I'm in *bed*. Yes, in *bed* in Seminole, Texas, at my parents' place. Austin is no more. It is the ex-Austin. I fled it Sunday -- two days prior to now. And now I am in *bed*. The snaky feeling which tingles in the backs of the thighs is less tangible during my middle-aged languor. It used to excite to the extent that I had to defecate four times daily. The bowels were very stimulated by that feeling. Now, however, it is fleeting. I wish it were again as strong as it used to be. I called it **Sweet Entro...
I have just come across this in the book I am currently reading: > This, I have come to think, is a very American reaction, rewarding eccentric effort with scorn and violence. The book is one that **Christopher** got me for *X*mas, titled *Fresh Air Fiend* by **Paul Theroux**. I agree with him that it is a typical American reaction. But I'll go even further. It is the reaction of any *peasant* to unknown or unintelligible behaviour. I have been greeted, as has many a human I have known, by such upon nume...
I dare not spill the Sweet Leaf tea onto the blankets where I shall later sleep. I create enough wet spots as it is with my voluminous drooling. Tonight is the night that I shall attempt to record all of **my** parts of the piece I have mentioned several times in this blog: *Reduction*. Instead of the synthesized bassoon, an acoustic guitar shall play the eternal melody first sketched in *Intersection*, which begins the still unnamed album**\***. The melody is this: > *c d bes c g a bes g f* It is playi...
> The invented reminiscence of "the way that guy or gal used to be in the good ol' days" has a cozy quaintness and seems harmless enough, but the element of self-deception in it can lead one badly astray. I am reminded of Lee. Yes, *Lee*, the guy who no longer exists and the fact that he no longer exists is most likely a fortunate thing for all who knew him and would have otherwise known him. I say this not out of bitterness, but from the result of much contemplation of the topic. His self-destructive beha...
Having neglected this apparatus for a while, I shall try to write at length. Most of last week was alloted to **recording**, and Tony and I performed relatively well in this respect. Beginning with a lost improv, Monday hooked us up by the armpits after drowning us in equipment failure. In specific, Tony's N-Track machine died. The details of its repair and eventual failure again (resulting in the loss of our improv) is not important. The improv began with an oscillator droning along the lines of *Vegkore...
In the cafe, the voices of people sound murky. They are commingling with the music murmuring from hidden speakers. It all combines to be a muddy slush flowing into my ears. I removed my headphones and it washed sluggishly over me. My mind moves more and more slowly. I shall leave. ...
I'm at Diner 24. That, in itself, is not surprising, since I was hungry after seraching for the **Steve Reich** boxed set called *Phases*. Searching for good music makes my tummy rumble and always has. I used to sift through the cd stores in New York City (Greenwich Village) for hours. I was faint from the effort. Once, Natascha had to pretty much carry me to the diner across the street and feed me forkfull by forkfull until I had regained my strength. Yes, those were the days. I just ordered *Phases*. I ...
I wonder how *cobbler* came to mean a sort of pastry filled with cooked berries or other fruits? A *cobbler* is someone who fixes footwear. The idea of the semantic drift is truly staggering. * Repairing a shoe * Filling the shoe with a foot after reparation * Allowing the shoe to become a crumbly pastry * Detaching the foot from the remainder of the body * Allowing the meat of the foot to become vegetarian * Making sure the vegetarian items within the ex-shoe is now a fruit * Popping the whole thing into ...
The moment of Viking showing himself to me. It was so real that I know my subconsciousness misses him. I wish I could recall the remainder of the dream. Besides the multitudes of people in the past, and how we were all at Tony's before we went to the... the celebration. But Tony didn't come. I was sitting and Scott Hazle was there (actually, he was there from the beginning), and reminding me of lucidity. Damn. ...
At first, I thought it would not work, the initial bit, but on second and third listen, it does. It recycles the mind from what had happened before. Now it is time to put that beautiful melody again within the framework. ...
I must record this here so I may perhaps write about it at a later date. *Why do I not write about it now,* you ask? It's the infernal breezy feeling in my cerebrum. > This duration blindness in the middle-aged > exile is quite a widespread disease. Later, > when I decided to avoid the exile’s > obsession with his roots (exiles’ roots > penetrate their personalities a bit too > deeply), I studied exile literature > precisely > to avoid the traps of a consuming and > obsessive nostalgia. These exiles seeme...
