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Sunday, 21 November 2021

Conundrum Solo

Pummelling the rock for a progressive period. Nothing emerges. Still all around. The depression extends from this low ground to the atmosphere. The strings seem theoretical. Follow the jotted notes. Woe. Diddly marks and double entendres won't unify fields, whether weather with geology or surface tension with the impact of a meteor, let alone reacquaint the sections of the mind with an original idea. Material apologies to Beinhorn, whatever it is memory serves.
 
The least of all archetypes act aware. The clarity of feeling good gravitates toward its own chapters on mini remedial game pieces. In the fog's wake it resolves to forgo the easiest answer of them all, overcome it with liabilities, and call the truth too convenient an explanation. A procession's in play. Here comes the windfall. There it goes.
 
The title is despair. It creates its own resolution in a refreshing realisation of purpose enabled by an outlook justified by the state. Everyone can feel the way the trumpet blows when it takes it turn. Applause.

RIP Graeme Edge

Sunday, 7 November 2021

Dada dump

Miles's a metaphor. Batty saw it whirling from twenty yards. Give a little bit. It shouldn't startle. Reg can be read. Save for human erring. Whistling runes. It's a mock-up.

Wednesday, 3 November 2021

Ships in the Night

The clues to the cultivation of my mashing these two vocal melodies are down diary by three and four entries.
 
 
For the underacquainted: Kate's 'ship with The Trio Bulgarka came via a tape her brother Paddy'd played. Mine, then, came less directly along the same course, requiring the stop in The Sensual World and culminating in the question "Why Should I Love You?" four years later.
 
Somewhere in between my immersion in the former trio of tracks, before I ever had a chance to put on The Red Shoes, I managed to find The Forest is Crying by the trio in a Chicago record store. It's a collection that gave me just what I didn't know I was looking for.
 
I feel fortunate that all this came at a time when listening from beginning to end had not been thrown overboard, music as a series of waves that wash over you from the warmth of the deck. Were I to've tried to bring anyone else in this 'ship, it'd've been via "Raditze Le", one of the few titles without an English translation to rely on. With these words my go-to translator goes out of whack, calling it everything from just "Mr" or "Joy", right down to, oddly enough, "Joan of Arc".
 
Anyway, over these many years that have come to an era of NOT listening to an album from beginning to end, there are a few whose work will always elicit a return to the former mode. In 2005, Aerial was one. Slicing out and eating only one of the pieces that make up A Sky of Honey wouldn't quite be like only listening to a chorus or verse of your favorite song, but I don't have a better analogy.
 
My jukebox project, a fantasy come to fruition after so many thousands of units of spacetime, at least one of the highest digital quality I'll ever have, does not preclude using the full album listening mode, even if it does mean, more often than not, being the equivalent of my own radio. The equivalent of being my own radio brings radio reminiscence in line with all the sounds that've been tried and true, if not all I'll ever look for.
 
It's not so turbulent when a piece compiled of the album era art emerges randomly in the course. In fact, it is down to random navigation that it was not until relatively recently that I tuned in to the phrasing of Stoyanka Boneva on "Sluntse Zaide" (At Sunset) as possible inspiration for Kate's on "Nocturn".

Friday, 29 October 2021

Baron Noyd

What if the volume I fear'll disturb the neighbors, the muted emissions I worry'll wake somebody in the next room, or, yet, the blunder among the hushed puttering I'm sure'll startle me when it slips from my fingers actually resounds to the end of the universe with a crashed force so frightening it panics the sucklings of creation?

Sunday, 17 October 2021

The Shed Rues

Took a stretch with the new season, un-pedalled for three such since the beginning of the mad panic. Not for nothing, rode a rounder radius than had been usual, in anxious regard for the backup bike's being dodgier than is already classic for a backup bike – that is, less reliable maaaybe, what would amount to a per se potential of being less so serviceable (in the able to be serviced sense).

The idea, you see, is whenever the backup is mobilised, bicycle A must be serviced apace. Unless it's to stay an unusable alternate, having thus just become a backup itself. One might think, as one am apt, the immediate toil of repair would drub the purposeful luxury of making good on a backup. But an apter awareness prevails who thinks about the purpose of the words backup and good. Make good on the backup without delay. Whether remaining true to this theosophy has termed itself successful is anyone's guess. For one cannot know what might have been in terms of the delay not prolonged. So hypothetically, if not today, will the defaulted backup be righted from its unserviceable state? No broken backup needed. No matter how short.
 
Neither here nor there. One does not grab primary secondary in the middle of nowhere. One grabs it, for instance, fortunately less deflated than the tyre found flat on primary primary while unlocking it in the courtyard. Also neither here nor there. Bike B is in theory still in go mode. Discounting this digression, which should only serve to beset the scenery with the digressor's stream of apprehension, for what was actually afoot, the length of road had to be fit for the risk. Though lengthier, the length taken was aligned with underground stops to be attainable more directly via un-agitated foot than the normal way would.

A familiar strain accompanied the rolling along, whereby the roll's inefficiency introduced itself directly to the strrretch, as would be the case in both directions – in the a.m. and the subsequent p.m.  A rubberband guy, me.

While the way out managed to meet its deadline, the symbolic release of tension availed the direction home a calmer breath by time. No need for the subway's safety net, the old route would do the trick. It happens just so this concludes near the beneficent bike-keep's complementary air. A pump affixed in permanence outside the shoppe window against those who abuse consideration for selfishness is uncommon nonetheless in its round-the-clock accessibility.
 
Whereas the greater distance of the day had been as if suddenly my wheels were wheels in mud, from this stop along the normal path near home emerged an irony with which the former risk assessment terminated looking back on the ride that might have been. No well. The lesson is reduce the literal surface tension. No. The lesson is not to forget that lesson.
 
Thence availed of higher psi force, the mere meters to home were likewise lent a release reminiscent of the adolescent 'Aha!' at first roll each spring. It goes, Hweee...

Here y' go!
 
 
Or if you like, here's her stoned version from eleven. I'm easy.
 

Friday, 15 October 2021

Skies of Blue

I can't help but feel it's not healthful the anxiety I feel at any having to live outside myself. Whether its side-effects or whatever, it's self-evidently so, and one reason I avoid taking to the stage. The exhilaration at the good and of the appreciation of it, still followed by a discomfort akin to having sent the contents of my torso through a thresher. It's no wonder so many performing artists have drunk themselves to death, or worse.

Music is the heroine. I shudder to think of existence without it. Not literally, but maybe so, were I to think of it the way I ruminate my way into a literal shudder at something I'd recently said that no one else probably gave a second thought to.

Those who bring the music, some of them, may not realise their import, though I'm sure to the extent they're moved themselves, probably so. What we'd be without it is of horror makeup. But, and this is a graciously big but, with it, we're worthy of the word wonderful.
 

Wednesday, 6 October 2021