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The Tower of Babble
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Built out of two voices, this piece attempts to present what the Tower of Babble would sound like.
unique innovative molotkov ragon linde carrieann tkaczyk chris graf sb reda eric matchett dan mcshane xander molotkov brad mossman
Artist picture
Intelligent avant garde
A. Molotkov is a writer, composer, filmmaker and visual artist, and co-founder of the Inflectionist poetry movement. Born in St. Petersburg, he arrived in the U.S. in 1990 and switched to writing in English in 1993. He is the author of several novels, short story and poetry collections and the winner of the 2011 Boone’s Dock Press poetry chapbook contest for his “True Stories from the Future”. His first CD, "Can You Stay Forever?" (2005) was well-received by the critics. His second CD is completed as of October 2011 - distribution options are being investigated.
Song Info
Genre
Alternative • Experimental
Charts
Peak #180
Peak in subgenre #28
Author
text: Cindy Lubar Bishop, A. Molotkov, S.B. Reda,
Rights
A. Molotkov
Uploaded
November 28, 2003
Track Files
MP3
MP3 4.3 MB • 128 kbps • 4:39
Story behind the song
Based on an abbreviated version of the text created in Discord Aggregate's online collaboration (www.discord-aggregate.com/towerofbabble). This composition is uniquely featured in A. Molotkov's contribution to "Preliminary Observations" by Cindy Lubar Bishop, A. Molotkov and Pamela Zero, a 27-piece exhibit of visual works held in November 2001 in Berkeley, CA.
Lyrics
The shape is not as important as the rational. I danced with my own reflection and sang with my echo. This was to continue among the times to be and time that were. When we arrived, I knew that we may never leave. Whose fault is it? The rational is not as important as the reason. My mental meal is the key to my success. But what about others? Our friendship flowered there, among the ruins of this forgotten civilization. We were to establish what exactly had taken place there so many or so few years earlier. Where were we to start? And whose decision was it to send us there in the first place? Last I heard, they were serving several intentions and a side dish of hopes. Pass the metaphor please - heavy on the participle. The stem of realistic sensation is withered. The reason is not as important as the result. I whispered to you a word whose meaning is not to be underestimated. How can something small be sufficient? Now - if not, who will be there to witness another now? Once again, we came to the conclusion that a reversal of our plan would be sufficient. Were we making a mistake? Who is there to say that we were not doing our job! I heard the whispers, then I saw the perpetrator. Can you hear me? It looked nothing like I expected it to look. What was I supposed to do? What could I have done? I suggested that we change our approach. The result is not as important as the intention. Things were becoming truly wonderful, but there was no one left to wonder. Every emotion pointed in one direction: escape. How did it end up this way? Who is responsible for this situation? Should our faces be pointed into the past or into the future? Could it be a matter of personal choice? I couldn't take my eyes off it- I'd never seen anything like it. Where did it come from? Is there such thing as personal choice? A wonderful distraction, but we still had to come up with a plan. I couldn't help myself. I touched it. A wonderful pointed nose. A wonderful pointed hat. Roof. Pyramid. Hat. Cone. A wonderful pointed point. What side are you on ... yet, it no longer matters. When I came in, I noticed that the doorframe was missing? Was that appropriate? The intention is not as important as the presentation. Who is bold enough to criticize our approach? By contrast, his arrival was marked by elegance, and specifically, all doors behaved well. If I forget the door again, you can give me two windows and I'll make sure they swim this time. This endeavor will forever remain our swan song. One was red and the other was unfinished. I tried and I opened and I knocked and I fell and then I knew. I suggest that next time we leave through the door. How will we get in? This is an entirely different question. Why are things the way they are? Nothing that was said remained unnoticed. But was anything at all said? Did it matter? The presentation is not as important as the information. Who is in charge here? I remember noticing that the left side of the horizon had been removed. I was lucid before and after the event. But can I safely say that I was lucid during it? The crumbling of time - the explosion of age - the settling reality. We were correct, but mistaken. Between the necessary and the noise. Between the allowed and the apparent. Next time we may think of something else, but it is not too late to state that now is the next time. Between the intent and the anchor. The joy of knowing that we were not the only ones about to perish. Would we really have to die? The information is not as important as the function. Between the explosions, we played war on a board placed in our memory. Between the understood and the inclement. Between the unapproachable and the known. The most successful rendition of our theme was not yet tried. Between the certainty and the clash. Between the joy and the chaos. Between the withheld and the refused. Between the need and the knowing. Let us collaborate on a tale of doom where we are the punchline and our death is th
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