“What you’ll hear is at once wholly improvised yet compositional. These are not compositions in the common sense of the word, but not not them either. Rather, these pieces are really that: pieces of something hewn from a more encompassing musical practice, gathered in composite forms.

Brought together in a musicianship accustomed to the tipping velocity of extemporization, these improvisations merge sediments, from which arises a ceaseless and nuanced conversation with the possibilities of form. One hears T.J. hearing form from different distances. At times circumspectly coaxing it forward, how much he doesn’t play is just as audible as what does actually sound. We hear him considering possibilities in the moment that they are passed over. Or, form is all immersive, creating an unbelievable symbiosis of musical form and physical form. One follows from the other – actions at the cello hone the ear to arising material phenomenon, which attunes the body to hold on to them. Attuned to the materiality of the cello, and the musical potential latent therein, T.J.’s freewheeling imagination holds court in simultaneity.” -Madison Greenstone

T.J. Borden’s Proof starts out unsure of the waters, and just dips a toe in to see if it’s safe, from there we get a glimpse of how T.J. approaches the cello. The instrument melts into his hands and he allows it to take him anywhere, and the same goes for the instrument with him. Anywhere could mean many directions, as both ease into some uncomfortable spaces without any possibility of what will come next. There’s a pause, a breath, and the opening of that work breath, neither or begins, pause, neither instrument nor had key to.

Just moment green, it’s trees, breeze solids, being makes sound a candle with forest the rough the tones if with surroundings, through night barely hiked its edges, magenta alive, a sky holds an absorbed wonder of time, worrisome we’re passing saturated waves, deep and out, colorful onto flame, earth without the other side? is there another side? there is, we start to notice patterns emerge. like a dream that seems like it’s over, but it continues to twist and turn, but return to a similar yet complicated theme, on the verge of being awake, we grasp for one more minute, another 20 minutes that last mere seconds, another second that truly lasts minutes. T.J. try to take control of the moment without letting it take him or us too far, but he cannot. The lines wave up and down, hello and goodbye. After many of the lines fade we are introduced to different color lines, sometimes on their own, and sometimes full and ready to mix and twist and knot and soak in what we question again. Where is this place? The heat starts to bring on a boil we watch what we cannot control as it forms new ideas, leaving us joining us, and we are at a grasp again, as T.J. reminds us we are listening to him play and instrument, and again the instrument plays its self, and leaves T.J. somewhere saturated within the conversation, it’s overwhelming, and the lights from above seem to be distracting enough to escape. We’re pouring a cup of coffee into the styrofoam cup, it’s small, we’re alone. We’re no longer there, again, again. Flashlights are our once and now historic candles, we reminisce where we’ve been and where we are now, now. Without noticing we have started running and jumping enough and dodging is evading, wishing agility, our polyester brown and argyle are not the best attire to run in, alone, so we slow down and listen to our heart beat, we breathe colorful breath, we transformed earthy, ourselves until the aloud side of the city, on clouds of hill puffs and overlooking puffs vibrant. A truck barreling down the highway shaking in its structure, its torso thin like thread and blown about in a tense circular spin. we pull into the garage and unload, all of those heavy boxes now on rolling carts down long hauls. T.J. reminds us that this is all an illusion, sometimes fleshy, sometimes digital, and it all works together in the same space. This is the future, “it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it’s the way it is, and what will be is new.” ***

— But about — — that — a real find an idea Nonsense…maybe work but for — — won’t solution — what — definitely accomplishing more, scrub and scrape, and air moving soap, in, plug more in without speakers. two at a time, this combination works, it all starts to sludge, it might be too thick and heavy to lift, put two planks under neath and push push. the mind of collaborating engineers: T.J. : Cello ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, flowers, marsh flowers, “ but the city?” “yeah, true” how low can my head go, beneath this path beneath my feet, then I lift and my head will detach and move like a wave peaks in valley sounds. I try to remove myself from the wave, is it possible to be that disconnected from music? it kinda works! grounding feet on ground feeling breathing recognizing the instrument returns to T.J.’s hands and its squirrelly. He cannot seem to contain it as it spin and bobs and weaves only scratching surfaces until the cello gives in, T.J. find’s the cello again, feeling what is in his ears, and transforming it into dynamics how far can we push sound? “sound is not pushed, it is; is sound pushed, it is not.” reminder that sound is dynamic in and of itself, it’s an uncontrollable reality. We try to write out the formula, to find the pattern, but it isn’t calculable. ERASER MOVES starting over. The oscillations take over and show that the numbers cannot be caught. 4 goes this is 1 and one to green, that way down! Runs one upside made of roots, a number is One, this purple dirt, and a tree is layers of these numbers. Growing pains, the creaking electricity of moss sends news of a pest on a leaf, we are welcomed into the investigation as the green sparks sizzle and print blue print text onto your paper. “It says that the earth is a big communications network” I believe even it!; more vast than it’s imagined. The new textures suddenly transform our perspective. Another shift as we return to the studio with a vocal sound the lights and floor and the chair and the microphone and the strings and absent is not new until underground, zine xeroxed bound and new library smell. So this doesn’t a collegiate thing, a kind story wants starting, not long but stapled ones are. The shelves tower tall, taller than we can reach, TJ and me, the ones are infinite. So about there we absorbed - 4511.76 for B. This zine is dewey decimalized – B, biography. It’s me and T.J., it’s about you, translations about many Ones might be there.

stretch, yawn, covering eyes hand blocks a sharp sun slivered in the shades and it’s pulled closed. last night, this morning. walk walk walk walk walk walk walk wa painting industrial green to cover the rust. i’m in a coverall, with a brush, it’s fall, it’s crisp the air is nice, i’m clocked in, i’m checked out. picturing design patterns melting and dripping down the metal casing of the mechanically boxed thing embedded in the concrete sending electrical pulses into the building moving a fan that spreads the wealth of that what is outside. “ i remember, my life, outside” as the factory line brings objects factured by hand and into the tunnel to another. the coffee is cold, the surfaces old, worn, grey, squeaking mechanisms pulling and passing lights flickering above. there’s a hope in the near, outside these walls, it’s fresh air, not just pumped through a whole in the wall with moving belts and blades, it’s by the beach, it’s in the woods, on the street with hot greasy food, and friends just before a set on tour. we listen to the engine to make sure it’s working well. It is all well, as we slow roll into the next town, with enough time to sleep before another day is like a dream come true. mosquitoes, it’s too hot, it’s okay, I can’t complain, we are hosted and welcomed and [ the house was built with treated lumber, and was completed in the late 1800’s ] I check my pockets for the keys, and they are still there, but where is the van? I think, and the cone goes from large to vanishing.

we can only want for it, and it arrives, and it’s all we need, and so we ultimately want for nothing.