'm doing all the fun creative things I have denied myself for so long. (And also connecting socially with neighbors for the purpose of our mutual survival under fascism.)
Joy is resistance. Never give up.
Blackbird Stirb Endlich!
a classic Beatles song re-interpreted
I don't have a specific method for making music. Not yet. I call my music experimental because that's exactly how it is created. I start typically with nothing more than a single idea, image, or random sound. This song began, believe it or not, with a recording of the Beatle's song, Blackbird.
I don't use generative AI for any of my art, but I do use multiple software apps that manipulate sound. Because I like to incorporate some randomness into most of my visual and sound art, I especially like to use a few apps that are not very good at what they claim to be able to do.
One such (ipad) app is called Scaler 3, which includes an audio transcription feature. It can listen to and record any song, like Blackbird, and provide a score of the song as a long chord sequence. The result is consistently, horrifically, bad.
Scaler then allows me to play back the sampled music in a variety of simulated instruments, all of which, also sound bad. Here's the first several bars of Blackbird, as interpreted by Scaler 3, played back as an acoustic guitar:
This becomes layer 1 on my new song. For track 2, I'll layer on the same sequence played back as a twangy electric guitar:
I use many layers of sound in my songs, usually at least a couple dozen. Here are staccato symphonic strings of the sequence:
And a cheesy synth:
After laying down all these layers on top of each other, I'll then add several different effects to each layer, from reverb, to delays, and lots of heavy distortion. The song is now transforming from really bad simulated music into the realm of noise.
I also use an app that creates static sounds:
But the real champion in this process is what comes next. My favorite device is La Bruja, a custom made squawk box that is hard to describe. Here's how the guy who built it introduces it, "This machine is wild. Chaotic witchcraft. Screams and wails, bleeps and bloops, even some living creaturesque type business..."
For now, La Bruja is the common denominator used in most of my music. I can get lost for 30-40 minutes turning its dials and knobs generating long sequences of hysterical noise. Here's a sample with the volume turned down:
And I'm still just getting started. I'll spare you more clips, but I continue to add layers of many different sounds, such as percussion tracks, choral passages, my own recorded voice, pots and pans from my kitchen, water fountains, clips from movies, urban field recordings, radio commercials from my childhood, early americana music from historic public domain collections, and even childish things... which reminds me...
When I was an early teen, I placed a tape recorder on the floor outside the closed bathroom door and recorded the sound of my sister peeing. She was angry, I laughed, but then felt bad about it. It should not surprise you to learn that my audio collection contains sounds of myself sneezing, coughing, and yes, pissing.
I've got the shortcut button on my iphone configured to instantly start recording audio any time I hear anything at all that strikes me.
I believe in subliminal messaging. Many of the layers on my songs are not consciously legible, but the sound waves that they consist of still enter your brain.
Here's what all of the above clips stacked together sounds like with just a little bit of distortion:
Here's the full finished track, which may sound nothing like any of the above clips, but all of those, and a bunch of others, are embedded within it. If you listen with headphones, which I recommend, you'll also detect some stereo effects with sounds bouncing back and forth between left and right.
I consider this music for meditation. I like to lay on my back on the floor and listen to a few tracks before going to bed. Noise music, especially Harsh Wall Noise, which this track is a variant of, doesn't have to be played loudly. I want it just loud enough that I can hear most of the subtleties, but not so loud that my ears ring afterward. The English title of this track is, "Blackbird, Just Die Already."
I have tinnitus. Bad tinnitus. I hear noise in my ears 24/7, and when I'm anxious or stressed, it can be excruciating. Listening to this style of music cancels it out in the most beautiful way. For me, this is music for meditation.
I started making this kind of music on October 8, 2024, and my first few albums are explicitly ant-fascist. Some of my recent stuff is less explicitly so, but all of it is a form of protest music. This is me reacting to current global circumstances. You can find all my published music on Bandcamp.
screaming motorcycles
encircle my house
triggering a fear
of the dangers of
daring to be young
again
on top of that
all the birds
a round here
are refusing to
co operate
i remember leaping
over the handle
bars and painting
the street with
several inches of
my fore head skin
(i did not say
fore skin)
the she-male house finch
inserted it’s face in
the bird feeder (w)hole
where it stuck
to comical effect
except it was dead
one motor cycle
in particular
sounds like a
dentist’s drill
while the others
drown it out with
their incessant
shift ing
(i know that that
doesn’t make senescence)
hop ping limbs
like ladders
the tom boy finch
refuses to look
me in the eye
accusing my
slothful style
of deferring spring
all i ever wanted
for christmas was
the pride of a
bloody lip and a
gaping (w)hole that
once up on a time
was my two front
teeth
a scourge of thirteen
neck and fist tattooed
alien starlings
wearing ray bans
threatened to take
every thing i own
before turning away
on mass (as) they
changed their
collective mind
that gear box scar
runs from my old
neighborhood under
bob’s big boy buns
all the way to
my present left hand
thumb which was n’t
protected by my
sixties style
white helmet
hammering jammering
blinking and blanking
the god damned!
chickadee task masters
are shoving all my
best ideas in to
someone else’s
chimney
they aren’t even real–
meaning authentic–
meaning tangible–
meaning dirty–
meaning real–
bikers–
just paunchy dads
drinking foster’s
australian for beer
in cans
i think i’ll stay
in side to-day
unless that
miniature hawk
comes back
with my
glasses
The Boy Who Stayed: A Lifetime of Healing
The idea that all of us adults have an inner child is silly. Which is the point.
“Do you feel more free of your past trauma today? “
Oh fuck yeah. I am universes beyond where my trauma tried to hold me captive. Absolutely, there were times I didn’t think I could ever be free. Such thoughts can still occur to me when I’m feeling down. The difference today is that I know: not only will I be free, but that I am free, any time I want to be. Like yoga and meditation, my freedom is a practice. My thoughts are me and mine.
I shared an anecdote this morning in class. One of my early yoga teachers said something that has been instrumental in my practice.
“When you practice hatha yoga, there are two “I”s in the room. The I that is me doing the yoga, and the I that is me watching myself do the yoga. During a yoga session, we are practicing the gradual merging of these two indivdual selves. We are seeking union within ourselves.”
Most mornings, I wake up with a song in my head. Sometimes a medley. Yesterday was a medely of Beatles songs. This morning is was a single Beatles song, “This Boy.”
That boy took my love away
Though he'll regret it someday
But this boy wants you back again
That boy isn't good for you
Though he may want you too
This boy wants you back again
Oh, and this boy would be happy
Just to love you, but, oh, my
That boy won't be happy
Till he's seen you cry
This boy wouldn't mind the pain
Would always feel the same
If this boy gets you back again
The song is ostensibly a love song about a boy who lost his girl to another boy. But like all good art, it can be interpreted in many ways. What I hear in this song is a plea for a re-union. That boy and This boy are the same, if only they can see each other outside the frame of their trauma. I took my own love away from the world, and only I can bring it back. And along the way there are times when I want to stop trying. There are times when my attachment to my fear and sadness is so deep, I never want to let them go.
I didn’t go to sleep last night with any intentions about what I might dream. I had no wonder about what song worm might awaken me. And I had no inkling that I was going to share that anecdote with my class today.
“How do you figuratively go back in time and do what you need to do for yourself? How do you go back and be the parent for yourself?”
I sat down a few minutes ago to muse on the three questions cited here that someone asked me the other day. I didn’t make the connection between my yoga anecdote and, “This Boy.” But it's pretty obvious now, ain't it?
Where I used to bemoan, “Oh woe is me, why has it taken me so many years to become free?” I now say, “Oh wow, how incredible is it that that little kid has been so committed and determined to heal, that he’s stayed on task for decades!”
In retrospect, I am finding it impossible to explain exactly “how I did it.” There’s not a single, simple answer. Even if I thought that I could break it down into steps, or methods, or specific therapeutic approaches, it’s doubtful my words would hold the same meaning for you as they do for me. The thing I can’t communicate fully is the experience of what my healing journey has been. So, I’ll do what any good alchemist would do. I’ll share my recipe with you with the instruction, do with this what you will.
Intuition is key. Listen to it. Trust it. Intuition is your higher power, because it transcends language and explanation. Intuition is you whispering to you.
Memory is not what it’s cracked up to be. It’s a helpful tool, but it’s not science. It’s about as reliable as dreams and fairy tales in terms of helping you to “know” what happened. But use it. Think of your memory as a playground. Because exploring memory is like using your imagination. In fact, scientifically, it is exactly like that. (I don’t know if that’s true, but I remember hearing it somewhere.) The benefit here is twofold: we’re not sure how memories are stored in the brain, if they are at all, but you have a lifetime of experiential understanding buried in the sandbox of your mind. You know how people talk about their memories playing out in their minds just before they die? Here’s a secret: you don’t have to wait until you’re about to die, to do that.
By the way, you do not have to remember what was done to you. I remember as much as my young brain could process, which means that the unfathomable parts are probably erased forever. That was necessary for my survival.
Feel what you feel and trust what you feel. There are no good or bad emotions. Emotions are expressions of energy as it travels through the body. It’s ok to wallow in emotion, to dive deep down into the abyss of it. Explore it. Get to know it. Make it your friend. Feel what you feel, and use it. Most importantly, express it. In any way you can. In private to yourself, to a trusted friend, in a journal to your cat (if you have a dog, go borrow a cat). Better yet, make some art. Any kind. Make it only for yourself, or it won’t work. Creativity is the purest form of spiritual expression.
Fear comes at you like a foe. Don’t buy it. It’s an act. Fear is an ally. Fear’s ultimate goal is to protect you. To keep you safe. Fear tempers you on your journey.
“All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”
That quote is a warning, for sure, but it’s warning as enticement. It’s akin to the saying, “Be careful what you wish for.” It is not saying, “Do not enter.” It is saying, “Proceed with caution, but this is the way.”
For years, when I was trying to remember a specific... act, incident, abuse... whenever I got very close to it, I would become petrified with fear. My body literally responded as if the act of remembering was going to kill me. My body would panic, and my mind would shut down. So many times. Just like in my nightmares. The Prince of Darkness would appear, toss me the knife, and I would wake up screaming. Maybe I got his name wrong. Maybe it was Dante.
One of the questions above used my own words about “figuratively going back in time” to reconnect with little Eric. What I meant by “figuratively,” is that I didn’t have to go back in time at all. Instead, I had to awaken to the reality that that kid from so long ago is still here. He didn’t go anywhere. I just had to stop pretending that I’m not still him. He is me.
I’m feeling like this is enough words for now. I hope it helps a little. I’m making this up as I go along. And that’s my advice to you. Make it up as you go along. Be spontaneous. Improvise. Play.
I've been listening to music as I write. Streaming music, to be specific. Not a playlist. I'm not making the selections, Apple is. I've been hearing David Bowie, Bob Dylan, The Violent Femmes, Neil Young. And right now, as I'm doing my final scan for typos, "This Boy" is playing. How 'bout that?
I think of this kind of coincidence as being like Schrödinger's cat. It's both, a coincidence, and not a coincidence at all. Or maybe I'm just a butterfly dreaming I'm a little boy.
Subvert
fuck art make noise
In addition to Bandcamp and Bandwagon, I am now publishing my music on Subvert. Subvert is new, but it looks promising. One very nice advantage Subvert has over the other two is that you don't have to publish albums one track at a time. You can batch load everything from one screen, and then go back and add track details later.
I'm told that the more details I include on a track, the more likely that people are to download or buy it. But I don't always have time for details.
It's All One Story
I am not a disciplined writer. I don't even like to call myself a writer. I don't get writer's block. I get writer's fright. I've said this before. Why does writing frighten me? Because when writing, I can't lie. I can't hide.
I've had a full beard for the last few months. I just shaved it off. Like this: sideburns gone leaving the full van dyke. Took a shower. Another look in the mirror. Grungy looking. I thought I liked that. Nope. Like this: mustache gone. This has been my look for decades. Quirky goatee. I thought I liked that. Nope. Like this: shaved it all. Ugh, that chin. Lack thereof. I hate the way I look. Round head. Weak chin. No upper lip. Scarred and lumpy face. Scared face. Sad face. All those times I said, "But I am smiling." Lies.
Shaving was hard. I lifted and put down the trimmer a few times before I found the nerve to just do the sideburns. I've been planning to do some self portraits with the beard which is why I thought shaving it was hard.
Looking in the mirror, I thought, OK, this could still work for the photos I have in mind. But I found myself lifting and dropping the trimmer again. The mustache also had to go, so it went. Still staring, starting to feel regret. But why? My upper lip is one of the few body parts I like. It's not full, but it looks soft, sensitive. I like the sleek lines of it. And the goatee hides the weak chin. This is the look I've worn for a few decades. It suits me. It has been my most comfortable mask. Goatee, meet trimmer. Ugh, that chin. Go back two paragraphs.
"My work here is done," I said to my therapist last week. It was a joke, with a little bit of truth in it. The prior several days I was productive, in a way. I wrote a lot. For hours at a time. Thousands of words. Most of it wasn't creative writing. Wasn't personal. It was perfunctory. It served a purpose. We met on Wednesday, but we were supposed to have met on Monday.
On Monday, I wrote personal. I started with a few paragraphs on what the photo meant for me. But then I followed my thoughts and I wrote about my young self. I remembered a specific moment walking alone as a child. It's one of the memories that has always been there, but never examined. The moment was benign. I was simply walking on the side of the road, looking down at the sandy shoulder, and I found, and picked up, and placed in my pocket, a rusted bolt. It felt like I had found a treasure, and I hoped I found more.
This memory has occurred to me many times, but it hasn't held any specific meaning or significance. That I was aware of.
In the essay I was writing I also wandered into my teen years and my twenties. I was remembering times I spent walking with a camera, taking photos. I was also making a connection between my new passion for walking with a camera and those earlier times.
I am not a disciplined writer. I don't even like to call myself a writer. I don't get writer's block. I get writer's fright. I've said this before. Why does writing frighten me? Because when writing, I can't lie. I can't hide.
I want a bumper sticker that says, "I'd rather be dreaming." And by "dreaming" I mean "hiding."
On Monday, writing about a photograph led me to connections with myself on different timelines. And while I didn't realize it until Wednesday, I may have grokked the significance of the roadside walking memory. Something happens to me when I'm writing. Something that explains my fear of it.
On Monday, as I was writing, I lost myself in it. Which is weird because of something I'm gonna say in a minute. I wrote through the time I was supposed to be on Zoom with my therapist. I wrote through an email reminder, a calendar alert, and a text message from Brian.
Neil Young was once heckled while performing. Some guy shouted, "Neil, your songs all sound the same!"
Neil replied, "That's because it's all one song."
These here words are all one story. Some of your favorite writers do it, so why can't I?
"My work here is done," is what I said after telling Brian about the roadside memory. Because in that moment, in the telling of it, I recognized the significance of the memory and why it has stayed with me.
In that moment of finding and claiming a rusted bolt, I was... interested... curious... pleased with myself... I was also out in the world, alone, and I felt safe. I was proud of myself for feeling confident and capable in my body. Something in my little brain made a note to self: Remember what this feels like.
I said to Brian, "it feels like I have finally re-connected with my pre-trauma self."
When I sit to write, I can't hide. That's it. That's my fright. I have to take my mask off. I write things that I can't speak aloud.
Writing, for me, requires a state of mind that I have been avoiding forever. It's also the missing piece that I've always craved.
To be able to write, I have to stop hiding. I have to allow myself to be seen. Creativity, for me, requires spontaneity, vulnerability, and honesty. These don't come easy to men like me. Children of the Secret.
In writing, by revealing my secrets, I find myself. And I have to keep doing it. It's not a compulsion. It's more like a release, a surrendering, a confession, and a love letter. Because my work here will never be done, I write.
i used to by opium from a guy who wore renfaire clothing and always made me listen to him sing 'shelter from the storm'
i just cut ties with a grifter poet who'd been grooming me for a few months, i don't know what his end game was gonna be, but it was a'comin. i'm tired
i'm a yankee, not proud but i can live with it. also a damn yankee because i went to the south and i stayed
in 1976, i rode in a saggy airport limousine to key west, we had to get out at railroad crossings. that was the first time i knew a teenage girl who got raped
i know what a boot pushing your face into a hard packed snow bank feels like
once, when my father's fist sent me flying from my dinner chair to the corner of the kitchen, my mother shouted, "Frank, stop it!" and i yelled, "Yeah, Frank, stop it!"
Gnewt used to sandpaper his face and then treat it with gasoline. this was in order to remove his acne. it worked
my teen girlfriend left me because i told someone that she was being sexually assaulted by her uncles
i cried so many times when i didn't know what i was crying for. i still do. i like it
i spent fifty years or so hiding from myself. i am proud of that. i like to say that i'm not ambitious, but that was... something
one time me and friends were tripping. one time, hah! after everyone else was done, i was not. i yelled, "turn on the lights" for an hour or two
i danced on gravestones while singing all the songs from Godspell. the lighting designer was pissed because i cut my hair on opening day. he never told me that he was using my hair for an effect, or i wouldn't'a done it
the happiest i've ever been was when 250 fifth graders stomped their feet while chanting my name, "Peter! Peter! Peter!"
i've never been more embarrassed than when i hung myself on stage. i didn't mean to do it. i suppose if i didn't regret some things, i'd regret that
"Y'all Deserve A Break Today!"