oh no, bruno - too much
is not enough
wound up in abraqt filterless
note to self: the fun is over
been slacking on writing
salad dressing
still being a weirdo
write a menuet and trio
with shaky hands
writers have dispersed
we don\t reach each other
solipsistic
sober up and find yourself
you have that in you
dreams are a refuge
i don\t like to think about time
rhodes wanking
simple reality enough for you?
yes, i am a moderately skilled keyboard technician
yay, who cares, friends do -
so this is the way of summer / jazz rises on the air
crow wishes he wasnt so jittery / weed & caffeine
far cry from the hard stuff / kay & to kill ya
oh yah baby / that's the way we roll
lol
- dDDD####ddDDDDDDDDDDdDDDDDDd
df
wood sprites
councelling
what was that dream again?\
geometry - geology - VCR RECORDS
carlos
the guy who looks like this:\
"O O"
O O
= =
====
hallucination is salvation is hallucination
i'm not adopting a tone
not posturing
information
contracts, tax, money - filling me
peoples lives, prick measuring contests
i'll probably forget\\
shuffle around little peices of paper, digitally
for better or worse, i drew the guy
that looks like this
in menuetto and trio format
AaBbCcbBaA
7/31/10
7/18/10
refurbishing old compositions
Finally got around to editing some old compositions of mine. For years it's bothered me to listen to these, though they have good ideas in them. Wasn't sure if it was worth an edit session, but since Clavia just updated their piano sample library for the Nord keyboard, I thought I'd give some of my early pieces a new coat of sound, and a bit of a re-write while I'm at it.
Fever Dreams
with an epic Steinway grand sound.
Fugue in E minor
I sequenced this years ago, with no dynamics. Instead of contriving some, I've used an italian harpsichord, which works with the motoric style.
Dangerous
One of my first ever compositions. The original writing was naive with no expressive nuance in the sequence - but I've kept it around because of its audacious contrapuntal texture - in that, it's like nothing I've written since. It was described as "cubist" by a reviewer. So I've kept its unique features, just removed a lot of the clutter in the voicing, and for the sound, I've used an upright piano, so it sounds a little like a mechanical roll-style, like a Nancarrow study, with a lot of Baroque flavour in the mix. It's still very notey but less so than before, could be playable theoretically, but I wanted to retain the mechanical feel.
Fever Dreams
with an epic Steinway grand sound.
Fugue in E minor
I sequenced this years ago, with no dynamics. Instead of contriving some, I've used an italian harpsichord, which works with the motoric style.
Dangerous
One of my first ever compositions. The original writing was naive with no expressive nuance in the sequence - but I've kept it around because of its audacious contrapuntal texture - in that, it's like nothing I've written since. It was described as "cubist" by a reviewer. So I've kept its unique features, just removed a lot of the clutter in the voicing, and for the sound, I've used an upright piano, so it sounds a little like a mechanical roll-style, like a Nancarrow study, with a lot of Baroque flavour in the mix. It's still very notey but less so than before, could be playable theoretically, but I wanted to retain the mechanical feel.
7/10/10
7/06/10
twilight mind, cause i forgot the title i was going to use
Noise
won't stop. Saliva won't stop. Surface nuisance prolongs twilight.
Mind’s eye subsumes sensation. Tactile geometry of numbed-out
prepositions. Planetoid spectator moving mountains, continental
migration. Pain of aeon is ultraviolet, tossed off, melody for
honeybees.
Relaxation
exercise, flex and rest, still, frustration throbs away, impossible
to pin down, making psychic somatic, cells cancerous. Or is it just
depression? Until then, depression in the absence of cancer, simply
sadness, illness frozen, pain static, opportunities missed. The sheen
of dreams over those ice peaks is kinda like other people's heaven,
the kind you keep hustling for, when you can be bothered. It's a
chore, hustling for heaven, but it seems so bright, under the cracks
of those doors. The ghost of pussy, wrapped in drugged-out hugs, a
preta burrito. The master sinew resonates at every frequency, it
wants to be stretched but it won't be found, I'm twisting
psychologies trying to find it, but it can't be found, the closest
anybody on this planet ever came was the proof of fermat’s thereom.
Twilight
mind happens in the hour before REM, under the horizon, through the
spaghetti shears when I'm left to my own dream devices, delousing
machinery - shyeeit, almost learned what the sublingual code was for;
goddamnit's still on the tip of my tongue. I's fated like bait to
talk about the universe, and wasn't I going to say something about a
zero sum game? Name the game, if you're not going to play. Play the
game and the name drops away. No, that wasn't it.
Terminal
naivete. Yeah. Wizened delusions cake on and on. Layers. Players.
Haters. Trans-temporal empathy is where I find consistency that's
worthy. I'll try to feel my way toward what I know can only be a
fraction of the younger man's reality - he had to deal with a
situation that can't be imagined from outside the gravity well - and
he dealt with it by saying and doing things I cringe at today, that
sometimes make me want to erase everything, and all of your things
too, or maybe just relax and ride the stupid wave to anonymity,
self-annihilation through absurdity, whee! Oh, I cringe at that
stupid bullshit that's attached to me, like a birth certificate
folded into obscurity, like, whatever, as if. Still with the
umbilical web, is that what I'm caught up in? Deeper with each thrash
of revulsion. But those stupid things have a hint of obligatory
nobility, when your visor's got a tint of empathy, and you can see
the time and place like a multi-dimensional cross-section, or,
nothing like that really, but just the barest smudge of dimensional
dynamic that renders the cringe laughable. Terminal naivete...
...in
twilight mind, a cosmogonic primer. It seems more sensible than
anything has a right to be, and it feels like the screw is almost in
place under my hand, the neural map of my hand under the cortex...
just a little twist should do it, turn fun into profit, words into
deeds, unlock the bonus level!
Of
course, the “key” turns up spinning, aimlessly, in
extra-terrestrial gravity, for a pastoral trifle in some
perpendicular dimension. It's a tableau, that's how it's coherent, if
need be. If not A, then B. Let B = 0. Let it be. The fragment. The
conversational cul-de-sac, between me and Rose at the beach near
Johnson's landing, when we revived the subject of death yet again.
She told me she really thinks there's no conscious continuity after
the brain's expiration. At least, that's what I took from her words,
which is probably what I was meant to take - because I would err on
the side of being wrong if I thought I could get away with it, but I
don’t think that. Exhibit B, reality.
There
were values in that half-dream my cousin half-woke me from to play
Mario Kart. Probably the reductio raison I'm writing this.
7/02/10
ol'
the best part of me is underground - no, nothing visual lately, unless you count lego sculptures that always end up looking butt-ugly, no matter how careful my plans are, and how diligently i sort the bricks - that's not a metaphor, i wish it was - it's a lot of hours i'll never get back
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