“Facing a organ stressful sounds and von Hausswolff clear bow to the voice becomes disarmed, helpless and with your feet on the paved floor is the frost from the bottom of the creature that I am, and up towards the root. Grief is a scale, a key, massive. Repetition and variation of repetition. Each day, each event, each track begins the same way. The sun rises. The bells tolls, fade. The eyes become accustomed to the sight of themselves. His face gray. I want to stoop down on my mat and cry. The clothes will cause fading of decomposition. One must learn to correct specifications. The bed is embedded. The foundation swept away. The diaphragm is compressed. The back is curved, like fingers. The configuration of ilandet and the inevitable circular motion between objects of consumption is finite and the infinite. You can not just look back, we must remember. Silenced it.
Grief, with its ground-touch, hands covered with soil - like music, it is the narrative that is being painted. Single sentence formation sentence is repeated, a legacy from the past, from storytelling itself. And. The wings that carry us up the featherweight - but relief will not happen by itself. It becomes an echo. The reverberation of the organ, the begravningsrit and propriety. Black. The sand is the soil we sink in, the inclusion is the last thing we experience. A dusk, a fiery dawn over plains, across the artificial landscape. All around us wander the abandoned, of memory stretching and the words we could never recover. They are there already, words, visions, they are there already. When the words once left lung and shaped by the tongue, lips, polyphonic tape - once they heard, they can never be taken back.
The weight feels in your hand, throughout the body, which becomes a constant source of rite, the cathedral’s void. His eyes follow the tracks to the light, the viewer that adds shadows to the heart and the universe, the rhythm’s unreal. All in all the sound. Prayer creates between the lip and tongue, between action and breathing. We reach, we are against each other in it. Fathoms time, as a collective in a lonely road junction with the camp, with the travelers’ fireplace. Death is this background, this ceremony acting fund the trek into the routine, the echo of the life we have chosen for ourselves. The enrollment and unwritten lie - even if some are true to the eye - which carries up the liturgical dream of coherence. If a judgment over us, something we can not measure. Memories shared between us.
There’s also this, a preoccupation of von Hausswolff landscape. One that forces its way into the listener, physically intrudes, cut, but it does not stop. It will come up, out and up and lift out the entire room, while standing singer in solo singing at an imagined heathland - the ancient times pastoral poets - and gets busy, sweeping a night pointing to the little switch on the lights at the dead bed. A heathland where life itself is the cathedral where the song begs over their loss.”