Chipping Paint

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Small southern towns that bake beneath a low hanging sun. If you’ve seen them all then you haven’t seen any.

Did you ever sit under Magnolia blossoms, next to a jar of crickets, as your friend’s sister twirled on a tireswing. A tireswing that was just ten minutes walk from a swimming hole?

No, I’m not trying to sell you chewing tobacco or homemade jam.

I’m just wondering if these places are going to stay.

They were sort of our version of indigenous tribes deep in the Amazon. All sleepy in a blanket of humidity and cicada song. As primordial as discarded peach pits that take root.

Do you remember battered banisters, and the highest technology being a superninendo; that you soon abandoned to slide in your socks across a musty woodpanel floor? You know the sort of stuff you’d do as an ancient Sharpee named Midnight watched lazily from his post beneath a shuttered window.

If you don’t I guess it doesn’t much matter.

Cause every sacred rite of passage that a barefoot, cricket hunting, Red Ryder marksman fell into, climbed over, or set on fire is now forever bathed in the witching glow of LCD.

Unfortunately that’s not an illicit substance that will get you closer to nature. It’s mighty uncanny. This disembodied voice that colors every living moment in artificial omniscience.

The oaks are still majestic at the periphery of the pasture. The earth smells sweet. But there’s a tension even here.

The question is am I old. Or are we mad?


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Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz

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Cager (Poem)

Image result for 19th century man


Overclocked machines

Stuffed to the brim

With numbered

Listlessness so grim

So grimly unencumbered

To trim

Cutting meaning into action

Assembled and compiled

For a smoother traction

Cager faintly smiled

The neatness the precision

How carefree

To live without decision

In the geometric See

The paths are set

Garbage collected

There’s no regret

No life so masterfully

Architected


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Eyes on the East (Poem)

daffodils


O you voices of wonder….

Pour out your splendour !

All through the hills…

O sweet and tender!

Reedy and ready…

How the wind fills!

Various yet steady…

Eyes on the East!

Shine stars o shine…

From greatest to least!

All down the line…

Herald the dawn!

Impulse for dancing…

Sundays sweet fawn!

Tender is glancing…

Fresh wine is drawn!

O you voice of wonder…

Pour out your splendour!

Cast down your hilts…

Sing that great ardour!

That drones and that lilts…

It’s never harder!

Than at twilight…

But if faith will continue!

The Sun is our sight…

Shine on o shine on true!

Voices of wonder …

Pour out your splendour!

All through the hills…

Curtains are thrust back !

Exploding as Daffodils…



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Fatalism (Poem)

mcllelands


A coupla more songs

And its time to die

Same old fatalism

Somethin like two wrongs

Don’t make a try

Raindrop prism

Filters

Same old fatalism

Call it pessimism

Heavy hitters

Put on those tracks

Follow the rails

Again and

A coupla more songs

Draw some links in sand

Mostly longs

In whispers

Made of suggestions

Compulsive vespers

Miss and directions

Researching and

A coupla more songs

And its time to die

And and and same old fatalism

Under a rosy sky

Floating cherry smoke

Epileptic relativism

Gin and coke

And a coupla more songs

and its time to die

Filters parliament

With a heavy sigh

Empty boxes that cement

Every tender why

Same old fatalism

Random assembly

To chase away

Determinism

Determined to stay

Who said what to where and when

Is that destiny? Was that destiny?

I don’t Amen.

It’s hard when you speak in periods you know

Yea it goes something like

A couple more songs that grow

Into a cheap old mic

Maybe one day will glow

Like that same old fatalism

Like a raindrop prism

That arcs double wide

Trailer park philosophies

Theyr’e on our side

That same old fatalism paints symphonies

Come on baby do ya wanna ride?


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Is Now The Best Time To Be A Writer

Image result for typewriter

The modern day certainly isn’t romantic. You need time for romance. And the modern day is all about instant access.  So, it’s no surprise that sepia hued conceptions of lone desks in sparse rooms reeking of whiskey jar with reality. And this jarring leads some would be writers to whiskey without the licence of having written like Bukowski.

You may not dig Bukoswski. You may think my depression era vision of artistic struggle is cheesy (Confession: It is but cheese is yummy). But the fact that many feel that today’s over saturated market, desensitized readers, and short attention spans spell doom for spelling out literary vistas is undeniable.

The aforementioned factors are certainly there. Even though some may question the degree to which they’re present. They are there.

What does oversaturation imply? It implies a flooded market. What’s so bad about a flooded market? Well, aside from the obvious increased difficulty in getting traditionally published there’s the accompanying lack of funds due to a lethal combination of stiff competition and sheer static.

But, was it any better for Bukowski or Poe? I don’t think so. There’s probably a good reason both men were notorious alcoholics. A bohemian paradise isn’t one. Poe was writing at a time when literacy still played second fiddle to operating a plow. His market was small.

What’s worse a big market with lots of noise and asskickers or a small market full of aristocrats? I really don’t know.

I know that in Bukowskis day even though literacy had improved it still played second fiddle to assembling widgets at GM.  Also, no one had time for reading.

That’s my first set of reasons for the firm belief that today might be the best time to be a writer. Because, despite all the hot air about overstuffed schedules readers have more time than ever. As do writers.

So, we have unprecedented levels of literacy and people who have time to watch the Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead while checking in on the Packers game.

Yes, but all these things are numerical…qunatative. It doesn’t matter if there’s more potential readers if there’s no engagement. People who are distracted by Game of Thrones and top ten lists won’t be reading very deeply if reading at all.

This may well be the lament of those who wish to view the past in roseate hues. But, the truth as far as I can see it is that these shallow consumers have a shadowside. Lots of folks, many of whom are in places like WordPress, are fed up with reboots. They make the exact sort of complaints that writers make. They’re hungry for deep engaging content. And seeing as they’ve had the whole worlds literary cannon at their fingertips are well equipped to engaged with said content.

Traditional publication and revenue may be difficult and it was always difficult. In fact I think that better informed folks might be able to argue that making money as a writer was even more difficult in Bukowskis day.

Yes, it may have been more difficult and it may still be difficult but there are many more tools. And one big difficulty is easily taken out of the equation. Writers as far as I can tell – want to be read.  Due to technology and sites like WordPress this has never been easier.

This is a wonderful tool because it provides the invaluable insight of feedback. And there are many tools at the writers disposal. There are instant translators, internet dictionaries, just insane amounts of information about any given topic. Not only that but there are countless tools for organizing that information, for formatting, spell-checking, and editing your work.

I still flirt with the idea of the sparse room with the weathered keyboard. I flirt with it cause it’s sexy and it’s fun. But this little idealization of where real work and real writers happen is like most idealisations mere whimsy.

I’d conclude with something more concrete but I have to make my second cup of coffee before my shift starts.

Thanks for reading and don’t let the idea of being a ‘blogger’ keep you from writing.


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Noble Order of Asshole Knights – Join or Serve!


So, I was practicing violin (poorly) from a Mel Bay book I picked up. One of the songs is Gavotte by some fop named Praetorius. Being that I’m about as naturally musical as a coked up bobcat trapped in well full of nettles I needed to hear the bloody thing.

Lo! What wonderfully snooty shit this be.

Here’s what comes to mind from the thumbnail:

Behold wench! Yonder peasant falling!

Ho!

What luck to have witnessed his falstaff frame thusly collapse!

Yay tis good to be rich! 

Soothe, thou may grab me by the feline!

Say what you will about these fops but at least they had style. If my grandmother is to be believed I have some kind of count in my lineage. But he would have been Polish or Ukrainian or something. So it doesn’t count. =) I’m so fucking clever.

Nonetheless, I’m bringing back feudalism! With the current disparity between rich and poor we’re already there! Why not add some style to the mix.

So what is your choice?! Will you ride forth as part of my Noble Order of Asshole Knights? Or be oppressed most elegantly!

Image result for douchebag knights
Thy Gallant Lords!

I know you yups pay to pick strawberries but won’t actually have your kids do it as a job. Well, I’m here to help.

Being a lettered man and a patron of the symphonies it is my sacred duty to tie you back to the land!

No longer will you wish for agrarian bliss. No longer will you pine!

Your toil will sustain high culture, institutions of learning that will once more take more than a pulse to enter, and wars we won’t lie about.

As Noble Asshole Knights we don’t spread freedom to gain oil. We just take land cause it’s there and we’re probably better stewards than those hippies anyway. Plus its great fun to smack your neighbor!

Yes! Under the Noble Order of Asshole Knights the stars will shine brighter, and your beer will taste better, for you will have worked inordinately hard to sustain douchebags as is the lot of man!

BaronVonDouchebag Esquire III
Baron Von Douchebag ESQ III Pictured in traditional Cheeki Breeki Royal Besocks

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Stray Thoughts Regarding Craftsmanship via – E.O. Wilson’s – Consilience

https://i0.wp.com/ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41SNnGFamQL._SY344_BO1%2C204%2C203%2C200_.jpg


Oh, dear it’s already six well…I suppose I’ll just post this introduction to a book review I plan to get on with some time this week.


Before I go into the actual review I’d like to frame it with a few observations.

1998 that is the year of publication. That was the cusp of the new millennium. Little wonder that Wilson saw it fitting or was inspired to write a book like Consiliecne. A book that calls for the sort of cooperation and integrative analysis upon which a fast-pasted, complex, and deeply interconnected future must depend.

I am sixty years younger than the professor. Yet even I witnessed the sort of fundamental technological and societal transition that must have been spectacularly apparent to an attentive person as the 20th century unfolded.

Wilson was born in 1929 and I in 1989. He had firsthand experience of the development of modern airlines, of the civil rights movement, and the rise of computing from primitive room consuming vacuum tube driven monstrosities to the button sized micro-processors of today. I mention this because I have long been eager to relate my fascination and concern with people thrown headlong into the internet age without any real exposure to legacy technology.

I spent my youngest years in Russia. From 1989 to 1998 I was Moscow born and bred. I do not know if my contemporaries state side had as much exposure to older gadgetry as I. But I remember having to use a rotatory phone without irony or affectation. That was my idea of a phone. I also recall women pickling as matter of course rather than as a precious yuppie hobby. Washboards were standard. I don’t think I ever saw a washing machine till after I landed in Atlanta. I remember water based heating systems, archaic toilets, and most of all I remember the sense of having to learn to write well and legibly.

It is the latter point that I wish to stress the most. There is something sacred about writing by hand. About the febrile nature of paper. The care and attention that both author and postman have to give to a letter to deliver through a cold vastness to its intended recipient is a thing of magic. I love typing, I am very much a techie but there is a lot lost in that efficiency.

The geometric patterns of cursive script coupled with the more robust and refined physicality of guiding pen over paper is a transcendant experience. It is one I hold in special esteem because it is the first real form of the development of the formalization of thought, dream, and drive being preserved and thus rendered transmissible. The manner of conceptualizing and abstracting that led to the creation of the modern world owes its existence to writing. This is why I feel it necessary to promote its rawest and most ancient techniques as ones whose preeminence should not be allowed to dwindle.

One of the main themes that seems to run through Consilience is the stifling nature of over-specialization. I feel this to be a valid sentiment. So valid that it’s a fact. I think that over-specialization, professional, and social nearsightedness is due in part to an atrophying of humanistic arts like handwriting. Craftsmanship and artistry seriously executed as discipline provide a fertile ground from which good science and sound philosophy can spring.

This is a sentiment that I think E.O. Wilson would agree with for reasons that should become apparent as I outline and review this timely and worthy work.


The review will be posted by next Friday.

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

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