May 26, 2008

More Thoughts On Why You Just Don't Understand The Impression I Get From This.

Your ears are growing down the hall. I'm sure you can hear nearly every thought as it pours over emotional filters and constructs set in place by time's weathered fingers, tiny trickels through miniscule divets, or roaring rapids of inner turmoil. The intrusion scathes deeper than muscle, deeper than bone. My life is ground beef in a clenched fist; the vernacular of the modern torture that is insolvent gratitude (of the soul).

Do you understand the structure? Do we speak plainly to communicate, or out of fear of becoming dependent upon words? Do we carve the day's likeness out of marble, or the dirt from under our fingernails?

May 20, 2008

I'm Done With This (You're Greyer Than Pompeii).

I'm continually scraping around the garage for the broom, but all I can ever find is the blower. These pompous gusts lack my genuine attachment, like extra extremities I never meant to grow to begin with. If only revision served its purpose...if only that broom was in my hands at this very moment, carefully and deliberately...perhaps then I could be myself. I don't like this untrained animal that I have become lately. I'm nearing a catastrophe at every corner, with every word from your mouth. I'm fending off the electric blower more than I'd like these days. You're the same old storm that's promised nothing but sunshine for too many years, and this time it's too late. This time I forgot the umbrella. This time I convinced myself I didn't need an umbrella.

...And on to the monkey in the suit. He's chattering in the corner, and for some reason I'm still standing around throwing bananas at him. I'm imagining them as hand grenades, though. He's the only one who doesn't seem to realize the reality of his situation: the suit doesn't fit right, the legs are long, the crotch is wedged up his hind end, and he's greyer than an elephant. Everyone feels obligated to overlook the obvious, to keep a fresh bunch of bananas at all times beside them on their desks. I'll tell you one thing: when he screeches, you can tell he's the only one he's threatening. We're all crying inside; all laughing. We're all suddenly with our sons and daughters at their first softball game, and some idiot is running around threatening the coach. It's heartbreaking; it's intensely inaccurate.

...And on to your current disposition: you're one step away from the gates of hell, and the sulfuric burn reminds you of the uncompromising memory of the lentils in last night's stew. Good luck with the rest of forever.

May 9, 2008

Strings As They Vibrate Create You And I.

Does "Hundreds of Horses" ring any bells? Only one other mind in the universe should be ringing. I still find inspiration in the memories of long-gone. 

"Without you, today's emotions would be the scurf of yesterday's." - HIPPOLITO

May 1, 2008


When I record a song, I generally view them as ideas; basically, I don't care too much what it ultimately sounds like. I just enjoy the process of creating the music, and that works out, because I don't have much in the way of recording equipment. That being said, here's a recent recording of a song I wrote one particularly inspired evening. The buzz sucks, because the mic sucks, and hopefully someday soon I'll get a replacement and give this song another go, but until it is. Songs are just thoughts put to music.

And here's an older one (but a little better quality, and live):

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