Monday, August 21

The air this morning wasn't raw or sandy. When i woke up it was an awful taste of purple and depression. Not the artsy kind either. Wake up and grope for the stimulants depression. No amount of teenage angst will make that pretty.

I've never felt so confused. Angst is our way of making depression beautiful. But when you're just depressed, it sucks - not low enough to indulge in self-pity, just low enough to feel awful, awful. Everything I do reveals some new silliness, some ugly scar (I thought was healed over). Not enough honesty to finish this hundred -

100 words
13 May Saturday

adam


edit: Thanks to everyone for the concern, really. It's better to angst here than to be off in some dark corner slitting my wrists or doing LSD. Actually... doing LSD... mmmm.

Haha. I hope that left you all suitably non-comforted. But thank you anyway.





Sunday, August 20

Mother

NO! You and your silly strings
you putter 'round and fixing things
you stay on your spot and turn about
you head is made up of undoubt

You makes the kitchen very clean
you makes the party you isn't seen
you do the work you do the time
you makes the words in poems rhyme

you tie things up you tie things down
you sings your happy songs but frown
you de-mar-kate, you draws the line
you injured but you still is fine

You eighty-five you living done
you got daughter you got son
you dying but not wonder how
you tired but you happy now

by adam

Saturday, August 19

"Meaningless! Meaningless!"
says the Teacher.
"Utterly meaningless!
Everything is meaningless."
- Ecclesiastes 1:2

So I hated life, because the work that is done under the sun was grievous to me.
- Ecclesiastes 2:17

i guess i've had time to re-examine my value systems.
I'm not a good person by far... I really have no spiritual qualms about lying, cheating, vandalism and various forms of petty larceny... The reason i'm not a criminal is because I can't deal with the consequences. Does that make a person virtuous? That on it's own isn't half as disturbing as the fact that i'm not disturbed by this at all.

I don't believe in anything. I guess I'm a bona fide cynic that way. Nothing moves me. I don't believe in happiness. I don't believe in love.

I don't even like people.

I believe in God, but I believe even more that the people who also believe in God are sometimes the most screwed up.

Sometimes I think I only wake up to thank God for the fact that I can lie to people about how much I dislike them and how unhappy I am. I hope that isn't true. I hate myself for the fact that I have no justification to be miserable. Life hasn't been bad for me.

I guess you could say something for the purity of my dislike for everyone... like Iago's evil, it is motive-less and enigmatic. It isn't hate, not at all. I wouldn't, for example, suicide bomb a building to alleviate my discomfort. It's just a certain feeling I get in the mornings that the world is out to get me. It is not a noble lust for vengeance, or a tragically misguided hatred for all living things. It is a limp, futile dislike, an annoyance and an irritation.

I am twisted and perverted in that way. Honesty is what I value most in other people. I feel sometimes that the worst way to insult someone is to be conciliatory. People should have their feelings out at one another. The highest good is to be honest with yourself about what you are... lie to others, not yourself. Sometimes it means you face something terrible and ugly, a brooding monstrous gloom. The people who tell me we are fighting a 'spiritual war' against wordly temptations are idiots. I am my first demon.

adam

Saturday, August 5

Treatise on improvisation

"Since I can't read music and everything, I find out that I do the best when I just... listen for where, where i'm trying to go with it, where it can go, and not try to rush it, not try to make up things as i'm going, just let them come out, then I'm a lot better off, if I start trying to pay attention to where I am on the neck, or this is the proper way to do this or that, then I end up thinking that thing through, instead of playing from the heart I'm playing from the mind, and that's where I find that I get in trouble."
- Stevie Ray Vaughan

I was just listening to some records of yesterday's gig. My solo sounds truly awful... noodly non-phrases everywhere and no resolution whatsoever.

I realise the problem now, having just a minute ago done a few recordings which are surprisingly satisfactory.
The phrase given by some of the musicians i respect the most : Zhaohan, Shawn, Xiumin, Hyqel - 'Just whack" is far more profound than I initially thought.

On one level, you need to understand why a solo works. How the artist manipulates notes, phrasing, harmony in order to create an effect.

On the other hand, I realise that thinking about your solo ruins it. There is a place in the soul where both art and the appreciation of it comes from, which slowly assimilates every revelation in listening, in reading or in viewing and makes it part of you. Innately, just by appreciation of it, the musician understands intuitively the effect of what he hears, and this intuition goes here and becomes part of you, and this is the only part of you which understands it well enough to use it.

No amount of theory will correct for a deficiency here.
Solos come from here, not from analysis, and to force an effect on your solo is tantamount to editing your very being. It doesn't work; human beings are far too strong for that.

This is not to say that musicians (or, for that matter, writers and artists) should not transcribe, memorise and analyse other people's work. This is essential; it adds a body of physical technique that can be drawn upon when improvising. Without physical technique musical ideas cannot be realised. Thus when the musical sense demands the sound of, say, a tritone substitution of D7, one must actually be able to play it in order to have any effect.

That is the beauty of any art, be it music or writing or visual; it cannot come solely from the rational mind which is so easily duplicated with circuitry; it must come from the part of humans (call it the subconscious, call it the soul) that responds to the world with a wonder that may never be replicated.

adam

*edit* in a quick update, i'd just like to note that having spent 2 hours on my dismal soloing I have FAILED COMPLETELY to do my lit essay. GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAh.

Wednesday, August 2

I am a bundle of empires
and towering desires
held together by the singing of a song.

wb :

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