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Friday, 20 February 2015
Sunday, 28 August 2011
If you didn't already infer, I don't use this blog as much as I used to. Everything I post up is on my other blog on Tumblr. I realise that most of what I write will be lost under the crap and noise of something misappropriated as an enhanced-Twitter-feed but it's where most people are nowadays. Other writers are bound to find something.
I wouldn't rule out a return to this, though. Cheers.
I wouldn't rule out a return to this, though. Cheers.
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Wonderful
It is daytime as he sits in his bedroom. His back sits against a wooden chair and his feet rest casually on the wood floor. A fan wobbles overhead at a third of full speed. Four lights are on, beaming their spotlights nowhere in particular. It's mild; too balmy for Spring weather, outside anyway. He lives in the warmth year-round. The room is a dark red, not quite mahogany but not vibrant either. A bed is before him, an amplifier flanks his left, the door is to his right. Shelves and a television loom above ground; his other guitars hang behind him.
An electric guitar, jet back with faint pick scratches and traces of sweat, is resting on the bed. Her tone is rolled low, pick-up selector in neutral, tuned a half-step down, and already plugged in. At his feet is a toppled-mic stand, cord traceable to a laptop perched precariously on the bed's edge. He kills time, anxious, for an hour checking non-existent and unimportant news. He's nervous. It isn't palpable but it's there.
The music is before him, ready to sing notes through numbers. It's the best he can do without the privilege of scales or named tones. Today, his room is a studio. The walls try in vain to isolate noise, his locked door signifies the session's occurrence, his laptop is his mixing station. The acoustics could be better, always could be, but he can't complain. It's worked before. He's been able to convey his music in those makeshift conditions.
He takes in the scene, warms up, runs through the song's motions. The sound resonates through his amplifier and courses through the microphone. He records everything, deletes the takes, then records again. It has to be near-flawless. Through what seem to be hours, arpeggios flow from fretboard to hard-drive and bends slide into databanks. He's probably played that song fifty times by then but he keeps at it. A mis-picked note, an underwhelming lead line, an unsatisfactory take; they all prompt re-records. The hours of the day melt into night. In that studio it is as bright as the four bulbs allow. Outside it is darkening.
It is a late-night dinner outside when he deems his takes satisfactory. The clatter of the silverware and china reverberate through the recording in spots. The tones could be better but it is late. His comfort zone of expression has passed. He stands, removes his electric and sets it down on the bed. Crouching, he adjusts the mic-stand to its proper height and sets it on the ground. An emergency glass of water is by his side. Earphones on, he swallows his fear with his water and starts to record over his accompaniment.
The words are another's but the emotion is his own. The music carries the scene to any given night, fictitious at that point in time, shared by a couple. He sings of a lady, hair dark and long, fussing over herself before a party. The lyrics aren't correct, at least not by the original, but the thought is. His voice strains as the two move to their gathering. They share in mutual feelings of splendour, of wonder. He continues on, vocal cords unaccustomed to the strain, eventually admitting his own sentiments. Bound by the rhythm and metre of the pre-determined lines, he hopes his delivery can hold its own weight.
Another hour or so sees him nitpicking at wavelengths before he finishes. It isn't the best. It isn't better than anybody else's. Still, he feels it can express some sort of emotion. A favour asked late into the night and the song is sent along on the pretense of critique. All he can do is hope for some sort of response. A call received and he spends the rest of the evening in cautiously optimistic happiness. She might say she feels wonderful. He knows for sure that he does.
An electric guitar, jet back with faint pick scratches and traces of sweat, is resting on the bed. Her tone is rolled low, pick-up selector in neutral, tuned a half-step down, and already plugged in. At his feet is a toppled-mic stand, cord traceable to a laptop perched precariously on the bed's edge. He kills time, anxious, for an hour checking non-existent and unimportant news. He's nervous. It isn't palpable but it's there.
The music is before him, ready to sing notes through numbers. It's the best he can do without the privilege of scales or named tones. Today, his room is a studio. The walls try in vain to isolate noise, his locked door signifies the session's occurrence, his laptop is his mixing station. The acoustics could be better, always could be, but he can't complain. It's worked before. He's been able to convey his music in those makeshift conditions.
He takes in the scene, warms up, runs through the song's motions. The sound resonates through his amplifier and courses through the microphone. He records everything, deletes the takes, then records again. It has to be near-flawless. Through what seem to be hours, arpeggios flow from fretboard to hard-drive and bends slide into databanks. He's probably played that song fifty times by then but he keeps at it. A mis-picked note, an underwhelming lead line, an unsatisfactory take; they all prompt re-records. The hours of the day melt into night. In that studio it is as bright as the four bulbs allow. Outside it is darkening.
It is a late-night dinner outside when he deems his takes satisfactory. The clatter of the silverware and china reverberate through the recording in spots. The tones could be better but it is late. His comfort zone of expression has passed. He stands, removes his electric and sets it down on the bed. Crouching, he adjusts the mic-stand to its proper height and sets it on the ground. An emergency glass of water is by his side. Earphones on, he swallows his fear with his water and starts to record over his accompaniment.
The words are another's but the emotion is his own. The music carries the scene to any given night, fictitious at that point in time, shared by a couple. He sings of a lady, hair dark and long, fussing over herself before a party. The lyrics aren't correct, at least not by the original, but the thought is. His voice strains as the two move to their gathering. They share in mutual feelings of splendour, of wonder. He continues on, vocal cords unaccustomed to the strain, eventually admitting his own sentiments. Bound by the rhythm and metre of the pre-determined lines, he hopes his delivery can hold its own weight.
Another hour or so sees him nitpicking at wavelengths before he finishes. It isn't the best. It isn't better than anybody else's. Still, he feels it can express some sort of emotion. A favour asked late into the night and the song is sent along on the pretense of critique. All he can do is hope for some sort of response. A call received and he spends the rest of the evening in cautiously optimistic happiness. She might say she feels wonderful. He knows for sure that he does.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
E standard, no capo
I sat outside in the dark blue-black evening after work, sitting on the edge of some green patio chair. My arms were cold, a baby burn across my forearm healing pink beneath the unattractive scabs and blisters. It wasn't cold enough to merit a complaint. My fingers stayed warm moving across an aging neck: one hand to take stabs at other men's music, the other flailing to make those strings sing. She'd been barren once. I dolled her up the night before, dressing her up in new threads draped across her body. I cleaned her head, her face now gleaming where once it had been dull. The same six earrings, three on each side, found their places in their familiar holes. She was a shining beauty despite the absence of the sun. Her voice resounded while I sang along on that dark stretch of architecture.
Beneath the cloudless sky, I looked to the stars. Those bright dots punctuated the night; I'd never seen so many shine so brightly. I sat in the dry air, her shape draped along my legs. Repeating the same pattern I'd periodically try my voice then find it could not stand in comparison to those of better men. It wouldn't matter; she'd lend her voice despite my failings. Often, I'd stop to look at the faraway shapes of people --perhaps lovers, perhaps strangers-- walking along the evening streets. I'd think and wonder if they heard us. If they did, I'd apologize outright for my ineptitude to sing those same old love songs... but they'd commend her for being so euphonically sweet.
We sat there for a good hour and traded the same songs to fill the vast expanse of air before us. If I had enough courage, I'd sing a song by a man to his love or one of blackbirds or one of a man, tears free in his eyes, misplaced in heaven. And when I knew my off-key melodies overstayed their welcome, she would take the night and make it her song. But when the air grew too harsh and the navy of the night crept on towards black, it was time to part ways. For all the hesitations, I found myself uncharacteristically direct in the goodbye. We walked on past the glass door and into a warmer, greener zone, young woods sweeping before us. She rested on the couch, neck propped on the arm-rest, body drooping awkwardly over the pillows.
The night was done; I walked away into a room of red highlighted by the monochrome black-on-black-on-black. I knew she'd find her rest in some other boy's room that night while I sunk away into my worlds of superheroes-turned-mayors and journalists-turned-proactive. I thought of all the ways I could've extended that hour. My mind raced itself into depression while I took in the colours-upon-inks-upon-pencils of the art in that fantasy world. Words didn't seem important.
But what was done was done; she sleeps in the cooler, yellower, room of a boy I know. She doesn't rest on a bed but hangs her head, as if in shame, while she dreams above the floor. He couldn't care less. And what am I left with but some worthless memory-turned-metaphor that, I know, will be seen as love lost. Oh, there were songs, of that there is no doubt, but how many people sat on that balcony that night in the chill of the night. And is that even plural?
I'm sitting here, hands warm and tapping at some careless keys, with an exercise in my expression --perhaps to rekindle some sort of lost literary love-- and some poor fuck will think I'm talking about the girl I've fallen for.
Beneath the cloudless sky, I looked to the stars. Those bright dots punctuated the night; I'd never seen so many shine so brightly. I sat in the dry air, her shape draped along my legs. Repeating the same pattern I'd periodically try my voice then find it could not stand in comparison to those of better men. It wouldn't matter; she'd lend her voice despite my failings. Often, I'd stop to look at the faraway shapes of people --perhaps lovers, perhaps strangers-- walking along the evening streets. I'd think and wonder if they heard us. If they did, I'd apologize outright for my ineptitude to sing those same old love songs... but they'd commend her for being so euphonically sweet.
We sat there for a good hour and traded the same songs to fill the vast expanse of air before us. If I had enough courage, I'd sing a song by a man to his love or one of blackbirds or one of a man, tears free in his eyes, misplaced in heaven. And when I knew my off-key melodies overstayed their welcome, she would take the night and make it her song. But when the air grew too harsh and the navy of the night crept on towards black, it was time to part ways. For all the hesitations, I found myself uncharacteristically direct in the goodbye. We walked on past the glass door and into a warmer, greener zone, young woods sweeping before us. She rested on the couch, neck propped on the arm-rest, body drooping awkwardly over the pillows.
The night was done; I walked away into a room of red highlighted by the monochrome black-on-black-on-black. I knew she'd find her rest in some other boy's room that night while I sunk away into my worlds of superheroes-turned-mayors and journalists-turned-proactive. I thought of all the ways I could've extended that hour. My mind raced itself into depression while I took in the colours-upon-inks-upon-pencils of the art in that fantasy world. Words didn't seem important.
But what was done was done; she sleeps in the cooler, yellower, room of a boy I know. She doesn't rest on a bed but hangs her head, as if in shame, while she dreams above the floor. He couldn't care less. And what am I left with but some worthless memory-turned-metaphor that, I know, will be seen as love lost. Oh, there were songs, of that there is no doubt, but how many people sat on that balcony that night in the chill of the night. And is that even plural?
I'm sitting here, hands warm and tapping at some careless keys, with an exercise in my expression --perhaps to rekindle some sort of lost literary love-- and some poor fuck will think I'm talking about the girl I've fallen for.
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
And now for something completely different
So I was reading some of the back-issue comics I picked up for Romel since he's been filling the gaps in his collection. I don't usually read Spider-Man since I'm more of a DC guy but one of the character monologues really struck me. Say what you will about comics being a "lesser" literary form but some writers are just damn good. This is from The Sensational Spider-Man #41, written by J. Michael Straczynski and penciled by Joe Quesada; it's an exchange from an alternate, washed up Peter Parker to the regular Spider-Man (italics).
"So who're you?"Good words from Pete to, uh... Pete.
"Oh, well, I mainly work in software design and testing. Computer games mostly... first person shooters, space combat games, super hero stuff. Yeah, kind of fell into that right after high school."
"Well, that sounds like it must be kind of a fun job."
"You know why guys like me get into games like that? Because there's something missing. We look around at a world where there used to be a chance of being a hero, of being important... and it's just not there the way it used to be. You can't just pick up a gun and become a gunfighter, or go off and explore for a new world, or pull a sword out of a stone, or rescue a damsel in distress, or-- So we play games and we read books because the world we got isn't the world we thought we were supposed to get, the world we thought we'd been promised by somebody. Because things didn't turn out the way they were supposed to. So we go someplace else."
"But those places don't really exist."
"Yeah, well, nothing's perfect, right? If I could do any of those things in real life, really be those things, a hero, somebody who could change the world, save lives-- I guess I'd be the happiest guy on Earth. I'd never ask for anything else. Wouldn't need anything else. I'd be grateful. Because the rest of the world never gets that chance."
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