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.
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.
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.
10 Jul 2010
6 Jul 2010
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.
2 Jul 2010
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
I'm working out new ways to perform and record. They take the form of melodic fragments, half-assed renditions of half-remembered songs,...
The Deon family is neat and nuclear: Dad's in the driver's seat, Mom's in the passenger seat, Alison and Jonathan, five and sev...