Unspoken Word

by Steven Ball

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A compilation of sound pieces based on the recorded spoken word. 1998 - 2000

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released August 13, 2009

Steven Ball: voice, sound manipulation, found recordings
Lee Smith: voice on At Five in the Afternoon

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Steven Ball London, UK

Steven Ball works across various audio-visual media including film, video, sound, and has exhibited in numerous exhibitions, screenings, and performances, since the nineteen eighties. He is also a member of the legendary post-punk DIY group Storm Bugs.

Also available by Steven Ball:
"Life of Barrymore" on Linear Obsessional Recordings
linearobsessional.bandcamp.com/album/life-of-barrymore
... more

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Track Name: The Shape That Has Held Me
the shape that has held me since my birth has not had hold upon my thought.
slowly all my senses fell by the wayside of my thought's parade of places
unfamiliar, the pages filled magnetically with the ejaculations of severed
particles. i am gathered only in my movements which identify me with this
place of eroticism and otherness. darkness is administered slowly and
everything is left clear and distant, touch becomes something that has to be
reshown. i have felt nothing since i was sixteen, but i continue to see the
edges of what can be felt and tasted. i am recurrently blind, but somehow i
gratefully fill this page which is every page. the blueness of my eyes
reflect the immensness of a clear sky, they are everywhere and without
being. i am a notion i search always to find like a small lantern of fur
sleeping at the foot of my bed which i carefully avoid waking when i enter
the immense collapse of my room. i have chosen the parenthesis i live in,
they are the atmosphere split asunder. i breathe the iconic darkness of the
sun, its blooms bustling over the plush remainders and tokens of history,
the almost yesterday of utterance. i speak without memory. i remember only
arrival and only recognize the place it is next to. i am lost amongst the
continuance of the habit of my constraints. my life is a song tied to the
mast of a storm. i am looking for a shore where the footstep of someone who
is approaching is carved like amber light in the sand. i find myself each
morning as a carved effigy of memory, before that i remain a plant growing
in the fertile dust of oblivion. my dreams forget me. immensity is smaller
than a dice. the sun is the eye of a sparrow and flight melts before thought
and becomes a triangle. when i awake i am embodied by a hasty structure that
attempts to speak, but only cavorts with a few rehearsed jestures. i am near
to nothing. and nothing is capacity. to resemble everything is knowledge,
but i am filled with only a capable emptiness which is an outline of tense
filiaments. air is the only recurrent form. i breathe slowly the immensity
of light which drowns form. i am not awake. there is no chart that is not
once and for all a fiction. the ropes that hold me are either tidy or
untidy. famine is everywhere and i eat convulsively the wind.

pete spence
Track Name: At Five in the Afternoon
Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

1. The Goring and the Death

At five in the afternoon.
It was just five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A basket of lime made ready
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death and only death
at five in the afternoon.

The wind blew the cotton wool away
at five in the afternoon.
And oxide scattered nickel and glass
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard fight
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolate horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-pipe sound began
at five in the afternoon.
The bells of arsenic, the smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Silent crowds on corners
at five in the afternoon.
And only the bull with risen heart!
at five in the afternoon.
When the snow-sweat appeared
at five in the afternoon.
when the arena was splashed with iodine
at five in the afternoon.
death laid its eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
At just five in the afternoon.

A coffin on wheels for his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes sound in his ear
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull bellows on his brow
at five in the afternoon.
The room glows with agony
at five in the afternoon.
Now out of distance gangrene comes
at five in the afternoon.
Trumpets of lilies for the green groin
at five in the afternoon.
Wounds burning like suns
at five in the afternoon,
and the people smashing windows
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ay, what a fearful five in the afternoon!
It was five on every clock!
It was five of a dark afternoon!

Federico García Lorca