Wheat (Poem)


Laying plastered in the sunshine

Like stucco the memories

A bit wheat colored like

Wheat colored grass

By a train station

Where the wind

Rusticating in the sunshine

And prostrating

The illusion of procession

Laying down an iron line

Clock wound nerves

Meld into the space

Of action

Keeping catatonic

Any actor from arising

Something chronic

Oh… ouh… Oh

On the Parapet

Oh… ouh… Oh

On the Parapet

Some have accused

Of regret

The dreamers

They would

rather have them

As confidants and schemers

Ah to build is sweet

But is there nothing to repair

And I dare say the tracks that greet

Me on a Moscow morning

With dewy tears of bright tomorrow’s wishful air

More like despair

All the little sparrows

Drink the dew

And in the narrows

Of every avenue

The indie yard brigade

Will make bread yet

From seeds of wheat

That dreams have set

In minds of those who meet

The stucco memories

And lay rusticating by the tracks to outpace

The useless hurries

To build in time to finish race

Is best done at wheat’s sweet golden time

Growing of its own accord

Doesn’t trouble overmuch with plot and word

No accounting no how shall I afford

Sucrease isn’t business but life’s way

Recognizing…

Thus clothes the earth in grain

Again…. Again….Again…

Is Twenty-Seven the Perfect Time to Start a Band?

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The popular conception is a hard thing to qualify. It is difficult to define a common view because there are so many common views. Yet it can be done. At least insofar as setting the stage for social, psychological, historical, and philosophical analysis.

There do seem to be pervasive opinions that though rarely vocalized may as well be set in stone.

For instance, everyone always expects artists and musicians to be young. At least no older than thirty. This is strange.

It might be because most bands that society is currently familiar with made their mark in their twenties.

There may be some biological reasons for youths blessing of artistic endeavors.

Neurology and the endocrine system come to mind. Then there are the social and psychological variables.

First there is the naivete that’s fertile ground for creative exploration, then there is abundant energy to till that ground, and finally, there is a drive to define and prove oneself. Society also fosters and encourages young creators* whereas there is a greater onus on the mature to be ‘responsible’ and ‘settled in.’

All these factors seem to wane as people age into their thirties. So is it meant to be? Should everyone north of thirty settle into the proverbial accountant’s office and repair their gutters on the weekends?

No.

First, there are many examples of artists who didn’t ‘make it’ until ‘later’ in life. Andreas Bocelli and Leonard Cohen to name a couple.

Second, there are many examples of artists who continued creating masterpieces throughout their lives. Bach springs to mind. As do Johannes Brahms, Richard Wagner, and Stevie Wonder.

Third, if one decides to view life as having many stages, then each stage of life has its own music its own landscapes to offer.

To begin the analysis of creative stages of life let’s examine the art of the young.

The case can be made that the young are too histrionic to produce anything of lasting value. As evidence, one can cite the similarity of subject matter and delivery of bands in the last century.

First, there is the sex, drugs, and joyously cacophonous ROCK starting somewhere around the time of ‘The Doors’ and lasting well through the eighties hair-metal scene. Libidinous excess and boundary flaunting tests of one’s limits through psychedelics and alcohol aren’t the only tritely recurring sins of the young.

There is also the angst and neurotic introspection of Grunge, Alternative, and Progressive genres that cropped up in the late eighties and still hold sway into the era of whistling ironic ukulele hipsterdom. Are maudlin sentiment and bitter emotion really the best subjects to set to music? The young musicians of the last three decades seem to think so.

Given its subject matter and focus, the art of the young has unsurprisingly taken a morbid turn. The 27 Club is ‘a notional roll of remembrance’ that pays homage to the fact that many of the 20th centuries musical luminaries died young. Numbers can be mystic things and the fact that Jim Morrisson, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse all died at 27 lends an air of tragic magic to that arbitrary figure. Hence the ‘colloquialization’ of ‘27 Club.’

Death has a certain finality that often lends weight and perceived substance to the art of those who passed. ‘The good die young.’

The audience ‘knew’ these folks as an explosion, as a passionate flame that burned too bright and quick, and suddenly there is the mystery of eternal silence. What more would they have made would they have said? What secret pain, what uniquely anguished insight not accessible to average joe, did these brilliant people harbor? What was it that made people who wrote such tuneful and evocative things so self-destructive?

It would be wrong to characterize these artists as immature. It is a silly business indeed to hover over history like a daft-shrink-bog-wraith psychoanalyzing the minutiae of the lives of its actors. Yet there does seem to be an air of self-fulfilling prophecy to the art of the young.

The deification of such art, the raising of it to some sort of deep expression of the human condition, while at times valid, can also be foolish and dangerous. It is the former because foolish and dangerous things are indeed a part of the human condition. It is the latter because despite the melodic and lyrical finesse of such works they were tainted by hormones and substance abuse. A tainting that leads to a sort of ‘Opera Buffa‘ where those who gained much admiration and success, freshly minted aristocrats in a sense, weren’t sated by such things and chose to become a tragedy for a convoluted sense of authenticity or psychic chaos magnified by chemicals and overcharged emotions.

The creative stages seem to fit pretty neatly into the categories of the prodigy, the rockstar, the craftsman, and the master.

  • The Rockstar has already been discussed, the rockstar is the art of the young, it is somebody that might very well be talented or not so talented but they have something to say and by God, they will say it.
  • The preceding ‘Prodigy’ is a precocious child with uncanny technical skills and well-directed enthusiasm.
  • The Craftsman is a stage that comes after prodigy and rockstar and is a person dedicated to the disciplined acquisition of skills and diligent creative output who has a broader repertoire of life experience to draw from and can do so effectively and judiciously.
  • The Master is the craftsman after many years of practice. One can look to Bach responding to the challenge of Friderich the II, improvising a three and then six-part fugue on a theme presented by that monarch.

The space of this essay will only allow the exploration of two out of four of the stages of creative life. So in light of all the information considered which would be best to unpack?

Since the ‘rockstar’ has been addressed it seems fitting to move next in line to ‘the craftsman.’

As the world approaches the cusp of a new decade, is it not fitting to promote a new sort of ‘27 Club’? Why not popularly consider 27 to mark the beginning of careers rather than looking with perverse expectation towards the demise of heroically dysfunctional musicians?

Twenty-seven may, in fact, be the perfect time to start a band. One still has abundant energy which can be used in conjunction with greater mastery over one’s emotions to select which insights and life experiences to magnify through art. Further, it is a time when hormonal needs and spastic bursts of energy will be less of a barrier to serious practice. Your bandmates are more likely to show up on time.

Why disparage the rockstar and highlight the craftsman?

The prodigy, the rockstar, and the master need no encouragement. They will do what they do as a matter of compulsion. The craftsman is the most suspicious of compulsion. As a person moving further into adulthood and feeling the weight of experience, the craftsman becomes wary and guarded, sensing a profounder need to be ‘serious and secure.’
Sometimes this need to be ‘serious and secure,’ to be a steady sort, manifests itself as studied avoidance of creative endeavors. Partly because one is keenly determined to avoid wasting time which has greater weight than ever before. Partly because one wants to avoid seeming gauche.

The truth is that music and art are never a waste of time. They sharpen all the skills and faculties necessary to succeed in work and relationships. Communication and synthesis are two skills most readily and deeply refined through creative endeavor. Atop this boon, there is another in that the magnification of life through art makes you very appreciative of even the most mundane and prosaic aspects of living.

There is nothing gauche about loving life or succeeding in relationships and the workplace.

These stages are of course guides rather than rules. Some may find themselves at a place of overlapping stages. Whatever stage you’re at…what are you waiting for?

Go forth and create.

*There will soon be another essay on the unique challenges of creative youths in the present college and structure obsessed society that purports itself to be a bastion of free-thinking creativity.

Related Links and Reading

https://www.digitalmusicnews.com/2015/08/03/18-musicians-who-made-it-later-in-life/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4OtouQnfnZU

Keeping the Flame

The Cajun Prayer

Related image

This book is dedicated to Terrence McKenna, who possessed a poets heart, and though I disagree on many points of sophistry…all perhaps…. save his sense of Wonder and dedicated service to that sacred art. May he dream strange dreams forever and adventure where he may! …For truth be told there is no such thing as never or decay.


This is chapter one for the book whose introduction you can read here: The Sketch of Sam Monroe

It’s an adventure story that eventually ends up in the jungle, inspired by Doyle, Crichton, Lovecraft, McKenna, and the true story of Percy Fawcett.

Disclaimer: Contains strong language and adult themes. It is not my intention to promote drug use. If you wish to partake in countries and states where it is legal and you are past the age of twenty-five that is your business. I choose twenty-five because that’s about the time your brain stops being all soft and squishy and before that happens you don’t need drugs. 

Cajun Prayer

“What the hell was in that?”

“Dude, it was just weed, plain old Mary Jane, Mary never hurt a fly.”

“He was foaming at the mouth….”

“Who knows what he took beforehand, either way, let’s not…”

At this point, a tall precise-looking man seeming to be about sixty years of age strode into the room.

It was a very odd hospital. One of those cramped country places. The little squarish chairs in the waiting room had that burnt orange look which reeked of the seventies. The metal bars beneath the armrests were cold on this Kentucky evening.

“I really can’t find anything wrong with your friend. Nothing biological anyway. I lack a lot of the instruments I’d need to do a proper battery of tests. Would you boys like it if I sent him off to Louisville? I have a driver on hand just for that purpose…”

‘No…’ a few of us chimed in. We couldn’t risk it.

“Well, right now he’s catatonic and I really can’t do much except run an IV and monitor his vitals.”

“He’ll come around I’m sure,” Lucas said with barely disguised guilt.

“What’s going on? I never really got a good grip on where you boys are from… I’ve never seen you in town. You don’t look like hunters, so are you campers, hikers what…?”

“We’re local,” I said.

“Mmm…I know everybody in this town, even old Ira Basset….”

“Well, we keep to ourselves mostly….we’re…artists….”

“Oh, so you’re private sorts, prematurely retired from the wild world into the rustic Kentucky hills…”

“Yeah…that’s one way of putting it….”

“Or could this be it.” The doctor threw a small plastic baggy into my lap. The contents of which I instantly recognized.

Shit…’

I heard footsteps outside.

“Well, Officer Fabre looks like you arrived at the perfect moment. Have you ever seen guiltier men?”

‘Shit…’

“Heh, o they’re guilty all right…mostly of being the most stereotypical heads to ever walk the earth, and what’s that he’s got…” The barrel-chested officer’s eyes narrowed as he took in the contents I was awkwardly grasping between shaky fingers.

“Toss, it here, actually don’t….that’s cocaine…which isn’t very legal….” He had a slight accent that I couldn’t quite place. And his tone of voice suggested perpetual amusement. He began to jauntily swing a set of handcuffs.

“So whose is it..?” he asked, looking from one of us to the other, “who am I taking to meet Bubba?”

“I found it on the patient.” The doctor said.

“So you did, Doc, but I gotta take somebody in, I’ve only got two cells, one of which holds Bubba, and he don’t find no sport in a body that don’t holler….”

The guy was fucking with us.

“I’ve got money, you know,” Lucas burst in.

“Aha, yea…I mean I don’t have to be Sherlock fuckin’ Holmes to know that if you have coke in Foley…you’re a walking trust fund…”

“Are you just gonna accept a bribe like that!” The doctor exploded.

“Well, doc, did you like identifying Mrs. Belmont’s corpse very much, or that endless stream of rotted gums?”

The doctor looked glum.

“Yeah…one thing about Foley…The State of Kentucky…Uncle Sam…and even Jesus Christ himself do not give one solemn shit much less a penny to keep meth heads from shooting little old ladies. I need ammo, I need vests, I need to feed my dam squad, hell Patrick doesn’t even have proper boots anymore…so….does 15k sound reasonable?”

“More than reasonable,” Lucas replied.

“WHERE do you boys have this kind of cash….” The doctor was incredulous. “Shit…you’re runners aren’t you!” There was something odd in the way that the word shit sat in the mouth of such a gentlemanly looking man. He was truly flustered by his suspicion to react that way.

“Nah….doc…they ain’t runners…they’re faggy little college boys…and I guess that there must be a god after all because they’re the fucking solution to my problem….”

It was at this point that Graham burst into the room with a wild look in his eyes. The IV hanging in an awkward grotesque sort of way from his left arm. He gazed directly at the cop with the most unnaturally sardonic expression I’ve ever seen. It made my blood run cold.

Graham stood there swaying from side to side just gazing directly at the officer. Then he spoke some other language. I guess it was French or something.

For a moment Officer Fabre was stock still. Then shrieking wildly he ran from the room screaming something like…

Jay vous saley,
Marie,

they grasss

Le Signor

ist avec vous.

Le signor is avec vous!

“Get back here you cowardly frog!” Doctor Pierce exclaimed at the retreating man.

Then regaining some of his composure he said,

“What the hell am I going to do with you fucking kids!”

Bach and ‘Mental Hygiene’ (Vlog)


I made a vlog about how you can use Bach to tidy up your brain and prepare you for practice. There’s also some brief discussion of the value of classical imagery versus ‘meme-ish’ caricatures. Don’t get me wrong I do love my memes. But there’s a world of difference between meat and potatoes vs. cheesecake and Scotch.

This vlog is very similar message-wise to this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ogZ4vBgHd0

And this essay: https://fractaljournal.com/2018/01/02/classics-and-the-true-way/

Counterpoint: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4O6lc_ym12U

Keys and moods: https://www.artofcomposing.com/key-signatures-make-the-music

Subscribe, comment, and like. Or don’t. Thanks for stopping by.

Forever Fluid – The Strange Case of Renewable Limits (Chapter One – Intro)

Chapter One – State of the Universe? 


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Has Thales been vindicated?

Perhaps this thought is owed merely to my own meager apprehension of physics but perhaps not. In recent times scientists have attempted to resolve two major models of the universe by proposing that it may, in fact, be fluid.

The cosmos has a flow. Groovy. This appeals to the hippie in me. Alan Watts being a patron saint of the moneyed unwashed once said that there are two sorts of folks. Those who believe that the universe is prickles and those who believe that it is goo. This, of course, refers to the famous dichotomy between artists and scientists (and everything else).

E.O. Wilson also touched on this in Consilience, painting the picture of the striving between those who see order and wish to make chaos, and those who see chaos and wish to make order.

Watts in his languid laughing way pointed to the obvious need for both sorts of people and for each person to strive to contain (retain) an admixture of both.

“The universe is gooey prickles and prickly goo!”

The interplay of order and chaos is of course fluid in nature. It is the eternal binary motion, the tick, and tock, that the east has colloquialized as yin and yang.

So yes, in the same way, that water reflects the faces that gaze upon it, it may reflect the core nature of the universe itself.


These are the introductory paragraphs to Chapter one of my book: Forever Fluid – The Strange Case of Renewable Limits

This first chapter should be completed in the next two weeks now that I’ve found some time.

The book itself will likely be published via Amazon or a similar service by the end of this year (or 2019 depending on circumstances). It will likely be an ebook but that’s subject to change.

Thanks for stopping by. I really appreciate your time and hope that I’m able to bring some value to your lives.

Best wishes,

Alex V. Weir

Post.Grunge.Punks. (Webcomic) – Tim Pool is a Nut (pt.2) – The Timatree

PGP - Timatree


Part one: Post.Grunge.Punks. (Webcomic) – Tim Pool is a Nut

Tim Pool is a skateboarding e-pundit and indie journalist. I had a theory about why he never takes off his beanie occur to me the other day and thought I’d turn it into a cartoon. I know I’m not David Revoy, but I really like ‘doodling out’ my more abstract visual ideas in Krita. And as such will make an effort to improve.

You can find Tim’s videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/Timcasts

Part three is coming and I hope to make it less aesthetically grating.

Thanks for dropping by.

 

Summer Wine Demo


Since I haven’t had the time to write an essay or record new material today I:
Thought I’d share something I recorded when I actually had a mic. This is far more ‘minimalist’ then what I posted here: Mirror Pond Demo

I really like the recording quality I got with the little Focusrite kit that I bought. I also opted for using Ardour (an open source DAW) instead of ProTools. Just cause FREEDOM!

(Disclaimer: I’m not being paid by anybody. I just really love the ability to record fairly decent sounding takes without breaking the bank too much and hope sharing this will help others do the same. Go out and compare and contrast things, maybe you’ll find something better. But the most important thing is to just keep creating and having fun.)

Ray Manzarek gets fun:

I know it’s sort of cringy (to mention) but I find it great when people you admire and whose work you use as a benchmark have similar thought process and feelings to you.


Lyrics

 

Wasted days and

Golden rays of

Sunshine

When will I rise

and tow…

The drowning line

Long blonde hair

Wicker chair

and

Summer Wine

Such malaise

The milieu

It won’t be fine