2012/07/22
2012/07/18
2012/06/15
good timing
When you fall asleep on the couch watching TV, listening to voices and advertisements and compressed music, that's when there's nothing left and it's time to go. If you don't go now then you may never be able to, because chances to escape come only every so often, only now and again, and the longer you wait to do something like uproot yourself from where you are planted and comfortable, to spread your wings and just dive into space and hope there's air to catch you, to reach out from behind your water curtain and touch something on the other side -- the longer you wait, the harder it is. Which isn't to say I'm no fan of waiting, or that I believe rushing into things is ever a good idea. Patience keeps one calm, collected, in control, ready. But there is a thin line between patience and procrastination, and it's often when you're waiting for the perfect moment (to talk to that person, to say something clever, to voice your opinion, to realize your goals, to create something you love, to love someone you create) that your opportunity flies right past you like a sign you didn't see on the freeway -- hey, hey man, you missed the exit.
2012/05/29
i like these musicks:
Keenan Ketzner - Sinuet No. 1
The Printing Spool - Wounds from Washing pt. 1
(repost from sometesserae)
The Printing Spool - Wounds from Washing pt. 1
(repost from sometesserae)
2012/05/17
2012/05/14
2012/05/13
05/13
The same yellow sun falls upon hands as bandaged fingers work together a tea bag, the little folded paper itself reused from an old store-bought brand and filled with scavenged plant or food parts—heads of spring flowers, bits of tree moss, crumpled fallen leaves, old coffee grounds, crushed sugar cane—to be soaked in boiled water with the morning sounds of whispering wind, talking birds, and an early drum-and-synth Kraftwerk record (one of the three that never made it to an official digital release—not that I would have bought it on CD anyhow; the decrepit music industry deserves none of what little money I do have). Seth is upstairs, still asleep. Work's not for another couple hours, but I like to prelude the day with a process of body-and-soul rejuvenation, so that my withering human parts have a slight chance of withstanding the rigors (ie: thought, labor, stress, social interaction, drug use), they soon will very likely be put through.
With the tea poured and the LP flipped, I clear a space on the book-and-ashtray-covered table to set the bird's-egg-blue typewriter; I haven't felt this clear-headed in some time, and fleeting moments like these must be taken advantage of before they are forever lost.
Through the kitchen's sliding glass door, in the back yard I see a pair of deer, moseying through tall grass, lounging in sunlight, munching on the heads of dandelions.
The same yellow sun falls upon hands as bandaged fingers work together a tea bag, the little folded paper itself reused from an old store-bought brand and filled with scavenged plant or food parts—heads of spring flowers, bits of tree moss, crumpled fallen leaves, old coffee grounds, crushed sugar cane—to be soaked in boiled water with the morning sounds of whispering wind, talking birds, and an early drum-and-synth Kraftwerk record (one of the three that never made it to an official digital release—not that I would have bought it on CD anyhow; the decrepit music industry deserves none of what little money I do have). Seth is upstairs, still asleep. Work's not for another couple hours, but I like to prelude the day with a process of body-and-soul rejuvenation, so that my withering human parts have a slight chance of withstanding the rigors (ie: thought, labor, stress, social interaction, drug use), they soon will very likely be put through.
With the tea poured and the LP flipped, I clear a space on the book-and-ashtray-covered table to set the bird's-egg-blue typewriter; I haven't felt this clear-headed in some time, and fleeting moments like these must be taken advantage of before they are forever lost.
Through the kitchen's sliding glass door, in the back yard I see a pair of deer, moseying through tall grass, lounging in sunlight, munching on the heads of dandelions.
2012/05/07
05/07
There is more to music than notes and beats, scales and signatures, bars and clefs. The transcription of music is a mere technical way of remembering or learning the components of an essentially abstract substance; it is like using mathematics to describe the colors and scents of a flower garden. Full comprehension of modern music notation is less useful than memorization of the periodic table of elements or the first fifty digits of pi (just as reading a detailed list of chemical compounds would tell you nothing about what might happen if you were to ingest all of them at once). That's not to say the learning of music theory isn't useful or necessary; understanding the physical workings of tonal relationships is invaluable to the composition process. However, a method of notation that hasn't changed much since a century or two before the invention of electricity can hardly be seen as useful, practical, or at all relevant... and that alone is without having taken musical emotion, imagery, poetry, or spontaneity into account.
There is more to music than notes and beats, scales and signatures, bars and clefs. The transcription of music is a mere technical way of remembering or learning the components of an essentially abstract substance; it is like using mathematics to describe the colors and scents of a flower garden. Full comprehension of modern music notation is less useful than memorization of the periodic table of elements or the first fifty digits of pi (just as reading a detailed list of chemical compounds would tell you nothing about what might happen if you were to ingest all of them at once). That's not to say the learning of music theory isn't useful or necessary; understanding the physical workings of tonal relationships is invaluable to the composition process. However, a method of notation that hasn't changed much since a century or two before the invention of electricity can hardly be seen as useful, practical, or at all relevant... and that alone is without having taken musical emotion, imagery, poetry, or spontaneity into account.
2012/05/01
2012/04/29
2012/04/16
04/16
Believe it or not, you can make, in your home and with your bare hands, french fries that are delicious. Just try it sometime. All you need is a potato, a knife, a pan, a stove, a spatula, some oil, some salt (I also use garlic powder, some seasoning, and pepper), some ketchup, some music, some beer, about fifteen minutes, something to read or someone to talk to, a pen, a notepad, a pair of hands, an eye or two, maybe an ear.
Believe it or not, you can make, in your home and with your bare hands, french fries that are delicious. Just try it sometime. All you need is a potato, a knife, a pan, a stove, a spatula, some oil, some salt (I also use garlic powder, some seasoning, and pepper), some ketchup, some music, some beer, about fifteen minutes, something to read or someone to talk to, a pen, a notepad, a pair of hands, an eye or two, maybe an ear.
2012/04/15
04/15
malaise. a clock ticking over my head on the wall, clothes clanking and the hum of a dryer in the basement below, something thudding on the floor of the room above then the whine of a vacuum cleaner and distant recorded voices over speakers.
an angry buzz from the dryer. the miniature refrigerator clicks on.
time for some music and a bloody mary.
malaise. a clock ticking over my head on the wall, clothes clanking and the hum of a dryer in the basement below, something thudding on the floor of the room above then the whine of a vacuum cleaner and distant recorded voices over speakers.
an angry buzz from the dryer. the miniature refrigerator clicks on.
time for some music and a bloody mary.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)