These days I’ve been thinking about mindfulness. It’s just another desperate attempt to rediscover human homoeostasis. To bluntly extirpate all the spooks that have been stuck in our heads over the years. Denying language and consciousness. Returning to the Animalia kingdom without special rights and privileges. To be a sensationist, to be a primitive materialist, and to realize that there is nothing beyond whatever is immediately shoved before our eyes and noses. Reacting to noises with a cat’s unease and then immediately licking our paws and ears again.

Pode ser uma imagem de 2 pessoas, monumento e ao ar livre
Léon Spilliaert and Floris Jespers in Oostende, 1926

I want this to be clear: any effort to add words to “Limits” is stupid. And maybe that is why I am doing it in this short piece. For feeling uneasy realizing that Andrew Tasselmeyer‘s album is an exercise in field recordings and subtle piano or string melodies, with no main character or narrator. There is no story, no plot. It’s thirty-eight minutes that could be twice as long or only half as long. There is nothing to fit in or understand. Nothing to make sense of. There is no theory or even the so-called “limits” spelled out in the title. I wish life was always this simple.