Birthing Scoffs

Whenever "big" events are broadcast live I always scoff. I can't help it. Whether it's the Democratic National Convention (I seriously can't get over the mood reversal Hillary has had regarding Obama. During the debates she looked like she wanted to kill him, now . . . it's the game, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.), the Grammys, or the Olympics, something always seems off or "put on".

The following is one of the reasons I find myself scoffing and shaking my head whenever these things are on a screen in front of me, and why others find me sometimes bothersome to be around at those moments:

"Sydney Phonytics"

Circadian Cramps, Tracho Triumphs

I've been in need of "Do-it-Yourself" National Scenic Byway tours recently, AKA I've needed a break to get a little bit of summer in me as it quickly dwindles away. One more day of writing "Circadia", then two to three weeks of recording. Two days left for "Trachomanic" mixing (maybe one).

Static Statements

A friend of mine recently posted an article on Facebook detailing the intricate frailties and dangers posed by "hipsters". I've been traversing the web as of late out of inspiration, looking for "static statements" -- statements that used to have valor and a true message, but which have since turned into basic fashion trends, meaningless eye candy, forgotten words.

I found a lot of hooplah about the keffiyeh, a traditional head scarf worn by Arab men. Read the basic of the basics: the wikipedia article, just to get an idea of Western appropriation and the ignorant loss of meaning. It's nobody's fault, really . . . but nobody seems to truly fix these debacles, either.

Keffiyeh Wikified

Requiem (Part 1)

Cleaning house. The first part of a small Citizens Banned movie I'm making in my Patch breaks. Something to help us CB folk remember the days of old . . .

The Cycle of Deaf Ears

In the midst of my uprising, I tend to veer off to the center. I take my binoculars and observe. Let my fingers traverse the keys in order to enter the abodes for less than humble responses. I see surface talk. Nothing of substance. What is the meaning? It goes over their heads.

It stuck for a little while. I preached Typosgraphy in the underground until I absolutely knew that it was beat into people's brains enough to stick by itself. Lo and behold, someone took notice. And distorted the messages.

Turning substance into surface, I merely became a cover and heading . . . no body. With my new soap box position, could I somehow maneuver thinking waves in my favor? In order to do that, I'd have to work with the system. Jump into it full on. I hear that the operation is excruciating. I'll have to prepare a safe corner. Untouchable even to myself . . .

Three More . . .

Two Months

I feel as though I've been engaging in a constant brainstorm for almost a year. Writing three albums, recording the same number simultaneously. I've decided on what to focus on.

The first demo disc should be done recording wise in two months. It won't be available until . . . well . . . you'll understand.

"Era 1"

In the past couple of years, two months always stand out to me as the months I "feel alive" in. August and September. I am in the midst of "feeling alive" right now. It might be the way the wind feels amidst the extreme humidity, causing me to sweat and relax at the same time (I always think of a nice cold glass of beer covered in condensation), or the way the sun shines its golden hue in late summer/early fall. It's peaceful.

The fly has manifested itself on paper. Week long sprints of poetry and melody writing interspersed with software downloading -- especially VST plug-ins. My Outlook Calendar is packed with an itinerary with a 5% flexibility capacity. "Era 1" it's called.

Era 1. The hardest "era" is always the first one. It's hard to come from nothing and try to build up a huge entity for both selfish pride and altruistic empathy completely from scratch.

A two-sided conversation . . . doppelganger dandies turned into insectalian exploitation.