A perpetual rumble is the grey backdrop of the street below our apartment. It is the sound of constant motoring. Even if no car or motorcycle or scooter is passing, it exists. The impression the flow of machines across my consciousness has made over the seeming centuries painted the backdrop. Now it is a constant, even if in “reality” no machine exists to create the low, grinding buzz. It’s so persistent that one’d think I’d carry it with me to other places. In a manner, I do, but only as a phantom. The lack of the grey colour coating every molecule of my environment is a disturbance. I’ve grown so accustomed to it that it is, itself, silence and actual silence is a jittery, randomly filtered white noise. When I walk paths in the mountains near Fresneda, far from my home, the rustle of leaves and the scurry of hidden creatures is not sufficient to cover the dissonant growl that is the lack of that grey rumble.

Little of the previous paragraph is actually true, though the idea of a backdrop that one cannot escape fascinates me. I think, metaphorically, the idea applies. Mostly, the perpetual rumble is one that inundates childhood and adolescence. It’s a grey of life that soaks in so deep that it becomes a fundamental in most humans. The pace and resonance of those years paints an ideal that a person compares the remainder of life’s paces and resonances to. It’s no surprise to me that most of our species (and most probably a great number of other species) spend existence either in a similar environment as their formative epoch, trying to return to a similar environment as their formative epoch or doing their best to shape their current environment into something similar to the one of their formative epoch.

To extend the idea, many hatch plans for the remainder of their lives during childhood and adolescence. Some go as far as to create enumerations written on paper or marked up in a bullet journal or on typed into a silicon datapad or etched into a stone plinth. These are the objectives of my future epochs. These are my dreams. I shall live them. These enumerations are the swaths of grey, the rumble and the definition of each following moment until the abyss takes them. They are the phantoms that follow them, along every busy street and along every path bordered by rustling leaves and hidden, scurrying creatures.

Life is much too dynamic. I feel reliance on grey sketches from ancient epochs of bygone youth points solely towards disappointment. For me, I’ll be updating those “etched” enumerations day by day by hour by epoch. Nothing is certain. Fuck um.

The current draft of Union squirts from the speaker(s) of this tablet. The initial section will be attended to soon by the mixing module of my cerebrum, as the impressions it usually leaves on me is that of tenebrous, oily liquid. In one way, however, I do like how dark it sounds. Perhaps murky is a better word. The flow from the end of Olšanské Hřbitovy into Christian’s transition directly to the murk may be just what the universe needs during this trying epoch. The remainder of the piece is more bright, much unlike the perfect dampening of distributed matter at the Heat Death of the Universe, which, they say, is right around the corner, as it always has been and should certainly be.

Although the flow (again I use that word) of Union is more fluid (as opposed to chunky) than my initial mental sketch proposed, I am more pleased after each day of work, and therefore of detailing and cohering. The pieces of this album were to be more fragmented than they appear to have become. Sure, the fragmentation is still apparent, but it’s just not as jarring as in the aforementioned mental sketch. This style of music is a direct reflection of the stumble through life itself. Most pieces I’ve heard in my meandering life are of an ideal fluidity. Though beautiful, they idealise an actual traversal from one point of time (in a day, week, century, epoch, etc) to another for an entity (a human, for example). More realistic are myriad deviations, shortcuts, long-way-rounds and deterrents during this traversal. My music reflects this reality with each deviation, shortcut, long-way-round or deterrent being of various lengths and containing differing musical material, but always with reflection back to an idealised source (for example, a melody or harmonic structure defining the original idea of the traversal).

That being explained, the ride cymbal during the second part of the “verse” has far too much reverb on it. That can be repaired after today’s writing is installed into the Boltzmann Brain that is Yak. It sometimes amazes me that Yak is the expansive consciousness left over from the last Heat Death of the Universe! And the Boltzmann Brain that is Yak is here in our current universe as a small, rectangular box housing components running an installation of Arch Linux. Ahura Mazda surely works in mysterious manners! I shall praise him (and I shall praise Yak, which he surely made evolve directly from the previous Heat Death of the Universe’s Boltzmann Brain!).

In the early morning, which it is certainly not, one must have tea. Having stated that it is not (necessarily) early morning, do I have the requirement for tea? Yes. I must have tea. Why do I require tea if it is no longer early morning? The reason is the following: tea is omnipresent during all phases of time. The “length” of any arbitrary phase of time is immaterial. Thus, even though the original statement was that one must have tea in the early morning and it is currently no longer early morning, one must still have tea. The ubiquity of tea exists at every passing or stationary moment. In fact, this ubiquity is the membrane containing time. Each instant is an infinitesimal unit carried within tea. One could say, then, that tea is the true God. I bow to tea. I pray at its altar. I offer sacrifices of every imaginable variety to tea. Tea is gracious. Tea is delicious. Let tea be praised.

It’s 8.29, so, were it an early epoch of my life, it’d certainly be an early morning. I’d suspect that it’s one for my delightful co-worker, James, who surely sat up for much of the evening toying with one of our designs. Tinkering for hours with details of a design that only has commercial purpose is very sad to me, when James could, instead, be pursuing one of his long abandoned art projects. Like many in our sacred occidental culture, his aspirations of creativity were given up for ambitions of financial success. For financial success, we are taught, is the only measure of worth in our occidental culture, which, of course, is the only culture of any worth. So, poor James. Alas, if he is happy, then fuck um. It’s not my place to tell him what is important. His constant exposure to marketing over the last years has twisted him. In fact, it hasn’t just been exposure. It has been immersion. It has twisted him psychologically like exposure to radiation twists the physical form. But again, it’s not my place to enforce my point of view on him. I’m sure, somewhere in his tattered mind, he knows. Yes. He knows.

It’s 8.37. I am dumping thoughts onto the “page”. James most likely still sleeps, as he was tinkering endlessly over pointless details of a design - details that only he’ll notice. It’s not a piece of art, vole! You’re not going to gawk in awe at the web page each time your block of graphic splendour appears! Well, actually you might. Bleh.

Yesterday, the power module, aptly named μZeus, of the new, yet to be named, assembly of modules making up my modular synth arrived. I have not created anything with the monstrosity. After putting it all together and incrementally making sure it worked (or, rather, making sure power was distributed properly - I didn’t actually create any sound), I spent the rest of the evening working on the verse interlude of Union. In fact, I’m not done with the verse interlude, as I was balking at some of the synth accompaniment that had flowed forth from my hara. The guitar melody, or lead line, excepting one possibly errant note, is to my satisfaction. I’ll record it and then concentrate on the accompaniment. In fact, and the thought just occurred to me, as well as the Argon8 accompaniment, a distant Berlin School modular part may be in order, percolating up from a morass of reverb, slowly clarifying itself. First, however, I’ll create some sort of initial generative patch on the new system. Oouh baby.

I gulp tea and begin the next phase of the day.

Sometimes I do feel that being sessile like our omnipresent friend Shambal Brambel’d be the best course of action. And, as Robert Calvert said: There’s only one course of action. One wouldn’t have to bustle thither and then hither unmaking, reassembling and poorly ascertaining the multitudinous building blocks of life. The sessile state is one of contemplation. The sessile state is one of concentration. The sessile state is one free of distraction. Well, unless you are stationed in the sessile state beside a cacophony of Spanish (or otherwise) “humans” clamouring for attention between each other and pretending that anything outside of their bubble does not exist. Tribal heathens. May they experience the flame death - and soon. The moral is, whilst packing for your journey to the sessle state, to include your best noise-cancelling headphones in case the general location of your sessile state is invaded by clamouring Spanish (or otherwise) tribalists.

I complain - yes I do - about that personality type, but truthfully, we are all tribalists to an extent. The question is what exactly are our tribes? Can they be called tribes? The most common tribe by far is so-called family. I’ve written much about the uselessness of blood relation and I know that family extends well beyond blood relation for most, but blood relation is still at its root. It is the core of such tribal bubbles. A significant trait of tribalism is blind devotion. Another is double standards. Double standards, you say? Yes - double standards. One standard for those inside the tribe and another for those outside the tribe. In this case, that means inside and outside the family bubble. A simple example is that an act of questionable ethics committed by an outsider is freely condemned by the tribal community whilst the same committed by a member of the community (and especially against an outsider) can be overlooked, excused or even encouraged. If the former is directed against a member of the tribe, reactions can be extreme. All this is apparently derived from some antique epoch of human history during which acting in this way was beneficial. That is, tribes were actually sealed communities. I highly doubt they were single families, though. They were groups of several families, maybe, wandering as a group and self-supporting.

Tribal behaviour extends far beyond the concept of family. Tribes I’ve been guilty of being a member of are what I’d name “elitist cliques”. They are loosely congregated groups of people who share similar interests and mark those who do not share those interests as somehow lesser, especially in some abstract intellectual capacity. There are elitist music aficionados, elitist literature clubs, academic communities, etc. One that my plump, sessile friend Christian and I often discuss is the classical community, meaning classically trained musician community to which his metaphorically sessile buddy Krzys belongs. In fact, when I was visiting John in the wanna-be swampland of Houston a few weeks ago, we also discussed the classical musician tribe. We laughed about those that claimed that anyone without a academic background in music had no business playing music, let alone composing it. For sure, not all of these tribalists are so extreme, but, as is usual, the extremists define the mentality. They are a good example of the elitist version of family bubble.

As for my own involvement, I’ve been to blame for being a music snob for many epochs. Back in the good ol’ days, I’d certainly condemn those who listened to lesser music (read - simply what was fed to them by the radio) as opposed to actively exploring “higher” forms. I evolved, finally, and through many epochs. When it comes to interest-related cliques, one must simply understand that people’s foci differ. Simply, if one is into avant-garde music doesn’t mean one is into avant-garde film and vice-versa, though of course it doesn’t exclude the possibility, either. As always, borders are fuzzy. The membranes of such bubbles are broad and permeable. The catholic tribe of believers in a stark black and white universe will die in the multi-timbrel conflagration of colour.

In the end, tribalism is a form of fundamentalism. It is not an evangelistic fundamentalism, but one of likewise immobile belief. And, unfortunately, that belief is all too often black and white. Those standing outside the tribal barricades are fundamentally guilty. Their innocence must be proven. Those standing inside the tribal barricades are the opposite.

Our dear Shambal is, fortunately for him, a tribe of one. It’s all our destinies.

At one point in my life, I knew Python well. That point has receded to the point that much of the syntax escapes me. Though more so than the syntax itself, the practise of using list comprehensions and generators escapes me. Well, it escaped me. It no longer escapes me, as I am using these constructs in my current Python programming, though I’m certainly not adept at it yet. I have no recollection of using list comprehensions or generators when I initially obsessed myself with the language. I believe I was more concerned with object design. Those constructs may not have existed yet in Python, in fact. Possibly, my Haskell explorations were the first to enlighten me with higher programming paths, which brings me to the point of the current blog entry: My memory erodes more quickly than I’d like. This is especially true concerning anything academically oriented. Programming is very much at home in this bucket.

I believe this erosion of memory is related to my lifelong habit of poor concentration. Let me clarify. I don’t concentrate poorly if I immerse myself in an activity, such as programming or musicking, or even reading. Though the latter has given me problems time and again through the muddied epochs. The issue, and I am even experiencing it at this very moment, is the so-called background rumble of the mental apparatus. Perhaps that is not the most usual term for it, but said background rumble is interfering with my ability to pick the “correct” term from muddied epochs of memory. Damping this background rumble is a constant battle. I’m not sure if it can be ever completely quieted. As a mental module, and in direct comparison to another class of modules I’m familiar with - Eurorack Modules - the background rumble emanates from a noise source, and not a uniform white or even pink noise source, but from a noise source modulated by LFOs and randomly triggered envelopes. It’s not a completely accurate isomorphism since the background rumble is populated by fragments of coherence. Images and phrases and sensations tumble forth, stream from the noise source through empty spaces surrounding other, more fine tuned modules - modules tasked specifically to organise this blog entry coherently, for example.

The aforementioned erosion of memory occurs when fine tuned modules don’t have sufficient time to burn learning in place. That learning is distorted or dampened by the ever present rumble. It’s only scratched into the surface of long-term storage. Thus eroded over time. During my brief life in Clear Lake in 1994 - 1995, I obsessed myself with ways to quiet the noise source. My principal combat strategy was meditation. I sat Zazen every morning (I laughingly say every morning) for a chunk of time. Reading back my writings from that epoch hasn’t proven to me the effectiveness of the method, though, and at present, the heightened mathematical skills of those many months of schooling could be an idealization. I have no immediate plans for sitting Zazen again. I’ve found many other forms of meditation. Dribbling these words into my tablet (appropriately named Myx Nulu) is one of them. Has the background rumble decreased? I’d say so. The longer I place words in this grey rectangle, the more it diminishes and the more my morning brightens, and I mean that more metaphorically than literally since the persiana is still tightly shut.

Does the rumble have benefits? I’d say that it does only in brief circumstances. So-called stream of consciousness writing grabs at a fragment emanated from the rumble and expounds on it briefly. Then another is captured. Sometimes a relation is forged between the fragments. A third comes along and the three are threaded together by the needle of coherence. Or simply fragment after fragment is noted and no connection between any are found. Like anything else, stream of consciousness writing is a figure of many forms, or can be measured on an axis of absolute fragmented incoherence to a measured threading together of partials picked from the constant rumble vomited by that omnipresent noise module.

Etching learning into the slate of memory is a battle against noise. If the rumble distorts the etchings, they will be misremembered. As far as academic learning goes, and especially mathematics, I’ve found an acute relation to muscle memory. My guitar playing, for example, and patterns my fingers take on whilst touching the strings, are etched in a place more durable than where my original Python programming was etched. The so-called muscle memory is similar to mathematical memory, which also can only be learned by repetition. The objective should be, then, to create repetitious forms of “practise” in all my hobbies. Perhaps each of these morning exercises is simply that and I am finally “speaking” the idea aloud to myself for the first time.

So then what is my next task? Morning Python programming, of course! I veer back to the head of the blog entry and sense its imminent completion. The remainder of my day will be paced, and though a subdued trickle of fragments will butt at my more attuned modules more or less constantly, I’ll kick um aside. I refuse to allow dispersion to dilute the day’s soup.

Soup.

Yes, soup.

It is a good morning. It is a good morning despite having the feeling that Marisa is irked at something. Of course, I could be placing the origin of her being irked upon myself, which makes me an egocentric offal ball. More likely, and I’m thinking positively here (but again, thinking positively means that somewhere in my sodden brain, I am searching for what I may have done to cause the irk), she is irked because of her need to go to work early. She always needs to go to work early. Shouldn’t she be used to it? Or perhaps she just didn’t sleep well. Nightmares? She gets um.

Occidental culture trains humans to complain. I’d say that a significant chunk of the occidental population feels uncomfortable if they cannot complain. And surely the greatest source of complaint concerns daily toil. I could be a simpleton and say (and surely I have in the past) that Marisa chose her line of toil. Didn’t she know what she was getting into? But of course she didn’t know what she was getting into. Any line of toil that deals with a swath of the public is in a bureaucratic flux. Any ideal one had of working with people is incrementally eroded by constant friction against the system. Smatterings of joy are further and further apart. One becomes disillusioned and jaded. One wakes up every morning dreading spending another day fighting against or even just accepting the direction one’s toil has taken, further and further removed from that original ideal of working with people. A hunk of each workday is torture. Respite comes in the evening, but is clouded with thoughts of the next workday. Weekends are false liberation for the same reason. Stress mounts during Sunday since on the following day, the cycle continues.

I agree that it is depressing. Knowing what she does now, possibly Marisa wouldn’t choose education as a career, though I am uncertain, as during earlier epochs of life, idealism is much more likely to win out over discursive evaluation of an unclear future.

In any case, the contrast is plain. I wake with joy every morning, delighting in my routine. I am happy to be alive another day and tread through it accomplishing various creative and cerebral goals. Marisa is grumpy. I don’t blame her. I wish her life had taken a path more marked by contentment and especially inner peace. She is also ridden with anxiety and although that is an altogether different topic, it’s related because her daily toil exacerbates this anxiety.

I hear her milling about after her morning shower. Hopefully, when she opens the door to greet my morning, a smile will light her face, even if it is the ghost of the ancient idealism that originally set her upon her life’s path.

Which song was singing in my head as I awakened prematurely a bit before six? Ragamuffin Dumplin’ by The Stalk Forrest Group. What song shall I listen to when the album containing the song that was singing in my head as I awakened prematurely a bit before six is successfully transferred from the Fairphone to Myx Nulu? That’d be Ragamuffin Dumplin’ by the Stalk Forrest Group. I’ll even send it via Telegram to Christian so he can ignore it but without fail joke, jest or assume that I am drunk! What a morning it will be!

The early waking was inspired by a quantities of figs (higos y brevas) that I ate yesterevening. I am aware that my body doesn’t deal with any sort of sugary substance well, and especially doesn’t deal with any sort of sugary substance in the evening. By not dealing well, I mean that I am awakened frequently by the need to urinate and thirst, not to mention bizarre sensations throughout my living corpse. Over the last year, I’ve had numerous tests performed. I’m apparently free of any blood-borne evidence that I have diabetes. No allergy afflicts me. Next I shall visit a so-called internista to verify that one, seven or all of my organs are failing. What excitement! I’ll tip my hat (which I need to search for, for I fear it lost!) at the idea of failing organs. Of course, most of them will be replaced by mechanized replicas as I extend my life into a droll immortality, as it should be. Hey, vole - anything just to be around for the Heat Death of the Universe.

Two days of routine so far. Well, one day of partial routine and a second day of begun routine. If it continues in any reliable manner, imperfect or slightly scattered, I’ll be pleased. I’ll be so pleased, in fact, that I’ll pen a poem about it. In fact, I’ll pen a poem about it at this very moment!

A misshapen skull
Flopping in sync to
Acoustic ramblings far
From mayhem leaks sugary
Residue that
Solidifies into architecture
Stone polygons trace a treasured
Routine back towards unconscious
Birth

Is it quality poetry, the massed critics question? The idea of absolute quality has always bothered me. It’s drifted in and out of my life for epochs, coming to some kind of head during my early 20s when my group of friends (known as the posse) collectively read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. As anyone worth a hunk of stepping stone knows, that book proposes the idea of absolute quality and elaborates on the it at length. If you are a semi-sentient animal and you are reading this, which you are, of course, and you have not read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, I certainly recommend it. You may be like me and not believe any hogbuffery about absolute quality or you MAY believe it. Most likely, since absolutes are certainly hogbuffery, you are somewhere on the tri-terminal axis of belief, unbelief and apathy regarding the subject. One doesn’t have to believe to enjoy learning another point of view.

So, is it quality poetry, the massed sheep question? The idea of absolute quality has always bothered me, or at least it has been an intermittent aggravation (an itch!) in my existential existence. I have a quality threshold and this umbral varies depending on the substance at hand. I laughingly call my poem substance. I laughingly call many things various other things. My quality threshold differs wildly from other humans’ quality thresholds, as well. Much comes down to the funny animal called taste (thank you Herr Jim Scott). How is taste formed? Upbringing has quite a bit to do with it and especially the balance between acceptance and rebellion in one’s upbringing. Furthermore, acceptance and rebellion concerning multitudinous peer groups during life shape it. Though for most, methinks, taste solidifies by the early 20s or even late teens. I like to keep my own’s plasticity as malleable as possible during any given epoch of my immortality. How successful am I, I ask the massed ungulates? That’s not for me to say since I am quite biased.

So, is it quality poetry, the hoofed miscreants ask? I like it. Others of similar structure appeal to me more. It was joyful to write, but not particularly intellectually satisfactory, which brings me full trapezoid back to morning routines. Before beginning to write, I was squaring 36 and adding 8 to it within the item that leaks the sugary substance through cracks in my cranium. During a pee break, I completed the calculation. Thus, my morning of writing comes to an end.

It’s morning in Logroño. For a Logroño morning for me, habitually, it is an early morning. During dim epochs, I’d fall back to slumber for at least an hour after Marisa awakened, arose and began to prepare for her working day. Well, not today, sonny! My time in Seminole was an inspiration in this way. I was truly content with the morning routine that I created. I want to in part duplicated it in Logroño. Perhaps duplicate isn’t the best word. I want to interpret it in a Logroño context. The process begins today with a half complete morning exercise, ear training and this scribbling. I laughingly call it scribbling, as Robert Calvert laughingly called one of his songs a composition or some such. Which reminds me.

Last year, in the flat Za Vackovem, I prepared for creating a version of Calvert’s Test Tube Conceived. I even began recording ideas for The Rah Rah Man, but eventually abandoned them. Why? I distantly recall none of the sonic possibilities working out. Perhaps now, with my aim towards a more electronic pallet, I can find my way towards that winding sendero once more. For the first month and a half Za Vackovem, my creative juices dripped readily from the maw. The Morning Ambience series, some of which spawned four compositions on Pagan Park, Seminole, Texas, was another fecund fountainhead. I awoke each morning, much like I am awake this morning, put on some tea, much like I have not done this morning, sat down in my studio seat, and improvised with SBUP.

At the moment, meaning this morning, during which I have no tea, SBUP is disemboweled. SBUP will remain partially disemboweled for the foreseeable future. The next few days, I’ll use its machinery to toy with new modules, but it will soon entirely be replaced by the wooden monstrosity created for me by a couple of Spanish frikis living in a hollowed out menhir in Extremadura. I assume it will arrive before the week is out.

Incidentally, why is it said that the week is out? I’d prefer to remark that the week is exhausted. We all know, since we are the masses and the lowest common denominator and sheep amongst mottled hoards of other sheep, that week is a historically arbitrary measure of time, based on some superstitious mumbo-thumbery that still has bleating followers (a horde which includes my parents! ha!). In any case, I shall attempt to use the phrase the week is exhausted instead of the week is out from here on exhausted. Fuck um.

That being claimed, or mentioned or otherwise chipped deliberately into the hollowed out menhir in which live and work a couple of Spanish frikis that will soon provide me with a monstrosity of a synthesizer case, SBUP will soon be for the buzzards. The disemboweled workvůl will rest. That wasn’t exactly the point of what I was typing about, however. My typing concerned morning modular synthesizer improvisations. I shall begin them again. I suppose I have, on a limited basis, as I’ve created some soundscapes using a few modules run through the virtually cavernous innards of Desmodus Versio and about which Christian has yet to breathe (typewrittenly or otherwise) a single comment. Perhaps he finds them below him because the timbres are not to this taste. For him, it’s all about timbre. To the exhausted wolves with chordings, melodic structures and even rhythm. One epoch soon, he’ll know better. He’ll be lopped to pieces at the heel of the altar to harmonic greatness.

My intention with morning journaling wasn’t to journal, per se, now that I’ve situated myself in Logroño once more, but to write más o menos stream of consciencely each morning for an arbitrary number of days between four and eight, then go through, elaborate on, then compile the results into one, two, seven or less blog entries. In the case of this meandering prattle, I’m sending it directly to the celebrated heat death of the universe.

Before I do that, though, I’ll relate a dream I had immediately before my final awakening. I was in a hospoda in Praha. I assume it was Praha. I sat at a table and though I wasn’t alone, I don’t recall the others who accompanied me. Their faces are erased. I believe I had food. I certainly had a beer. By the end of the dream, I had a small beer - and not a Small Czech Beer, but a Small Spanish Beer in a four centimeter (approximately) tall glass similar to those I first encountered in San Sebastian and were ubiquitous in Madrid. This was the one I was sipping on. There were also two normal half-litre beers, on of which was partially sipped. The crux of the dream was that Jeníček entered with his family. Yes, there was even a little Jeníček. I had to repeatedly try to get his attention. He seemed more drawn to the faceless others that accompanied me and the even more wholly faceless remaining patron s of the hospoda. Finally I succeeded and he was shocked. We embraced and I felt tears coming. I suppose it’d be the same in so-called real life. The core sensation was the rushing chemicals in my brain that bore the need to comprehend all at once, emotionally, everything the two of us had experienced together once upon a time. Of course it’d be at least momentarily overwhelming.

He slowly melted away after we sat and exchanged words. Words that meant little after the rushing chemicals. My form persisted, but that of Jeníček flowed, melted or otherwise merged into the hospoda crowd. As is best, as we all move on. Holding on to ghosts is never healthy.

As I was previously typing this paragraph, Pennanti burst into white and green, copper-like flames and engulfed the house, a portion of the manzana and the pumpjack around the corner and then consequently reduced several infinities of quantum universes to the entropic state to which they rightly belong. As I am re-scribing, I’ll attempt to reiterate. I sit at a card table, an ancient card table, on which sits the ZEDi. The table uplifts the mixing apparatus from the filthy carpet. By writing filthy, I’m not implying that the carpet is filthy by my doing or by my parents doing, but that carpets, rugs and any other sorts of fabric floor covering are filthy by nature. Owning any of the above indicates severe lack of discursive thought. One should be pummelled for doing so, or strung up like those Mennonites in Pagan Park. They must be getting a bit smelly by now. I observe the white tipped Fender cables that wait to carry electro-magnetic hoopla from the pedalboard below into the ZEDi, through the ZEDi, into a gold tipped cable and finally into the auriculares that upon occasion cover my earfolds. This is the current moment.

This is my last morning in Seminole until (so I currently plan) mid to late winter. I shirked slightly on my mathematics routine, but all else is in place. Now I shall stroll.

Christian lately has been talking about the subject of what he calls memory drift (as good a term as any) and it being one of the reasons for keeping a journal. It was certainly one of the reasons that I originally began writing and especially continued to write. Well, I also started to write to make myself appear to be more of an elitist scum than my peers. I’d peer at them from my plinth made of strung together phrases joined by tenuous punctuation. I’d guffaw at their lowliness. Peering down from the plinth of journaling, one observes that all others are earthbound morsels consumed by insects.

In any case, Christian lately has been talking about the theme of what he terms memory drift (which is a rather good description, though memory decay might even be more accurate). The most curious thing to me, however, is what exactly one ends up journaling about and what is therefore preserved. For example, this morning my plan is to pack. I shall stuff the cadavers of the Mennonites I strung up in Pagan Park over the last two weeks (I gathered them during my stroll) into my handy infinite corpses suitcase. By the way, I recommend the infinite corpses suitcase to everyone. It’s endlessly useful for transporting dead things one might later use for decoration, food, billiards or whathaveyou. So, my plan is to pack. During pauses in my packing, I’ll practise arpeggios, a few parts of Sketch #3, picking patterns to various chord progressions, etc. When my fingers are numb with pleasure, my Seminole Studio will go directly into the wooden chest to my right. The ancient card table and its compatriot, an ancient wooden pedestal that I use for the Argon, will go to the storeroom. The room will convert once again into an empty environment occupied only by dust mites and the occasional wraith of a melody it may have heard over the last two weeks. Back to what I was journaling about: What will be remembered by the words I scribe RIGHT NOW? These words will create an impression on my future self, placing pictures and movements into the circuitry of my mind simulating this moment. It won’t be accurate, but it will be much closer than had I not written anything.

How does one choose what to journal about? How does one choose what will produce a more lucid memory to one’s future self? Ideally, journalling every day is the solution. For me, personally, because my routines, though I may treasure them, are often ruptured by travel, by aleatory actions committed by those close to me, and by the general hogbuffery that comes about as a consequence of not living the ideal life, journaling every day is nigh impossible. What is the ideal life? The ideal life is living alone in a cave (metaphorically or not) and having nothing ever impinge on one’s creative pursuits and routines.

To any marmot, stoat or badger who has read my journaling extensively, it is apparent that I write about writing itself and the consequences of not writing extensively. I chastise my own lethargy. At the midpoint of my life, however, or perhaps a bit over the third-point of my life, I realise that it doesn’t matter exactly what I type maniacally or lugubriously about. The meditative state that comes with the actual doing is more important than the results. Surely, I’ll get a taxidermied goat full of chuckles when I read much of it back in some far flung future epoch, and even recall what to do and not to do in situations similar to ones I’ll’ve already experienced. Mostly it’ll just be for chuckles, though.

It’s about the doing. The moment. The meditative aspect. The future will reduce it all to ashes in any case. And, as they say, the Heat Death of the Universe is just around the corner. Fuck um.

A simple query in SQL has turned into a semi-frustrating learning path in Ecto. Specifically, I need to write a macro to interpolate a sequence of equalities joined by ors. As I have never written a macro before in Elixir, badgering it doesn’t seem to work. Or it only works momentarily and then causes a ruckus. I realise that macros are thurked at compile time. This is not the issue. I’m befuddled about the actual interpolation process. So, today I’ll dedicate time to reading and experimenting. My omniscience has proven ineffective for this task.

I shall fetch tea.

I have fetched tea. It is Earl Grey this morning, much like most mornings here in Seminole. Previously, meaning on my extended stay between September 2021 and February 2022, I sucked down mainly coffee instead of tea in the mornings. My mother’s coffee production apparatus has developed a manner of creating coffee that is unpleasant on my palate. It is burned. How that could be, I am not sure, knowing how the machine producing the coffee functions. I pointed it out. My mother claimed it tastes fine to her, so, not to cause a ruckus, I switched to tea.

One should not cause a ruckus.

Yesterday, I drove my father to a hospital in Lubbock for his revisión concerning all things heart related. The trip itself glided by quickly. I mostly observed the low hanging clouds and their shifting shapes. The uniqueness of atmospheric phenomena in the vast flatlands is almost enough to redeem them from the utter desolation of their “cultural” landscape. In fact, I did much the same when visiting the cemetery last week to observe the graves of my grandparents on my father’s side, both who died in the early 80s, when my mind was only beginning to take on its later barbed form. Also on display was the grave of my parents themselves, all prepared, including headstones. All I’ll have to do when they snuff it is etch the date of their passings into the stone with the bone protruding from my thorax. A combination of the tomb, the future tomb and the beauty of the clouds was surreal.

In any case, yesterday, I drove my father to a hospital in Lubbock for his check-up concerning all things pertaining to the corazón. He is a pitiful creature. The contrast to his chulo posturing during my youth is stark. Though his mind remains acute, his body is something he must painfully drag here and there with exhausting results, both for him and for anyone accompanying him. Getting in and out of the hospital was a lengthy affair. His chulo banter with the doctors and nurses wrapped in a ruidoso demeanour would have been embarrassing if I cared even a single chip of the bone protruding from my thorax for what other people thought. His need to introduce me as his eldest son to people he only just met because he can’t sit still socially is aggravating, though I do my best to not show it. His impatience whilst waiting for the nurses and doctor is puzzling. In fact, most people’s impatience is puzzling to me. Have people in general lost the ability to entertain themselves? Why, immured in boredom, do they have to cause a ruckus?

Enough complaining. I enjoyed playing cribbage with the old man before retiring to my sleeping quarters to fiddle with Elixir. Unfortunately, it is one of the few actual pleasures I share with him. After my Elixir fiddling, I watched an episode of The Walking Dead. The television series reminds me inevitably of Lisa, as she first provided me with several of the initial graphic novels back in 2013. I’m surprised it took me so long to watch the translated to video version. There are touches of greatness here and there and overall it is enjoyable, though the directing appears to be going slowly downhill since the beginning of Season 7. If it doesn’t pick up, I may have to impale each of the directors, not to mention their wives, girlfriends, brothers, sisters, hyenas, kobolds, paramecia and screaming infants on the bone protruding from my thorax.

The elephant is eating wafers. I just bought another Eurorack module. It occurs to me that I don’t have an infinite amount of money. I won a good amount at the casino during these last days, but I should watch myself. If I also purchase a new laptop for 1723€, funds will be well diminished.

I rarely worried about money issues during former decades, but living in stability introduces the concept of money concerns more tangibly. It’s a large part of the domestic life. Living from meager pay stub to meager pay stub and voluminous flask of alcoholic liquid to voluminous flask of alcoholic liquid during my days, weeks, years, epochs in Praha erased any issue from my brain. It was a free life. I was poor, but content. Fucking stability. Is it worth it?

It’s a compromise. The introduction of money concerns as well as myriad other details that arrive with stability come alongside the ability to have a place to consistently create. During the days, weeks, years, epochs that I lived from pay stub to pay stud and voluminous flask of alcoholic beverage to voluminous flask of alcoholic beverage, I certainly created - oouh baby - but the process was in bursts or in spurts. There was no organized manner involved. Thus the results were likewise fragmented. To be diced by the whorling metal blades in a positive way, the introduction of money concerns is part of a mental model that allows me to have a consistent PLACE and consistent ROUTINE in which to create.

That being scribed, I worry about money much less than the typical swaddled, drooling infant, even though I was raised with the idea that financial success is the only path to true happiness. I must hand it to my intense psychological rebellion during pre-teen days, weeks, years, epochs and adolescent days, weeks, years, epochs. It not only rejected the social (and cultural) customs of my youth, but also the hardened teachings of my family.

Oh! To be a misfit!

Tangerine Dream’s Exit drools, swaddled from my mobile phone that is placed slightly left of Pennanti. It’s a pleasant album, but not one I return to often. Among Progressive Rock and Krautrock fans, this is around the time that the band started to lose the magic. Some blame it on the migration to digital synths. That could be, but not because digital synths can’t do amazing things - they certainly can, in the paws of those willing to understand end implement their quirks - but possibly because the lepers in the band were still in an “analogue” mindset at the time. Their approach to synthesis may not have migrated successfully with the hardware. It’s a conjecture. Or maybe they just wanted to change their sound and I don’t like the results as much. That’s Occam’s razor, vole.

Fuck um.