Morpheus

Morpheus was the name of the ancient Greek god of dreams (literally the ‘Shaper of dreams’). From his name is derived that of Morphine, the famous analgesic. Prosaically, I use the word as the title of a playlist in iTunes. In it I keep all those ambient tracks which lack percussion or startlingly loud noises – those, essentially, that are suitable for drifting off to.

Hypnangogic

In the last few years I have become a habitual napper, and the practise of drifting off to music (‘Morpheus’, I’m simply calling it) is a favourite pastime of mine. Though I do not now consider myself depressed, I still have the tendency of depressives to seek sleep as a way of temporarily escaping the world. Throughout the course of even a good day my soul is prone to falling weary, and I frequently cannot resist the temptation to go ‘offline’. ‘Morpheus’, further, enriches the ‘hypnagogic’ experience between waking and sleeping, frequently associated with spontaneous image forming and semi dreams. Unfortunately, a really satisfactory experience is rare, as the slide into full unconsciousness is often so precipitous that this state is simply bypassed.

Transition point

Once, when I was in Religious Studies class at school, we were given the task of depicting the ‘Inner World’. Most of my classmates did a split comparison between the ‘Inner’ and ‘Outer’ worlds; the former was infrequently depicted as stereotypical unspoilt countryside, while the latter tended to represent industrialized civilisation. (Well, I guess they had good instincts.) However, it prides me to say that my response was somewhat different – in that I simply presented the inner world by itself in a circle, as one that was both good and bad (the world of the psyche, essentially). On one side of the circle a short flight of steps led in and down. It is these steps that have become the token image for me of the transition point between normal waking consciousness and the hypnagogic, a point of which I am always very sensible nowadays.

An Ending (Ascent)

The principle function of music that I find in this context is to act as a source of inspiration for conjuring a semi-narrative series of images, like that of a music video. One such experience that delighted and impressed itself upon to me was that spent listening to ‘An Ending (Ascent)’ by Brian Eno:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMXaE9NtQgg

The subtle shade of emotion present in this exquisite track (from an album of music originally recorded for a documentary about the Apollo moon missions) falls shy of melancholia or sadness, but instead seems to simply pay tribute to transience. The scene that it conjured for me was that of a pastel twilight on an alien planet; a lightly forested landscape of little peaks riven by plunging gorges. Constructed at, or even across, the point of one of these – and possibly with a small waterfall running underneath – is a large but simple dwelling place. In a portico behind one of the outlying walls are to be found at this moment the alien family who live there (not so very alien – think something like the Na'vi in the film ‘Avatar’). It is the eve of the day on which one of the eldest children, a daughter, will leave the familial home for a career of study at some prestigious academic institution, possibly off-world. The family members are all aware of the fact that a stage of their life together is ending and are marking the sombre occasion with a affirmation of their love for one another. Because of the more than human closeness that these aliens feel towards members of their kin, or simply because of their gravity and gentleness, the whole family – maybe even with their pet equivalent of a dog – are gathered together into a general embrace, where they have remained for untold minutes, possibly even hours.

(Those, incidentally, who are familiar with my views and tastes may be surprised at my happily entertaining such a vision of extreme family closeness. Maybe it is a reflection of my hidden Cancerian nature, which one website describes as “fundamentally conservative and home-loving, appreciating the nest-like quality of a secure base.”)

My review of Tangerine Dream’s album ‘Phaedra’ represents the culling together of similar visions (although in each case far less warm and soft). I also intend to post a similar account in respect of their follow-up album ‘Rubycon’. Indeed, it was my appreciation of their work (specifically that of their seminal period in the 1970s) that led me to formulate the practise of Morpheus in the first place: no other ambient group that I know takes one on such a journey as these German pioneers.

Notwithstanding the fact that I am perfectly capable of imagining visual accompaniments to music with two eyes open, the hypnagogic state affords a more fertile, expansive and above all delectable means of doing this. However, there is another aspect of Morpheus, which I sometimes experience as I edges closer towards sleep, that is truly peculiar to this way of listening to music. Thus it may be that the music starts to tell a tale in which definite characters and events are wholly absent; only the bare moral or emotional bones are present, with no need of the flesh that normally clothes them. Such an experience is beyond the ken of my normal consciousness at least, and it occasionally breaks through in perplexity and ruins the spell. I did fancy that it must be some particular genius of Tangerine Dream to effect this kind of experience, but it is clear to me now that the answer lies with the particular psychic state rather than the music itself.

Super experience

Beyond what I have described heretofore, there exists a qualitatively different variant of the experience of Morpheus – one that I have only ever been fortunate enough to experience very rarely. It is indeed curious that something as prosaic as dozing on the bus while listening to a personal stereo may in fact constitute a truly sublime experience. I fancy (without understanding quite why) that it is the sense of motion experienced on this form of transport – such as would not be experienced on a train or plane, nor in such comfort in a car – that is instrumental to this. The resulting sensation can be absolutely heavenly – comparable, indeed, to the best drug experiences (and better still for being completely ‘self-owned’). I remain ecstatically alert during the experience – much more acutely so than in what I have described above – and yet my sense of self is blissfully absent. My subconscious may therefore project in a wholly unfettered manner on to whatever music happens to be on the stereo at the time, which is I invariably feel to be wondrous.