As we near the end of 2024, this year has been rich with events—both personal and concerning our beloved planet and respective countries. Much has come to light regarding negative occurrences, while little focus has been placed on the brightness that brought some comfort to us as human beings. I remain convinced that over the past several years, humanity has developed certain abilities and sensitivities to the world around us. At the same time, there is a kind of numbness to many things. The positive side of all this is that existence is inherently necessary, and everything is experienced through contrast. Every encounter, exchange, and form of communication—whether their impact is linear, logarithmic, or even exponential—forms a whole.

For my part, I’ve decided to stay in Paris for now and intensify my work on meditation, particularly the alchemical practice of Neidan, which is the foundation and source of the Golden Flower meditation. I am delving into a history and practice that go even further back. I use meditation to configure a balance in my psyche, emotions, and life overall. Staying in one place, while most people scatter, helps me reconnect with what is essential. It’s an exercise that allows me to later appreciate even the smallest things in life—a conversation, an exchange, a discovery, or a pure realization about seemingly insignificant events.

This practice, though unnamed, always brings me back to meditation as the foundation. In these moments, one battles inner demons and torpor, but the positive outcomes far outweigh the negatives. The key is to find balance and continually touch the idea of happiness. Happiness is a vast concept that enables us to move forward and reflect deeply.

Recently, I’ve struggled with disappointment and creative stagnation regarding my new pseudonym, particularly in terms of pure creativity. I felt lost—caught between what I imagine, what I want to create, what is possible, and what I choose to share or keep private. This state of uncertainty feels peculiar, though it likely took a different form a decade ago. I knew this new pseudonym, and the creative process itself, would be more challenging—a sort of return to origins. It’s about capturing an intense, unique feeling and transforming it into a melody, a song, or something that contributes to a larger legacy.

This process involves moments of extreme pain where I feel completely disintegrated. For the past four days, as is my habit, I’ve been waking up early—around 5:30 or 6:00 AM. There’s a kind of torpor, perhaps due to winter, coupled with a drive to work on something but achieving nothing. The difference now is that this feeling is repetitive. However, the current goal feels different—something is happening, though I don’t yet know how to capture or integrate it. Ultimately, there’s no clear explanation; it’s an internal decision and some hard work.

Right now, I’m brushing against something intangible, and music feels insufficient to express it fully. That’s what makes this process so difficult—continuing musically while finding joy in creating without falling into repetitive patterns or mirroring the past. There’s no definitive goal anymore, just a path to follow, taking into account all the pain, joy, and emptiness along the way, while maintaining physical and emotional capacity to keep going. Survival—each day is survival rather than true living.

Currently, I’m working on fusing guitar with my modular system to achieve total control while maintaining a strong sensory connection. I’ve modified some modules in my rack to better integrate with the guitar, such as adding an equalizer. Although my equalizer is mono (Zlob Modular), it’s essential for the guitar, which is pre-amped using the Tahn module. This setup delivers slight distortion and enhances interesting frequencies that I visualize on an oscilloscope.

The Cascade module, particularly in envelope follower mode, plays a vital role in this musical process. Similarly, the Clock Divider Time Apprentice module continues to surprise me. After experimenting with noise, I divided the signal flow and applied this to the guitar. By multiplying the guitar signal and routing it through other modules, I kept one oscillator to generate certain waves and handle melodic modulations while replacing the second oscillator with an equalizer for the guitar.

This configuration is not perfectly reproducible, and therein lies the challenge: capturing what I create, understanding it, and deciding how to play it live. There’s an improvisational spirit akin to Krautrock, an undeniable influence for me. Artists like Popol Vuh, Hiroshi Yoshimura, Stars of the Lid, Susumu Yokota, and Fumio have inspired me deeply.

To explore these differences, I’ve collected vinyl, cassettes, and CDs of the same album to compare listening experiences. My current musical process is exhausting, consuming most of my time. It involves long meditative sessions, contemplation, and oscillating between heaven and hell—figuratively speaking.

I’ve been gathering books in various languages on Taoism, the Golden Flower, and alchemy. This knowledge contributes to my transformation. My latest patch feels effective, with every cable intuitively and purposefully connected, yielding exactly what I hoped for.

Some elements remain uncontrollable, but I’ve discovered that even without strumming the guitar strings, the texture of the wood produces fascinating sequences and melodies. This opens the possibility of incorporating lyrics—perhaps Italian poetry sung lyrically. The idea is still hazy, as the possibilities are immense. It all depends on finding strength and shedding fear, which can paralyze and hinder creativity.

I’ve considered destinations to travel before returning—perhaps Venice, Vietnam, or Kyoto. But wherever I go, the world feels saturated with people. Even in Paris, visiting Notre Dame is nearly impossible with the crowds. I wonder about deserted places—perhaps in Central Asia.

For now, I’ve embraced a hermit-like existence, venturing out early in the morning to gather provisions before returning to contemplate the world from where I stand. I listen to the birds, the rain, and the wind—sounds I feel I can never fully translate.