I can’t even put into words on a computer screen what today was like. It was beautiful, but beauty only goes so far. And you have preconceived notions as to what beauty is, and this is something far greater than my own definition of beauty.
It’s weird how if you stare a smile too long in a photograph, it begins to turn to a frown. It’s like information is being slowly processed and you noticed the forcing of a smile like a circle not meant to go into a square hole. It’s her life of Pi, I suppose.
Three point one four… and do you see when people make the same face in every photograph, as if it is a signature? It’s hardly real. I can’t trust faces like that. If you’re going to pretend to show emotion, I’ll find you and point you out, Patrick Bateman.
I’m a jealous fuck. The abominable snowman you don’t see. That thing that everyone says exists but nobody ever knows. I make up quotes and pretend that they’re from anonymous. That’s how self-elevated I am. Rising to the top, day-by-day. You’ll never catch up.
But I’m basically you. That’s right, you. That dirty little secret on the tip of everyone’s tongue. The effervescent, convoluted, relapse of gaining tension. Immigrant’s ideal bypass surgery for newly entailed mental images.
This page is the page of Musician. Not a great one, not a bad one, but a Musician nonetheless.
You’ll find my English vomiting (since I once wanted to be an English Major, hence the bad grammar drove me away), nonsense, laughables, whateverhappenedto’s, knowingthatthiswasforever’s (Kaki King references), Jazz, Philosophy, Music music MUSIC, complaints, compliments, constraints, and condiments all here.
So enjoy the ride because it is about forty dollars an hour without any kissing and an extra sixty for another person (hourly rates only apply for the first party).
No, I’m not prostituting myself, but if I was going to, I’d start simple and work my way up. That’s what she said.
Sit back, relax, and then get up because eventually you will have to get off of the computer. And get your hand off of your dick. Jesus, this is the internet, not church. (Bad joke and in bad taste, I’m sorry.) I take that back, this isn’t J.C. Penny’s. (Crap, doubling in bad taste… J.C…. Jesus Christ…)
There, that’s much more appropriate.
(Yes, occasionally, I will go too far with a joke.)
“It is sometimes said that scientists are unromantic, that their passion to figure out robs the world of beauty and mystery. But is it not stirring to understand how the world actually works—that white light is made of colors, that color is the way we perceive the wavelengths of light, that transparent air reflects light, that in so doing it discriminates among the waves, and that the sky is blue for the same reason that the sunset is red? It does no harm to the romance of the sunset to know a little bit about it.”—Carl Sagan (via scienceisbeauty)
In the estranged community, cowardice filled them with angst. Obliged by their once-comings, they were moved to try, but not to move forward. There wasn’t a succeeding idea or ideal in this society, but simply a time to know when to give up.
Their beards were gray with ash and their hearts were black with nicotine stains. The coughs and hacks of good times were far past them. Underage and overworked, they knew not the comfort of contentment. They knew contempt as if it were a friend lost at sea.
Billiards were broken and cues were caught in crossfire hangovers. This was the suspicion that constantly overtook their eyes. Alienated by remotes and Chanel No. 5, the smell of their constant copulation was but a view on television cameras. Filmed in action, filmed in adventure, filmed in lust, this life was a vicarious one. As well as a vacuous one.
In a vicious cycle, templates are tarnished by bleeding individuals. They were the post-modern assessment of the human condition, alleviated by their need to want. Their want to need was but a myth in the grand scheming of shoemakers. The fashion designers desired their foreboding to stop themselves, but the coin was mightier than the pen. All was Complex.
Complex was the name for this errand boy’s agenda. His heated smile was blemished by yellow-corn-capped teeth; a little sun to chew on in his mouth. A sun no one should have to see or smell.
Under his nails was the dirt of graves past dug, past due, past cultured. The idea of a body in the ground was no longer volatile, but veneering and tedious. The services were held for the last of them as the urns were emptied upon hollow ground, upon haloed heads, and hallow worshipers of an unknown faith.
Sanctimonious. This was perpetual. Ligaments and joints dismembered themselves in an assembly line fashion, backwards from the start.
And all our boy could say was that his Complex was due to be due. But he lay in wait. This is the estranged community. A series of events coming to a halting conclusion. Apparent in sight, apparent in mind, they guised themselves as temporal beings, lost.
The sanctuary of community. Who would have thought they would find themselves in each other. Maybe if they had looked a little harder.
“Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation. Quit your job. Start a fight. Prove you’re alive. If you don’t claim your humanity you will become a statistic.”—
It was nice, honestly. These guys are really good at putting things together really quick. And we heard solos from just about everybody (with the exception of myself and I hate to say it, but my solo has to be pretty damn epic).
There was talk that some parts are too open or that the song needs a bridge, but it is in the style of Bill Evans, so I’d really like that “In Between” sound (hence, the name of the piece). And I spent about an hour just pounding out various piano chords and nothing sounded good. I think the eight bars stand for themselves.
When I went to practice piano at the school yesterday, I saw this girl walking alongside of a boy. While we briefly made eye contact, she motioned her eyes toward him, rolled them, and then made an awkward face. He was reading some journal article that she wasn’t particularly interested in.
What interested me was the fact that we had a conversation with a brief glance. I made some assumptions, yes, but the human condition is pretty obvious at that level.
Teaching stroke patients to sing “rewires” their brains, helping them recover their speech, say scientists. By singing, patients use a different area of the brain from the area involved in speech. If a person’s “speech centre” is damaged by a stroke, they can learn to use their “singing centre” instead.