Here lies Martes Flavigula, eternally beneath the splintered earth.

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Eternally in Repose
Tue, 11 Oct, 2022 06.48 UTC

It’s Kindle’s birthday! Hooray! Why do I remember this? Well, my carefully worn metal file of a human, I remember this because it’s the day before I pulled my foetal self out from the tipped-over test tube. What is Kindle doing during these tilted days? I’d imagine that Kindle is busy being happy ensconced within a family. Oouh, baby! Congratulations, Kindle! You are part of the mainstream. You made it. Yes! We all want to be like you. As that old song goes:

We wanna be just like you

We wanna be just like you

We wanna be just like you

We wanna be


And it’s true. That is - it is true in my case, anyhow. I want to be a happy, middle aged woman living in Louisiana surrounded by an infinite bustle of in-laws. That, my carefully worn metal file of a friend, is the good life. Don’t you ever forget it or I’ll toss you directly into yonder landfill where the rest of the erstwhile useful tools lie eternally in repose. Damn peasant.

I gulp down tepid coffee. Yum.

I’ve been considering the contrast between a perception I’ve seen myself stumbling into time and again regarding the so-called popularity of music. In specific, I’m referring to my own music and to the music of those whom I’ve met via Mastodon (sonomu.club and its extended bustle of in-laws). When I consider music that I listen to - take the new Bob Drake album, for example - I don’t consider its public appeal at all. The milling masses and their dubious “taste” have nothing to do with where I’m at listening-wise. For decades, I’ve followed a few forums and advices of people with vaguely similar taste to find musicks that appeal to me - that toot my muffin, as they say in the old countries - and in this manner, for the most part, chosen my own sendero. It’s pleasant when I do find someone else who appreciates said musicks. We can compare notes. We can even listen together. And though this phenomenon did happen more often in the past and gladdened me, imbibing music has always been a deeply personal experience. I mostly take it for granted that what I listen to will not appeal to the people who normally cluster around me. I laughingly imagine actual humans clustering around me. Ha!

Now - making music for me comes down to this simple axiom: I want to compose something that I would like to listen to. Given the information in the previous paragraph, the immediate conclusion is that the music that I compose is not going to be compatible with the “tastes” of the masses of humans and homunculi seething through the alleyways. And why should I think otherwise? I shouldn’t. But I’ve seen my perception change regarding what I create. Some mental module that normally lounges behind time mottled tapestries emerges and seeks a raw validation for the hovno that streamed from my hara. This module emerges and attempts to take control. And rationally, again given what I typed in the previous paragraph, it makes no sense.

I’ll continue to share my music, por supuesto, but Herr Module of “Validation” can remain behind its time mottled tapestry. Expectations are mostly evil. I’ve found the best perception is to regard the appeal my music has to others as a gentle bonus. Oh - I’m appreciative, for sure, but falling into the trap of it being an objective is something I can never do. As I wrote - I’ve never listened to music because it pandered to a greater swath of humanity. Music consumption is deeply personal. Any twisted and differing feelings I might have about my own output are simply incorrect.

Along with martens, goulish goats and the rippling fen -
these writings 1993-2023 by Bob Murry Shelton are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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