Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Dafty Duct

Baroque specialist Ingrid Matthews (Ingrid Matthews Olson.)

Maybe once or twice a year I go on a Chaconne binge or sometimes even a full-on bender with the Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin by that old religious freak with all the kids. I am currently swirling about in such an aural flux.

The whole set. Desert-island (which Phoenix is particularly not unlike,) stuff which has already given me a lifetime of enjoyment and I feel like I haven't even started yet.

I have heard of these but having never heard the music itself I'm pretty excited about this.

Overall I think the monumental Chaconne is complete in the original violin manuscript provided by Bach himself.

That's a beautiful sight. His hand was impeccable. I can read the notes right off the pages written in his own script. That is some kind of awesome. Everything is right there. It's a whole world.

Even the tiny little editorial additions typically made by us guitarists (we can supply bass notes and sound out internal counterpoint only suggested by the manuscript,) bother me. Just because you can do something doesn't necessarily mean it's worth doing.

You could, I suppose, run a marathon in a revolving door. My spouse says this is not worth the effort. It's "too hard" vis-a-vis rewards (if any?) gained from such an arduous undertaking. I sincerely believe that it is not hard enough and therefore a little less interesting than running a course over hills against the wind on a hot day.

But Schumann was a pretty hip guy so his accompaniments are sure to be at least very interesting.


Swimming in a kaleidoscopic sea of feeling-states each itself buoyant upon the rippling waters of memories, I negotiate each day. Quite like you or anyone else, you might basically agree. So I am constantly reminded by concerned others, friends, family, pets... that my intellect will not lead in itself to the resolution of my concerns. They arrive at this conclusion, which though I have many many times before beginning early in my childhood years, by using intellectual processes. If I were to present this observation to them I would expect possible negatives which would need to be worked out. A fucking shitstorm is what it would be, frankly. One strong enough to wipe out entire trailer parks.

Another reason I'm glad I we have six-inch walls, surrounded by outer walls.

"This is the worst trip
I've ever been on."

I want to go home.

Friday, September 09, 2011

Lands Hidden, Lands Nearby

Upon hearing the call of The Elders, Percival the Dark Guardian has returned to his post at the forefront of The Clawrovian Gates. Beyond this lie old things, dank and forgotten, crowded by flaring gray dust-nebulas... the Shadows Which Underlie The Fridge. Among these roam perhaps the most feared beings from the dismal land of Lotharae: the dreaded Turtle Heads. Murderously aggressive, they are also so well-armored that it is said they can withstand the lava flows of the goddess-mountain: Trymdahl Crater, traditional home of The Lightning Bats, but that my friends is another story with another hero, a soulless enemy, and a wascally wabbit.

Thursday, September 08, 2011

Pandemonium #8285, "The Gray Slaying"

Percival The Dark Guardian, laying siege to The Laundry of Lotharae.

On the battlefield, black is white and white is black. Bravery, being nothing but the fear of fear itself, is cast away like a broken bat. The cries of the fallen wounded fade.

The enemy laundry has been slain and its lingering remnants enslaved. Having heard that all goes well at the Clawrovian Gates, beyond which lay the estates, forests, rivers, and lakes of the land of Percival's ancestors, the warrior rests weary but alert.

Like the corpses of the field the sky has gone gray. The wind is still yet no voices carry, only the distant pucking of goose-farts.

Tuesday, September 06, 2011

Where Did I Put My "Where Did I Put My T-Shirt?" T-Shirt?

My own personal design for the Threadless World Alzheimer's Month T-Shirt Design Challenge. I seriously don't think I ever had much of a chance winning with a wearable statement like that one.


They say "all monkeys are funny." I don't think so. There's one in my pants and he's not funny at all; it's rather serious, actually.


We've all met at least one person like this: they cannot keep to agreements. Promises mean nothing to them. An alarming number of such people seem not to be psychopaths. They're just regular folks not much different from you or me. But they do not bother to make certain distinctions that many of us regard as routine. For example, they lie a lot. No big deal. It's part of their nature.

So I'll cut them some slack.

"I'm sorry I'm late. There was a giant laser-eyed squid on the highway and it was blocking a lane." Okay, so maybe a little less obvious, but a casual lie nonetheless. Probably a lie told despite the fact that a truth would have served just as well and at no extra cost. It makes no difference to them. When I myself have privately exposed such a lie I have often incurred anger, misunderstanding, and outright denial in the face of facts. I hardly bother anymore. Water off a duck's back and all that. People deserve some privacy, yes?

Not all lies are even, actually, lies. They may just be boundry markers. I can respect that. No need to probe further.


Ludwig Wittgenstein:

"Someone who knows too much finds it hard not to lie."

"Like everything metaphysical the harmony between thought and reality is to be found in the grammar of the language."

(Oh I like that one.)

"One of the most misleading representational techniques in our language is the use of the word 'I.' "

Though I would enjoy doing that all day, that fine quote will have to be Wittgenstein's closer.


I was listening to a recording of violist Robin Ireland playing Bach transcriptions. During the Gavottes (from the Cello Suite #6 originally in the key of D-major,) I was inspired by the mathematical elegance and transparent lyricism of the suggestive lines; suggestive, that is, of other musical lines by implication.

Creationists, I have found, often have so little respect for intellectual curiosity. The simplest things; why, why make these seem like impossibilities? This question is one of their favorites: "How can something come from nothing?" They toss this out as if it were a daisy-cutter. It's not.

It's a good question. That's the problem. They don't see it that way.

Well, her it is: the plain fact of the matter is that something does indeed come from nothing. Where else is it going to have come from? Tell me, Sherlock. Besides, there have been observations. Vacuum fluctuations through Casimir plates.

Bach created several strands of counterpoint by suggesting various melodic lines rather than stating these implicitly, which the cello cannot always do by itself. Same thing with particle pairs. Like the virtual counterpoint in the Bach cello suites which just "appears out of nowhere," so do particles.


So hoist up the John B. sails. See how the mainsail sets. Maybe the captain will let you go home.

Guitarist/composer Mauro Giuliani.

Monday, September 05, 2011

Marais Puts the Mo' in Sumo

Marais weighed in at a svelte 18 pounds when we got him about a month ago. He's 8 years old and was dropped off at the Humane Society by the proverbial old lady who couldn't care for him anymore. Sometimes his left ear goes flat and his eye droops a little on that side; years ago he was hurt by a car and he had to have his jaw fixed surgically.

He has a zipper that goes up along the middle of his belly, and if you unzip it out fall many cans of cat food.

Twister Without the Plastic Sheet With the Colored Big Dots

Percival exposes his redolent abdomen. He is flexible. With such power he will be able to conquer many worlds.

Many stout warriors and admirable princesses have fallen before the gaze of Percival.

He is twisted around so his upper and lower body are facing different directions.

He's about half-grown-up and I think he's starting to slow down a little bit. He still ambushes the others and he likes to play in the hot-tub (when it's empty.) There is a pink paper wad he likes. He chases it up the sides of the tub and it slides back down, taunting him. Teasing him. Flouting his spread claws. Yet there must be some vulnerability, some avenue by which it is readily exposed to attack, some way to vanquish it for eternity.