more refurbishing of old compositions

i've been doing a lot of this in the last few months, but haven't got around to posting any links - so, yo echo chamber, here's a bunch of old things i wrote that i've recomposed a little, and re-recorded a lot ('course all my music is now posted on my blog, cause i've just discovered the pages feature of blogger):

first and last

Damned

Synergy

Depraved Parade

insolence

dereveries

Kalimbe

Prelude in D minor

Prelude in G major

Prelude in B flat minor

Cabin Fever

"Non negotiable," it says, in large type at the bottom of the paycheque. Strange they felt it necessary to add that. I wouldn't have assumed there was a haggling process that followed, but why do they gotta rub it in? Why don't they just put "wage slave pittance", and get to the point? And oh, whoops, clumsy, they dropped it. Go on, pick it up! Atta boy.

Ghandiose death, with god on your lips. God, I am proud to be your humble servant. I'm spinning off the wheel of life, whee! Where it doesn't matter what happens to whitey, the color wheel is done. Off the wheel is God, that's my definition.

Or, God! Make this pain stop! I thought it wasn't supposed to hurt! I thought there was a special grace in case of assassination. The only reason I look so stoic and heroic is cause I can't get enough air to scream! And thank God my awareness is fading before I've had the chance to beg for life. Maybe it's just awareness that goes, not feeling. Maybe things will exist, I just won't be aware of it.

Wait a minute, that's what I thought all along! So why's it such a revelation? Special dispensation? Revelation in the veil and devaluation of awareness. Maybe I don't need to be Aware of every damned thing to enjoy it! What's revealed as I pass the threshold, from life-by-proxy to unlife-by-proxy is that what I'm not aware of is still part of me, something I'm able to feel. Sounds kinda flat though, doesn't it?

Thank God that's over. Baby shoes, never worn.

Feeling weird

Things are weird these days. That's what everyone says. Even death is weird, people feel weird with death, like what do you do? Well, you celebrate the deceased's life a bit, cause it feels good to do that. It's part of the deal, we figure that participating in that makes it safe to assume that we'll be celebrated a bit some day, when we're not around to join in. If only my wake could be like finnegan's. But it feels good, in the muddy mire of weirdness.

My sponsor lost his sponsor. To liver failure, after 25 years sober. The 2nd liver didn't take, but if it weren't for that transplant interlude that give him another year of life, and fucking vitality to boot, I never would have met him. And damn am I glad I did. But he left weirdness in his wake - that will become a spot of gum from the eighties on the concrete, fluorescent colours unnoticed from above except as a speck in the gravel grain, contributing as pixel to the mean hue.

With my last ounce of strength... I write and post a five star review of the iPhone app "7 little words", on iTunes App Store site, calling it "surprisingly fun" and questioning my instinctual pigeonholing of word games as being pathetic time idling for people with nothing better to do...

So, something, a way of reaching out to the world, in goodwill, a gesture, something to be remembered for in all hypocritical generosity, despite whatever else, he did that, he posted a review praising a word game he liked. Surprisingly liked, like it was an unexpected fig from the ancient tree.

With my last gram of strength I think about how black humour is so easy to traffic in when circumstances are only moderately trying. The divide is so deep. When the black humour is cutting inward as much as outward and you recognize the opportunity for heroic writing if nothing else, it's never less fun or funny. But it's something to do between work, word games, and digital media with dishes stacked, unwashed, stomach protest barely noticed, background noise, and the slow grinding of a better feeling taking too long but maybe at least noticeable like the sliver of a second hand on a clock.