ELIZA WATERS

Music Disciple is the first entry in Eliza Waters' Disc Series. Influenced primarily by eccojam nostalgia, Tim Hecker's abstract wanderings, and Eliza's personal story of psychotic grandiosity, its main purpose is to serve as a gateway into more electronics. The album has been cited to have a sense of wonder about it. Centauri is a progression of the eccojam experimentation of Disciple with a space theme looming over most of the tracks. This album has a more distinct sound of loneliness and meandering etherealisms. Rainhanger is Eliza's first attempt at a mix of drone and ambient, taking inspiration mainly from William Basinksi. It has a free-flowing, meandering atmosphere to it. Good for meditation. Globesprung is a continuation of the drone experiments, taking on a more universe-oriented theme. Cigarette Breath is a foray into techno music, the first of many. The lengthy suite Lat is the highlight on this one. You can find Eliza Waters' music either on Bandcamp, YouTube, or Spotify.

Art

Some pieces from my portfolio.

My main inspirations are Kandinsky, Jungian thought shapes, and my journey through schizoaffective disorder.

"Loving Lips"

"Venison Man"

"The Wretch"

"Android"

"Order"

"Numinous Love"

"Babelsprout"

"There Is Altitude To Listless Frets"

"Ocean's Mask"

"The Dryad"

"Untitled"

"Untitled II"

Blog

2/25/2026

Today I released Cigarette Breath, a techno oriented album. The last track, Lat, is dedicated to one of my clients who committed suicide. I tried to capture the rawness and chaotic nature of existence within the syncopated suite. Working in case management is difficult work. I get to change people's lives, discover who I am and what I should do with this life, and so on. But often my body betrays my mind, my emotions get the best of me... the question of whether or not I should drive my brain by intuitive depression or manic hysteria is always present. Why do I always return to this dualism? We're hardwired to think black and white without nuance. We know through rationality that the interplay of mind and body is a delicate one to never be fully mastered. It is always at the foot of death where we realize, much of life has no meaning, but we create the beauty that nurtures further births. Case management is much like a beauty pageant of the mind where you're the agent.

2/22/2026

Just made this site. Much more aesthetically pleasing than my last one! Hopefully this can serve as a hub for everything related to my art. I've been recently playing my Sega Dreamcast I got with a little bit of my tax return money. Had to order a whole new CD burner for it, but anything to play the original Jet Set Radio. Hope everyone has been staying warm with all the weather. I know I have been having to take care of my clients much more due to the foul weather. Case management is hard, yknow, but I really think that this is the job for me. I have great benefits, great coworkers, and great people that I work with. Every day gives me a new reason to wake up. It's a lovely feeling.

Poetry

Unfinished Long Poem

This is an unfinished poem that I may return to. It is a narrative about a unreliable narrator navigating his way through psychosis.

Shading the angle marks of another turnstile

Where my feet land on the grassy lakes,

I wonder how my body could shake

If I sunk into the pearlescent green

And grabbed the bosom of a numinous sheen,

How gratifying life can be when it's worthwhile,

Now I'm hungry, picking up another pickled date.

Plopping the food into my mouth

As the scrolling of impending doom approach,

Never mistaking others for my brain's scope

To be infinite in nature like how we breathe

And how we inhale exhale laked leaves,

Succumb now, look up at the beautiful sound

Of reverberating hums, tinnitus' baked mope.

How it rings further as I sit alone inside

Grabbing at the ankles of my swivel chair

As moonlight beckons another night unfair,

I am tortured, exemplified, made a statue

Out of the sweet, sweet rubble, my brain's curfew,

But the pebbles begin to boil under stew of pride,

Slowly subside, my dear self, my dear snipped mare.

"Wake up now," my darling once said, close to me

In bed, breathing still, she said, one time again,

"Wake up now," my darling said, "and smell the amaryllis

Steeped in a clutter of matter and frills such as these,

Oh my dear petunia, don't cry, we can hold another laugh

As the milky tears singe lies, forget the trauma,

You are not a passerby, you are my knight, my oracle, my guide."

But I say back, rising from my chair, "you don't get it dear,

The frills such as these, the boring time where residing

In a new mind, planned by premade design that

Flounders in my wake, a man behind me, I am,

But nevermore insane, those singed syringes scry

In the cold, arid autumn, and now to just wonder

By your side is my new obsession, my little gadfly."

She rises from bed, flicks her hair, that oaken brunette,

Pillows her cheeks and brings out her cornet,

A soft melody plays, hung and low, basking a love

Which Fitzgerald would gloat, that salty dog,

"We should see Fitz," I said, patting the bedframe,

Seeing if the metal would share the sensory shame,

I soon forgot this, her smile lit and aflame.

"We should, I think he's at the parlor," she said.

We got dressed soon after, me in a dark color,

Her in ambivalent gray, the fractures of her skull

Immaterial to my stay, I've poked around it for ages,

I know her every whim, predetermined like my fate

I can spin the bottle to her next perfumed estate

Of the face, how colorful those placid lips once were.

The Street of Aberdine at the corner of Market

Was bustling with everyone's targets aimed to start,

One two three, trucking down the beaten cityscape

To the tune of wondering, I saw a fairy once,

At this very corner, I saw a very once shift into stairs

And the joint I lit transformed me into a new man,

Naked and afraid, tumbling down alleys of cans.

Metal scrapes metal in this turgid memory,

I can almost throw it up in its baffling misery,

But that's all we can do, baffle, my therapist said,

Integrate the sensory in the wholeness of God.

What type of God would curse me with a project

So grandiose with beauty and terror?

Certainly not mine, perhaps I'm for another.

"Perhaps I'm for another," a cigarette ashen,

Speaking alone to myself disguised and masked,

"Perhaps that's where my search's been wrong,

I keep looking for this final swan song

But the answer is clear, it's closer than ever, dear,

I've been praying to the wrong God!

How foolish of me, now I know all."

"What did you say?" my dear said full of teeth,

"I couldn't hear over the markings you see,

Tell me, how does the blending of senses

Formulate a love like concocted, lemon scented

Heaven? Forgive me for imploring, but you now

Have been lost for two years and counting,

And no amount of searching will bring her nodding."

"Now I know all," I continued unabided,

"And now that I know all, I can enter the quest

To truly know all, the contradiction in light of

The dissolution of yada yada to true words,

I will tell all of my glorious story,

Warbling throughout, but still accurate and scary,

I have never floated on this grass which lasted."

Fitzgerald's door was upon my shoulder,

Bumping every which way, becoming older,

I saw an old man struggle up his wheelchair

And his daughter I presume pushed him further,

She looked like me, those flutters of murder

Not of the body, but of the soul and mind,

Struggling to keep up with eternity's ticking time.

I knocked twice, and a bearded man approached,

"Theo!" the apartment swung unreproached,

"Been a long time! Come in, come in.

Did you forget your guitar? Which band are you in?"

The stink of raw peppers and slowly diced onions

Permeated the stench of ferric, wild bunions

On the roof of my nostrils, slowly cremating.

"I'm in no band," said I, "I have forgone,

The only music that plays are forgotten songs.

There was a player here before, stilted by quartz,

How he once shone more brilliantly than yours,

The ire of a fractal dissolving into hatred,

Not a trip, but permanent vision of elation,

This is my being, this is my final aria."

"Settle down, pal, there's no need for twisting

Of the heart you forged out of listless missing

Loves," Fitz said with no quaver, a tinny sliver

Of care, "where does your dove land? On your

Shoulder, or in your mouth, where the boulders

Of the past tumble off your tongue, crumbling

Into dust as your spirit becomes undone?"

"I do not understand why you mark me as such,

I am as clear as the moon's crest at dusk,

This quackery is simply spiritual nature

Whose base is ceded from prefrontal radius,

Separate from the whole that is my own soul,

I've seen more realms than you'd ever know.

I've seen more realms," I cried," than any soul."

Fitz was taken aback, startled by the existence

Bolting between his shuttered eyelids,

Upending the window, wind mutters a miss,

And he remembered the times before grace.

There, free and warm, the oozing of flame

Comforts the contractee with seldom scorn,

That is the purpose of hell, I said to myself.

"I don't know what's going on, this

Possession of the soul, where three

Markings of body, mind and spirit align,

The holy trifecta missing a fourth,

Earth, water, fire, without an air to hearth,

The body – I see my shape, aged to hell,

The mind – I hear my thoughts, aged to hell,

The spirit – I feel my soul, aged to hell,

Missing link between all of these, speak,

Speak if you know! Tell me you know!

This careful obsession of the intricacies

That do not line up, like me a Libra

And you a Pisces, battered to buzzing

Words and bits of slain brain residue,

Tell me you know! Tell me you know

What I speak of, this missing link

Between the form that I possess three

And the air that says, 'Why am I me?'"

The silence fogged the atmosphere

As Jupiter and Mars laid against our fears

And alone on an asteroid, he knelt dealt and hugged

The last living Martian on this fetid drug,

'Life,' the nothing that I recognize,

As insipid and dull as magic was before,

A lie, and now Fitz stays distant and sized.

"There is nothing that lies in emptiness,"

Fitz started," except the emptiness that

Nothing is. These mutual terms are a worm

In your mind, gnawing at what has been killed

In your heart, and the spirit bleeds as sanguine

As blood in the murder of an angel.

You did nothing wrong, you have stubbed your soul."