I often wish that I could project the state of my mind in a way that would make the world more intelligible to others. Maybe that's why I write this blog, to provide an abstract layer of metaphor through which to interface with reality. Music does this on its own. I'm just calling attention to the way that it fills in unseen gaps or pulls around incomprehensible crags. It is the dust that reveals the shape and grain of the road underfoot, disclosing the unseen and unforeseeable, like a flashlight whose beam crosses the boarder between timelines. I sense these words leaving me and reaching you as a dashing black line drawn across a map, overlapping and overcoming the palpable real barriers and consternating elements that separate us in order to wind a thread between two distant pinpoints and effect a transference. A thread on which the plastic isometrics of Heta Bilaletdin's Nauhoi can reach you like a mechanized passenger pigeon delivering a message of the rediscovery of the dodo. An improbable initial metamorphotic incantation from the artist, a translation of sensation into sound and back, one which rotates the ballast of one's skull in a counterclockwise manner, releasing jets of green steam in the course of cycling revolutions and forcing its contents to reorient into imperatively unsteady compounds whose forensic potential is in proportion to their combustibility. Daisy-frilled snakes of electric intelligence will circle their barbed coils around the trunk of your spine and act as ribbons of satellite receptors for splendid telekinetic telexes from spiritually inverted terrains. A groan of mystic stone. A fire as cold as night. A bowl of porridge that stares back at you with the kindness of your grandmother's face. A chalice of insight infused with a wisdom as dense as packed sand. A concrete mixer for the mind. All of this has been recorded, because that is what Nauhoi means.
