Bury discipline. I can't stand my profile. Ground zero is black glass spray painted to look like a human life. Tendons and shards. Dirty lensgrinder. Quaint backwards password. Fragments, memories, ideas with fleeting meaning. No essay tonight. No composition. No composure. Can't be bothered to do anything. Even the song I still feel. Drowning in phlegm. Comp is being hacked to pieces at the chop shop. I'm being sold new parts by the mafia. They're going to install the bare minimum software, the rest is up to me.
How do they do it? The mafioso? It must be life force. Capitalist incentive. The kind that motivates me to quit the game. Like Cziffra motivated pianists to quit playing.
Again, I'm tempted to buy stock in the fentanyl vault. Again, a vacation, another tight circle, another tight headache. Can't break the cycle. Why does the tip keep me coming back? Crypto-zoology. Been sick so long it seems like health to me. What order can I arrange these sentences in so that they carry maximum weight? Can I create isotopes? Irradiate the forest?
Swept across the floor, snug as a bug on drugs. I can ignore the sweep of history if I have the will. The powder didn't kill me. Its function was dubious. Chemicals don't help. Religion is a joke. It's all a swoon now. A solvent swoon, solving nothing. I ran out of luck. Luck is a fortunate order of information. You can hop along the top of its sawtooth peaks until you fall off.
Now someone wants in. Habitual novelty. Nasal fixation. I want to sleep but I can't. I've slept too much already. More would be fine. Atrophy the lungs, accelerate the end.
Can't study music. I don't have the drive. I should accept that. And I should have known. It's moronic that I keep deluding myself - THIS time it'll be different. THIS time I'm motivated. THIS time is always a 13-hour Reich at best. Razed regime. For the best maybe. Who cares if my fingers can do this or that? What does it matter anyway?
I'm not used or abused. Cause I have no function. Wish I could hallucinate but I can't.
F lock. Steak and potatoes. Finger shuffle. When you threw us to the wolves we could see nowhere else for you to end up but hell. It was involuntary perception. It was mandatory. Material to work with. Fish flap in the oceanic abyss. I want to see the rubble above my head. But being epic would necessitate a fundamental flaw in the fabric of whatever the fuck the fabric is. Form, function, scroll lock. Redundant pyramid cap, sarcophagus of refuge. How many dead lands have I travelled? It will be different when it's different. Always compound. As long as it's compound. Grammar will dictate. Holodeck, end program. End program. END PROGRAM!
channeling easy mode
Sometimes I fade, like Bod . Then proceed to get away with things. Stealing time, treating myself. To a glorified journal entry. This pigmy...
3 comments:
doubt it, because that's 10 minutes after 4:20...
don't worry about the music studying thing. if that's what you're going to want to do, it's what you're going to want to do, whenever the wavesplash leaves the stilly aftermath. or the converse.
there're uses to introversion, I think, beyond escapisms (or maybe merely transcending escapisms). obviously you've got a good grasp of music already, and all anything is is a vocabulary to pick up, etc. not going anywhere with this, of course. lost end of the sutra. holodeck insurance policies have skyrocketed. they never show the waiver you have to sign before entering, which has the ominous organ doner checkbox. Innerness always blurs into the world--looking in changes the outside, and the opposite is the case as well. When you're like this maybe the best thing to do is be like me & start all sorts of things at whim--finishing isn't always more important than just doing something; and I mean things that make you look at them, things you aren't totally in control of--ie things to find yourself in, traveling things.
etc.
remember the Syd song golden hair? I've got the score to a Szymanowski setting to the same james joyce poem. I'm going to try it out today if I wake up. I don't think it's that difficult to play, but if I like it I'm going to browbeat you until you play & record the piano part for me so I can "sing" out of pitch to it.
ie: have no motivation? job-hunting a pain in the ass? live in canada? if all of these answers are yes, no, or maybe, then you can become Matt's personal piano slave! all for -.99cents (USD or centimes) an hour! Tickle the ivories as Matthew tickles his sweet teeth (they're my canines, by the way) on Chadwick's Registered Licorice.
LMFAO! Sure, I'll be your piano slave. Send me stuff and I'll giga it. Maybe even with an actual midi "performance" if you so desire, hopefully my interpretation won't fuck up your intentions. I meant to record the funeral march, but I didn't get around to it. The szymanowski project sounds interesting.
Yes, promising...if only the piece was worth a shit! No offence misterpolishcorpseplease. It's ok for what it is--Szymanowski seriously pisses me off sometimes. He can be one of the coolest composers ever & then, once you get in the mood for him, you hear something & it's at that edge of good and bad--that edge being not "ambivalence" but more at apathy--shrug; it's another szymanowski, how quaint.
did I send you the szymanowski lullaby? I'm pretty sure I did--something like that would be very easy for you to play. It's basically a touch piece. I'm going to look through some other of his stuff. His "Golden Hair" ("Lean out the window" as it's called) is poco presto in a 3/8 meter. I'd have problems singing parts of it--just keeping in tune for some of the more gestural parts. I want to be working on a tarantella, but I've only got two themes & neither are very good, to me, right now--one's a staccato dance theme (E, G, Bb, F#--quarter, eighth, eighth, quarter) that I was humming, but I forgot the progression I was humming outside--it was something that could be extended very well--the way I developed this, first-go-round, is almost a cadence at c/f (although I immediately bring about a downwards flourish focusing on F# then bang a Bb octave to bring in the next measure, a recursion). I was singing a tarantella earlier (very simple, E, F#, F, E, E, G#, B, F, E, D, C, B or something close enough, fairly even note lengths, although with a caesura somewhere) but was mostly doing it to play guitar in a tarantella rhythm. I ended up toying with turning it into a whole-tone piece, then a r&b song, and then I riffed on it & developed a doorsian song idea I'm calling "Black Hills". Fairly sturgis, Pentagram meets the byrds, heh
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