"A low level of despair / Where you're not getting any answers"
![Cover art for Residue by 아버지 [father]](https://e.snmc.io/i/600/w/7df89bfee71e68b3980e62e330055127/9451888/아버지-father-residue-Cover-Art.png) |
| residue cover art by 아버지 |
It
was several months ago at the time of writing, never mind how long ago
this habit started exactly, that I had started to make a habit of
sleeping under the table of the sound-proof studio next to my film
class. I had been permitted to do so after some awkward sneaking in
under the guise of 'recording music for my own project', which often
meant fooling around in the school's lone copy of Logic Pro X and then
passing out under the table. The film teacher and I, bless his heart, we
had a good rapport. Probably the singular thread keeping my sanity
intact, he likely knew how angry and upset at the world I was at that
stage in my life and decided to let me louse off. It wasn't a super
intensive class anyways.
That studio, and by extension the rest of that section of the building, suffered from horrible reception. At some point you just have to accept, through no fault of your own, that if you're going to be doing nothing in a space without reception, you're going to have to bring backup. I had some shitty arcade-style mobile games, sometimes I'd log into the (horrible) school wifi and watch internet horror, and, most relevant to this piece, I had a rotating list of downloaded albums on Spotify. At this point I was finding it quite tedious and time-consuming to pirate nearly everything I listened to on-the-go, and the price point was somewhat worth it just for the convenience. I was searching for albums to listen to, and I distinctly remember a friend sharing this album with me. I'd been sure to listen to it prior, but never fully encapsulated it into my listening round until the aforementioned several months ago. I put on the album, slept on the pile of non-essential clothes I took off as a makeshift pillow, and listened as the frigid temperatures from both the music and the nearby air conditioner consumed me near whole.
One of the first things that sticks out to me is how long each individual track seems to go on for despite, at face value, seeming rather brief. It's this sinking, almost dissociative feeling, this particular encapsulation of time moving by but at a glacial pace. Everything, even the sample rates of the music, seem to drift by like clouds on a night sky as my eyes twinkle in somniferous emptiness more and more. Eventually my eyes shut, fully closing myself off to the realities of the world in favor for this new, semi-fabricated head-space. It was dreaming, effectively. Some tracks feel like you're looping the same footage of a sandy dune, over, and over, and over again. Suddenly, the next track cuts immediately to this stuttered, barely-together looping animation of some man walking in a white void, digital compression artifacts and film wear-and-tear accounted for. It's only halfway through the album that I realize that I'm on the verge of sleep. No matter, I did come here to snooze, after all.
Another 15 minutes later, I'm back at where I started. By this time I realize it's actually at least an hour later. There's this ominous stiff energy to my limbs, the type you only get after sleeping with light clothing in a cold environment. By my judgement, it's a good ass nap. These naps always seem to conveniently fall in line with the end of the school day, I'm never late to go home. When Your World Collapses plays in my ears as I groggily roll my body out from under the table, rife with mild discomfort and heavy drowsiness, aching for the soft, warm embrace of my creaky little mattress. This is the feeling I get whenever I listen to residue.
That studio, and by extension the rest of that section of the building, suffered from horrible reception. At some point you just have to accept, through no fault of your own, that if you're going to be doing nothing in a space without reception, you're going to have to bring backup. I had some shitty arcade-style mobile games, sometimes I'd log into the (horrible) school wifi and watch internet horror, and, most relevant to this piece, I had a rotating list of downloaded albums on Spotify. At this point I was finding it quite tedious and time-consuming to pirate nearly everything I listened to on-the-go, and the price point was somewhat worth it just for the convenience. I was searching for albums to listen to, and I distinctly remember a friend sharing this album with me. I'd been sure to listen to it prior, but never fully encapsulated it into my listening round until the aforementioned several months ago. I put on the album, slept on the pile of non-essential clothes I took off as a makeshift pillow, and listened as the frigid temperatures from both the music and the nearby air conditioner consumed me near whole.
One of the first things that sticks out to me is how long each individual track seems to go on for despite, at face value, seeming rather brief. It's this sinking, almost dissociative feeling, this particular encapsulation of time moving by but at a glacial pace. Everything, even the sample rates of the music, seem to drift by like clouds on a night sky as my eyes twinkle in somniferous emptiness more and more. Eventually my eyes shut, fully closing myself off to the realities of the world in favor for this new, semi-fabricated head-space. It was dreaming, effectively. Some tracks feel like you're looping the same footage of a sandy dune, over, and over, and over again. Suddenly, the next track cuts immediately to this stuttered, barely-together looping animation of some man walking in a white void, digital compression artifacts and film wear-and-tear accounted for. It's only halfway through the album that I realize that I'm on the verge of sleep. No matter, I did come here to snooze, after all.
Another 15 minutes later, I'm back at where I started. By this time I realize it's actually at least an hour later. There's this ominous stiff energy to my limbs, the type you only get after sleeping with light clothing in a cold environment. By my judgement, it's a good ass nap. These naps always seem to conveniently fall in line with the end of the school day, I'm never late to go home. When Your World Collapses plays in my ears as I groggily roll my body out from under the table, rife with mild discomfort and heavy drowsiness, aching for the soft, warm embrace of my creaky little mattress. This is the feeling I get whenever I listen to residue.
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