Babyxxan - In-Tran-Situ
Regular price
$27.00
Unit price
per
Format : LP
Label : Public Possession
Catalog # : PP091
Genre : Ambient House Downtemp
In Transitu
during passage from one place to another.
Tansitus
a going over
Transire
cross over, hasten over, pass away.
Trans
across, beyond.
These songs were created while rock-climbing across the world. In a time where my soul was hurting and healing in overdrive, I packed
1. 30kg of rock-climbing and hiking equipment
2. 3 pairs of headphones
3. A single laptop
And attempted to conveniently disappear from my current existence, in search of peace and/or forgetting in the solitude of the mountains.
Passing through airports, train stations, ferries, bus terminals, campsites, forests, mountains, towns & friends houses, such transitory states became sites of incredible creativity, reflection, and freedom for me. These liminal hours spent in uncomfortable transportation positions became as exciting as climbing mountains in the Dolomites. Anywhere from 2-36 hours at a time were spent in airport terminals, bus seats, bus stations, and ferry cafeterias. The important thing was that I was often completely alone, with no duty but to sit and wait. The anonymity that came from being in such diverse locations, with nothing but my Ableton browser open and broken headphones tucked around my head, was far more liberating and spurring than being in any cushy music studio. Sitting next to someone at the airport terminal while they snored on the chair next to me, I found music pouring out of me like the snores bubbling from between their lips. Tapping my keyboard with the same vigour as a grand piano, squatting on top of 30kg of hiking and camping gear in Terminal 4, having not slept or showers for days at a time, the impracticality of the whole situation created the most releasing state of creation and healing.
I was used to making music in the shy hours of the morning, for only 30 minutes a day, before I had to crawl to my office-job. My mind cluttered with anxiety, using music to try push out, with increasing volume, the terror of my own thoughts. Now, sitting with nothing but the Aegean Sea at my horizon, surrounded by families on a ferry, a beige sticky plastic countertop littered with crumbs as my music studio desk, I had till the ferry docked. I listened to the chords ring out loud across my skull as people hustled back and forth around me. There were no thoughts bar the intercom blaring across the ferry every twenty minutes. Or sitting in the rain in my friend's van, in a camp chair that was getting slowly dripped on, legs slowly sinking into the mud. In these moments, the music felt so overwhelmingly present it was all I could do to hastily try to document and bear witness to it in whatever uncomfortable seating position I happened to be in.
The idea of passing through, of passage, is one that has been volatile to me for quite some time. Transitory states of travel have always reminded me of my own transitory state of passing between genders. Unlike travel, I’ve never fully departed female or fully arrived at male. I have become comfortable in living, perhaps perpetually, in the transit zone.
Always waiting, always passing through, always just a visitor. Never at home, and not wanting to be home, but finding the movement itself becoming home. The body will nest in ingenious ways.
Perhaps I will never arrive at the gates. If I do, I’m sure the flight will have departed anyway.
during passage from one place to another.
Tansitus
a going over
Transire
cross over, hasten over, pass away.
Trans
across, beyond.
These songs were created while rock-climbing across the world. In a time where my soul was hurting and healing in overdrive, I packed
1. 30kg of rock-climbing and hiking equipment
2. 3 pairs of headphones
3. A single laptop
And attempted to conveniently disappear from my current existence, in search of peace and/or forgetting in the solitude of the mountains.
Passing through airports, train stations, ferries, bus terminals, campsites, forests, mountains, towns & friends houses, such transitory states became sites of incredible creativity, reflection, and freedom for me. These liminal hours spent in uncomfortable transportation positions became as exciting as climbing mountains in the Dolomites. Anywhere from 2-36 hours at a time were spent in airport terminals, bus seats, bus stations, and ferry cafeterias. The important thing was that I was often completely alone, with no duty but to sit and wait. The anonymity that came from being in such diverse locations, with nothing but my Ableton browser open and broken headphones tucked around my head, was far more liberating and spurring than being in any cushy music studio. Sitting next to someone at the airport terminal while they snored on the chair next to me, I found music pouring out of me like the snores bubbling from between their lips. Tapping my keyboard with the same vigour as a grand piano, squatting on top of 30kg of hiking and camping gear in Terminal 4, having not slept or showers for days at a time, the impracticality of the whole situation created the most releasing state of creation and healing.
I was used to making music in the shy hours of the morning, for only 30 minutes a day, before I had to crawl to my office-job. My mind cluttered with anxiety, using music to try push out, with increasing volume, the terror of my own thoughts. Now, sitting with nothing but the Aegean Sea at my horizon, surrounded by families on a ferry, a beige sticky plastic countertop littered with crumbs as my music studio desk, I had till the ferry docked. I listened to the chords ring out loud across my skull as people hustled back and forth around me. There were no thoughts bar the intercom blaring across the ferry every twenty minutes. Or sitting in the rain in my friend's van, in a camp chair that was getting slowly dripped on, legs slowly sinking into the mud. In these moments, the music felt so overwhelmingly present it was all I could do to hastily try to document and bear witness to it in whatever uncomfortable seating position I happened to be in.
The idea of passing through, of passage, is one that has been volatile to me for quite some time. Transitory states of travel have always reminded me of my own transitory state of passing between genders. Unlike travel, I’ve never fully departed female or fully arrived at male. I have become comfortable in living, perhaps perpetually, in the transit zone.
Always waiting, always passing through, always just a visitor. Never at home, and not wanting to be home, but finding the movement itself becoming home. The body will nest in ingenious ways.
Perhaps I will never arrive at the gates. If I do, I’m sure the flight will have departed anyway.