Write drunk, edit sober.

Is Life Serious? (pt. 1)

Funny that it’d come up.

It’s been a sad and weird week.

Self-referential.

Hemingway was famed for saying, or at the very least shadily attributed for inspiring, the idea that when you’re drained, hollowed; an echoing coelum of serrated black letters and bone-white paper; empty as a pocket with nothing to lose:

that’s when you need to sit down, shut up, and start talking.

To yourself, of course.

The idea that remains after the others have fled, deserted you like the soldier who stole the teacup, led by the citizen who stole the hilltop.

That when all your words have left you, alone and unashamed, your hand to a pen and your pen to a page and a page into that moment’s mausoleum.

Describe, argue, invoke;  create or destroy or confirm or deny or innumerate grains of sand at your feet.

Something, anything.

That vaguely resembles the lip of a canyon, the crook of a river;

anything that even slightly appears to be a hairpin-curve  into that group of wrapped aspens, interlocked to a steeple, crested, like the unused paper-white teeth of a wretchedly starving artist.

The temporality of initiatives; transience, viscously, like a garden path sentence.

1932 in Germany was christened “the Year of the Firsts” by Berlin’s premier newspaper, Der Kremmheft.

The first man on the moon stepped with his left foot, landed with his right.

Vespucci’s first words in the New World were “And here the hill will lay.”

The first thing I ever saw was the bright-red skelter streak of incandescent, defiantly broken headlights, exploding past, around the corner and through the straightaway, moving quickly like cracks in dry sand, jagged like the corroded crystal refusal of a windshield’s last will and testament; they blurred until colors became indistinguishable from hot, exhausted, tar-thick air; I was entranced like the last card in the deck.

The first thing I ever said was how wide the road was.

The first thing I ever heard was the roar of burning sodium.

The first thing I ever felt was tenacity, like hunger, gnawing into my steering column chest, at the base, until the itch became

unbearable.

Happy 71st, Mr. Tambourine Man.

Remember when you were young?

retrogasm:

My man Franklin…

Life is absurd.

Hasta el sol.

Porque después, tendríamos la luna.

tmblrcomposers:

Thanks to classicallytrainedtokickyourass for today’s submission, and our first piece to feature steel drums, let’s hope it’s not the last!

This is one of the first decent pieces I wrote as a composer. The title refers to the pace of the piece, it shifts tempos…

That dope shit.

Deep in thought.

Even deeper in mud.