Composite Moment (part 1)

I don’t know when the moment started, and I don’t know how it got compressed down from so many hours to the blink of an eye, but it hit me as a moment when I was on my way into town to shoot the show (Home Power Hour). The moment has stretchy ends now so it is less cohesive, but I’ll try to share the particulars.

Let’s start with the Parking Lot Gypsies. I was heading over to WalMart for some Epsom Salts for my sweetie when I noticed that the parking lot was largely unavailable. There were traffic cones at all my usual entrances and I was moved out of my comfort zone and forced to use some foreign entrance surrounded by strange unfamiliar asphalt. I was of course curious, but I was on a mission.

My peripheral inputs discerned that the parking lot was in fact getting a new set of traffic lines; a refurb really, as no new patterns were appearing. What made this interesting was the crew. I processed their sound first – collecting the cadence of their phrases and the open intimacy of banter. But the Epsom Salts were calling. As I emerged triumphant from the big box I got some clearer visual images.

The mother with her toddler in a shopping cart, admonishing the child not to get burned by the sparkler it was twirling. That’s a good lesson. The father valiantly wrestling the paint spraying machine into submission, as he lay down the crisp new yellow lines that differentiate my space from yours. In shorts and bare chested he was a billboard of bold prison tats; his movements quick and assertive. The Matriach barking redundant orders from around a dangling cigarette; her tiny legs supporting the authority of her bulbous torso.

It struck me that they were a form of Gypsy Band, or maybe even a rock band, sweeping into town to own the stage for some fleeting moment. And own it they do, with their traffic cones and bright machines. They commandeer the resources of the venue for their personal use and strut with the plumage of authority over the space they have acquired. It is temporary authority but it is total control through its duration. They will dominate this parking lot tonight and move their caravan to a new parking lot tomorrow night, for that is when they work. And the whole extended family is there, from toddlers to grandparents, providing a useful service and owning the world they live in. Free on the wind and hard on the earth.

I could not linger, I had collected the requisite impressions, and my sweetie needed a soak.


I’m back to “Mojang is stupid.”

While trying to set up an account at Mojang to buy a Minecraft account I run into the verify email glitch, which doesn’t seem to send an email to my account, and so I can’t get a user name to use the account i can’t buy because Mojang/Minecraft can’t send me a verification email.

I’ve tested and retested the account. It works fine. I’ve set up alternate accounts. I’ve changed servers, but nothing has worked. I wonder at the lost revenue, and figure that Mojang has not sold out to a larger company because they know that they would all be fired for incompetence. I am over making efforts to plow through their miasma of a system.

Good luck Notch.

Sometimes I Forget …

that I have a blog. And I fantasize about what I would put on my blog. All the art and stories. All the music and film. And then I remember that I don’t have any of those things together to share. Of course since my audience is largely future versions of me I fully understand the obstacles that impede my growth as a blog star, and so I am forgiven.

But having such an understanding audience is a moral hazard, as I tend to stretch even their patience with my incessant procrastination. Lately I’ve started gathering the snippets and shards of my creative life, and forcing them into a shareable form. It’s actually a reconstruction effort owing to some unfortunateness a few years ago, but I’ve milked that event for all the slack I can afford myself. I feel much better now.

Okay, I’m tired of yammering.

This is silly

There are too many stipulations to satisfy before I can start sharing the trivia that is my human life. Right now I am writing this more from a sense of guilt and obligation than a sense of sharing. I’ve read about many writers who sit down and write for some appointed hours every day. Of course they don’t always have something to say, but sometimes the stream of words start falling out like siphoned water and it’s nearly impossible to catch them all before they spill on the floor.

I can do that, but it’s self-indulgent to a masturbatory level, a metaphor I will not expand on. There is plenty to share, but I hold my life and thoughts close, and I feel vulnerable beyond courage. I am swaddled in doubt, but driven by vision, or delusion, depending on how it is articulated. Wasted words.

This is a Leonard Cohen of blog posts. Snoring.


Every once in a while it’s probably good to come up for air. I’ve been underwater, swimming with my friends, and spending less time in my own territory. I am a secret. Really most all of us are secrets we tell to ourselves when we think we are alone. If I am left too long by myself, I get more than a little weird. It becomes harder to interact with the occasional human, to the point of embarrassment. Tongue tied brain cells tripping over each other.

Malleable Memory

I finally got a power cord for the KX88. And I hooked it up to the old Proteus.

I had avoided playing on it because I didn’t want to torture myself. There is something grossly unsatisfying about playing a silent keyboard. So with everything hooked up I started plunking, but there was no sound. Which I’m going to call a good thing. Why? Because I learned something about myself. I remember magically. I improve on reality more the further I am away from it.

Without sound, the KX88 keys felt heavy and mushy. Like those on the Akai MPK88, a keyboard which I had rejected when I had first played it. After correcting the Midi channel communication the sound came out beautifully and the keys suddenly felt more responsive. This was a bit of a shock and a joke on me. I have been longing for the return of my KX88, and now I find that my hands may have moved on. I played on a Roland RD-700NX and it felt like a piano, with a very similar resistance and response; reminiscent of a dry Steinway, like one in a practice hall where humidity and temperature are controlled. The Roland action was lustworthy, but I’m not sure if I would find it  a fuller experience or if Yamaha has somehow balanced the essential synergy between tactile feedback and sound response. And, I’ve decided not to worry about it.

The KX88 takes a heavier hand and will help me develop strength and technique that will hopefully translate the a quicker, lighter board in the future. Next I’m going to try out the Kurzweil 2500/2600/PC3K8 series and the Korg KronosX.

Candy, Candy.

A List

I rebuilt an old Macbook. SSD,  maxed Ram, and gave it away.

Installed Minecraft. Thanks Notch.

Modded out my Fernandes Strat. Red on Red on Red. New duds make it look good. Shiny

Felled, cut, split and transported pick-up loads of firewood. Cozy.

Got my re-UP from Jawbone. Ordered in December.

Finally got the power cord for the KX88.

Started experimenting with Open-G tuning on my acoustic.

Received a Martin backpacker guitar from a friend. Sweet. Curiously balanced.

Got some work done; un pocito.