Proportional to Our Perceptions

Radio Massacre International sings in my ears. Naturally, they don’t literally sing since the three of them have been bereft of voice since before the dawn of time. The instruments they wield with their nimble limbs like sekerky and krumpáče sing to me, as it should be. The human voice itself I’ve always found to be slightly overrated as an instrumental force.

Time has been eking along at a plaintive, deliberate pace, as if to demonstrate to me and to anyone else who may be paying attention that the ripples that ease us forward during these indeed plaintive days have a frothiness proportional to our perceptions as individuals. Along the paths these ripples have driven me, I have relocated into a more spacious living quarters - a living quarters that includes my most ambitious of music-making studios to date. Ironically, I keep selling off equipment in an effort to align the immediate world around me with my minimalist aesthetic. I’ve spent a good deal of time within my new studio, but not nearly enough time as I would have liked as I have been and still am whisked round to part tras portion upon the residual maelstroms in the aftermath of the move. I ache for tranquility. Music has been made. More music will me made. Universes will be punctured by the krumpáč of destiny.

Everyone needs a krumpáč of destiny. Everyone needs to be impaled upon a krumpáč of destiny. I suggest when the time comes, and I guarantee ya that it’s just around the “corner”, you chose your own krumpáč of destiny to be impaled upon instead of that of another.

I’ve elected to take part in this week’s Disquiet Junto and shoved some chordings into Ardour in my first efforts to be poetic. Ya see - the theme of this week’s Disquiet Junto is do something poetic. Ya can guess the first form of poetry that came to mind. Of course! The scrumpy, whittly haiku. Will the musical result of this poetic seed-spawn of creativity contain voices reciting such a poetic aberration? Oh no! What did I tell ya about the overratedness of the human voice earlier? Ya must remember your lessons, vole! The poetic seed-spawn of creativity bid me not to drawlingly voice such aberrations into the virtual tape machine. The structure itself of haiku is the key to endless variations of musical joy.

Now I shall return to sitting not within my mind and beside my perpetually shifting thought patterns, but within this fantastically unpatterned apartment.