Finally, some vocals...of sorts. Enjoy!
----------------
Listening to: Charlie Parker - A Night In Tunisia
via FoxyTunes
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Flash Fiction Friday - Hint Fiction
Seeing as how I'm prepping for another (most like demoralizing) contest entry, I thought I'd shoot two barrels of fish with one shotgun and post some of the compositions I'm considering for submission.
The contest? Hint Fiction.
The deadline: August 31 (this coming Monday, I believe).
The skinny: Compose a story in 25 words or less - perfect for a twitter post. Come to think of it, I should post mine on my much neglected Twitter account. I'll try to due that right after I send in the entries for consideration.
Well, here they are:
The Funeral of an Enigma
The programs were referred to often - compulsively, it seemed - as the structure they provided was some sort of relief from the awkwardness and boredom.
Baggage
From the pedestrian bridge, she emptied the purse into the river, laughing through the tears. She kept the purse, though, for the memories it held.
The Humanity
"There is a indifferent, yawning chasm in between compassion and resentment," Drake drawled as he withdrew the blade. Footsteps echoed down the alley.
He Was Supposed To Have Made His Mark By Now
From the opposite sidewalk, surreptitious sideways glances at the girls walking by in tight, skimpy clothes. The sight was suddenly, for the first time, depressing.
----------------
Listening to: Miles Davis - So What
via FoxyTunes
The contest? Hint Fiction.
The deadline: August 31 (this coming Monday, I believe).
The skinny: Compose a story in 25 words or less - perfect for a twitter post. Come to think of it, I should post mine on my much neglected Twitter account. I'll try to due that right after I send in the entries for consideration.
Well, here they are:
The Funeral of an Enigma
The programs were referred to often - compulsively, it seemed - as the structure they provided was some sort of relief from the awkwardness and boredom.
Baggage
From the pedestrian bridge, she emptied the purse into the river, laughing through the tears. She kept the purse, though, for the memories it held.
The Humanity
"There is a indifferent, yawning chasm in between compassion and resentment," Drake drawled as he withdrew the blade. Footsteps echoed down the alley.
He Was Supposed To Have Made His Mark By Now
From the opposite sidewalk, surreptitious sideways glances at the girls walking by in tight, skimpy clothes. The sight was suddenly, for the first time, depressing.
----------------
Listening to: Miles Davis - So What
via FoxyTunes
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Photo Odin's Day
Summer...my least favorite season. Sure, it's got it's moments, but for the most part, nah - not for me. I can't stand it when I sweat from activity no more strenuous than sitting. So, to help bring a little coolness into the blogosphere as the Dog Days of Summer draw to a close, a picture of Winter.
I took this photo from a pedestrian bridge over a small river. From what I can figure, the ice had partially melted the day before, and when it froze back up over night, a thin slice that had been turned on its side by the river current froze into place, jutting out of the surface at funny angle. Sort of a beautiful, ephemeral sun dial.
----------------
Listening to: Marnie Stern - Every Single Line Means Something
via FoxyTunes
I took this photo from a pedestrian bridge over a small river. From what I can figure, the ice had partially melted the day before, and when it froze back up over night, a thin slice that had been turned on its side by the river current froze into place, jutting out of the surface at funny angle. Sort of a beautiful, ephemeral sun dial.
----------------
Listening to: Marnie Stern - Every Single Line Means Something
via FoxyTunes
Monday, August 24, 2009
New Music Monday - Jazz Trip
I'm not going to lie - today's song is an unmitigated failure. Just does not work. A hot mess. Sorry, but not every experiment can work out right.
I was going for a weird jazzy trippy number. Not sure what actually happened, but I'm pretty sure it wouldn't stand a chance in front of Obama's Death Panel, which, by the way, would be a good band name.
----------------
Listening to: Gogol Bordello - Start Wearing Purple
via FoxyTunes
I was going for a weird jazzy trippy number. Not sure what actually happened, but I'm pretty sure it wouldn't stand a chance in front of Obama's Death Panel, which, by the way, would be a good band name.
----------------
Listening to: Gogol Bordello - Start Wearing Purple
via FoxyTunes
Friday, August 21, 2009
Flash Fiction Friday - The Old Man and the Mailbox
The Old Man And The Mailbox
"It's hot already," John muttered to himself as he wiped his dampening forehead with a white handkerchief. He thought about just unfolding it completely and draping it over his head, like he had seen the Arabs do back in the war, then thought better of it and folded back up and slipped it in his shirt pocket. He slowly traversed the blinding white concrete of his driveway, like a firewalker, towards his mailbox at the end. Today was the day he got his Social Security check - they arrived like clockwork on the 5th of the month, or the 6th if the 5th was on a Sunday. And the postman was always there by 10 AM; it was 10:30 now.
His shuffling feet had made their way halfway down the driveway before he had to pause for a break. He had a walker but refused to use it most of the time. He was still man enough to walk out to get the mail, for Chrissakes. Again the handkerchief came out and wiped away the sweat, on his face now as well as his brow. He remembered marching through the deserts of Africa during the war, in the somewhat romantic way that time can tint such things. He started toward the mailbox again, letting his memories distract him from the pain in his joints until, like a blessed oasis, he was at the mailbox at the end of the driveway.
It was impossible to see inside the dark cavern when he first opened it; his eyes needed a few seconds to adjust. His eyes still worked pretty well, he thought. He took comfort in thee small blessings whenever he noticed them.
To his surprise, the box appeared empty. He reached his shaking hand inside and felt around. Nothing. An odd sad sensation flooded into his veins, and he closed the mailbox. He retrieved his handkerchief yet again and wiped himself down. It's too hot to think, he thought. The handkerchief finally went on top of his head, awkward appearances be damned, in an effort to cool down.
John checked the watch on his well-tanned wrist, a beautiful gold Rolex he got when he retired from the car factory. The watch said 10:40. John opened the mailbox again. Still nothing.
----------------
Listening to: Sybris - On Man!
via FoxyTunes
"It's hot already," John muttered to himself as he wiped his dampening forehead with a white handkerchief. He thought about just unfolding it completely and draping it over his head, like he had seen the Arabs do back in the war, then thought better of it and folded back up and slipped it in his shirt pocket. He slowly traversed the blinding white concrete of his driveway, like a firewalker, towards his mailbox at the end. Today was the day he got his Social Security check - they arrived like clockwork on the 5th of the month, or the 6th if the 5th was on a Sunday. And the postman was always there by 10 AM; it was 10:30 now.
His shuffling feet had made their way halfway down the driveway before he had to pause for a break. He had a walker but refused to use it most of the time. He was still man enough to walk out to get the mail, for Chrissakes. Again the handkerchief came out and wiped away the sweat, on his face now as well as his brow. He remembered marching through the deserts of Africa during the war, in the somewhat romantic way that time can tint such things. He started toward the mailbox again, letting his memories distract him from the pain in his joints until, like a blessed oasis, he was at the mailbox at the end of the driveway.
It was impossible to see inside the dark cavern when he first opened it; his eyes needed a few seconds to adjust. His eyes still worked pretty well, he thought. He took comfort in thee small blessings whenever he noticed them.
To his surprise, the box appeared empty. He reached his shaking hand inside and felt around. Nothing. An odd sad sensation flooded into his veins, and he closed the mailbox. He retrieved his handkerchief yet again and wiped himself down. It's too hot to think, he thought. The handkerchief finally went on top of his head, awkward appearances be damned, in an effort to cool down.
John checked the watch on his well-tanned wrist, a beautiful gold Rolex he got when he retired from the car factory. The watch said 10:40. John opened the mailbox again. Still nothing.
----------------
Listening to: Sybris - On Man!
via FoxyTunes
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Photo Odin's Day
In an effort to try something new, and to make up for the fact that due to being away for the weekend there was no New Music Monday, I've decided to try posting some pictures. The photos are random, but interesting (at least to me)...hope you like them.
I found this at an abandoned campsite at the edge of the woods right along Lake Superior. The paper scrap and the lake rocks were sitting on an old stump. The rest of the letter was nowhere to be found - probably blown away. This bit seemed to have been plastered to the stump by the rains of the previous couple of days; it was just drying out as I found it.
----------------
Listening to: Harlem Shakes - Strictly Game
via FoxyTunes
I found this at an abandoned campsite at the edge of the woods right along Lake Superior. The paper scrap and the lake rocks were sitting on an old stump. The rest of the letter was nowhere to be found - probably blown away. This bit seemed to have been plastered to the stump by the rains of the previous couple of days; it was just drying out as I found it.
----------------
Listening to: Harlem Shakes - Strictly Game
via FoxyTunes
Friday, August 14, 2009
Flash Fic Friday - Kvasir Sat
My offering today comes from an idea I had on my way out the door to work yesterday, as I was generally lamenting a mild case of writer's block. In the way of background info, Kvasir is the Norse god of inspiration.
Kvasir sat alone in the large alabaster room. The immense space was lined in the distance with billowy curtains, also white, which hung still and sterile. The room seemed to have no discernible boundary. Kvasir sat on a weathered wooden stool in the middle of the room. In front of him on a large raised pedestal was a chunk of marble, rippled and veined with thin rivers of crystals in several magnificent colors. In and of itself, the marble might be considered a work of art. Kvasir sat.
"What am I going to do today?" he asked out loud into the expanse.
His tools, a chisel in his left hand and a hammer in his right, were heavy. His grip was, ever so slightly, weakening. The instruments were heavy not only with the substance of their composite materials, but heavy with time. All the time.
The block of stone and the pedestal it sat upon were covered with a thick layer of fine dust, so powdery and light that it was hard to actually see. A thin layer had even seemed to have settled over Kvasir himself, collecting in the whiskers of his beard and the wisps of his long thinning hair. His naked back, though muscular, appeared worn by time and the enervation of a difficult existence.
"What am I going to do?"
The sound of his voice had an empty quality, most likely due to the fact that his words left his mouth and just kept going, into seeming infinity. His hands tensed up, absentmindedly manipulating his sculpting instruments. Kvasir sat, staring at the block of marble in front of him, at first intensely, then drifting off into something more like lassitude. He let out a deep sigh. His breath disturbed the dust on the marble and pedestal, sending a whisper of silvery powder into the air. Some of it drifted back and settled over him.
"What," he asked, "am I doing?"
----------------
Listening to: Sleater-Kinney - Dance Song '97
via FoxyTunes
Kvasir sat alone in the large alabaster room. The immense space was lined in the distance with billowy curtains, also white, which hung still and sterile. The room seemed to have no discernible boundary. Kvasir sat on a weathered wooden stool in the middle of the room. In front of him on a large raised pedestal was a chunk of marble, rippled and veined with thin rivers of crystals in several magnificent colors. In and of itself, the marble might be considered a work of art. Kvasir sat.
"What am I going to do today?" he asked out loud into the expanse.
His tools, a chisel in his left hand and a hammer in his right, were heavy. His grip was, ever so slightly, weakening. The instruments were heavy not only with the substance of their composite materials, but heavy with time. All the time.
The block of stone and the pedestal it sat upon were covered with a thick layer of fine dust, so powdery and light that it was hard to actually see. A thin layer had even seemed to have settled over Kvasir himself, collecting in the whiskers of his beard and the wisps of his long thinning hair. His naked back, though muscular, appeared worn by time and the enervation of a difficult existence.
"What am I going to do?"
The sound of his voice had an empty quality, most likely due to the fact that his words left his mouth and just kept going, into seeming infinity. His hands tensed up, absentmindedly manipulating his sculpting instruments. Kvasir sat, staring at the block of marble in front of him, at first intensely, then drifting off into something more like lassitude. He let out a deep sigh. His breath disturbed the dust on the marble and pedestal, sending a whisper of silvery powder into the air. Some of it drifted back and settled over him.
"What," he asked, "am I doing?"
----------------
Listening to: Sleater-Kinney - Dance Song '97
via FoxyTunes
Monday, August 10, 2009
Reykjavic Nights
Good Moleman to you!
Today Part 4 of the agonizing pain in which I live every daaaaaaay.
By which I mean it's New Music Monday!
----------------
Listening to: The Verve - Bittersweet Symphony
via FoxyTunes
Today Part 4 of the agonizing pain in which I live every daaaaaaay.
By which I mean it's New Music Monday!
----------------
Listening to: The Verve - Bittersweet Symphony
via FoxyTunes
Friday, August 7, 2009
Flash Fiction Friday - The Raisin Girl
The Raisin Girl
"What nationality you think the Sun-Maid girl is?" Steve asked through the wispy trails of smoke that rose between us.
"I don't know, Steve," I replied, and left it at that, savoring - in a moment of fully self-aware passive-aggresiveness - the deliciously agonizing limbo in which he was now swinging, just begging for me to relive him, which, finally, I did. "What do you think?" I asked, extending my open hand.
Floodgates open, the words gushed through. "I used to think she was like, Italian or something, I don't know - when I was growing up. Or maybe just a white chick like that Dorothy chick in 'Wizard of Oz'. Now that I'm older and more world-weary, I'm thinking Mexican...maybe an outside shot she's Indian."
I think he meant 'world-wise'. "She's fictional..."
He finally passed me the lighter and continued. "Like Pocahantus."
I ignored him and sparked up, drawing the dancing orange flicker in until it was a barely visible blue.
"I wonder what her life was like," he said, looking to me for a response.
I turned my eyes to him and shrugged, grateful that my mouth was occupied so he couldn't expect much in the way of a reply.
"She probably died young," he supposed out loud. "Smallpox...or maybe the Spanish flu. And I wouldn't be surprised if she was raped more than once."
I exhaled a smooth plume of blue smoke. As my lungs emptied, it began to feel like I was melting just a little. I smiled dumbly to myself, feeling very much at peace. "Sucks," I said to Steve; I was referring to the fate of the poor Sun-Maid girl, but I then thought that he might think I was referring to the weed.
"Oooh!" Steve burst out, pointing a fat, boorish finger excitedly in my face. "Oooh! Like the Land O Lakes chick...you know, that Indian chick with the butter?"
I thought of that trick where you cut out the butter she's holding, then fold her up so that her bare knees show through and look like boobs. I was going to mention it to Steve, as I'm sure he'd constructed one before; hell, probably even jerked off to it, but he pre-empted me.
"Do you think, Joe, that they were..." he seemed to lose his train of thought for a bit, then found it again, "think they were...passionate women?"
"Fictional," I repeated.
"Man, I bet they could fuck," Steve said longingly. "The both of them."
I shrugged again. Soemtimes, that's all I can do.
"Tell me you wouldn't hit that," Steve demanded.
I did not tell him that, or say anything, actually. All I could do was sit there and think, over and over, that I simply had to get a new pot dealer.
----------------
Listening to: Brendan Small - Louis Louis Rap
via FoxyTunes
"What nationality you think the Sun-Maid girl is?" Steve asked through the wispy trails of smoke that rose between us.
"I don't know, Steve," I replied, and left it at that, savoring - in a moment of fully self-aware passive-aggresiveness - the deliciously agonizing limbo in which he was now swinging, just begging for me to relive him, which, finally, I did. "What do you think?" I asked, extending my open hand.
Floodgates open, the words gushed through. "I used to think she was like, Italian or something, I don't know - when I was growing up. Or maybe just a white chick like that Dorothy chick in 'Wizard of Oz'. Now that I'm older and more world-weary, I'm thinking Mexican...maybe an outside shot she's Indian."
I think he meant 'world-wise'. "She's fictional..."
He finally passed me the lighter and continued. "Like Pocahantus."
I ignored him and sparked up, drawing the dancing orange flicker in until it was a barely visible blue.
"I wonder what her life was like," he said, looking to me for a response.
I turned my eyes to him and shrugged, grateful that my mouth was occupied so he couldn't expect much in the way of a reply.
"She probably died young," he supposed out loud. "Smallpox...or maybe the Spanish flu. And I wouldn't be surprised if she was raped more than once."
I exhaled a smooth plume of blue smoke. As my lungs emptied, it began to feel like I was melting just a little. I smiled dumbly to myself, feeling very much at peace. "Sucks," I said to Steve; I was referring to the fate of the poor Sun-Maid girl, but I then thought that he might think I was referring to the weed.
"Oooh!" Steve burst out, pointing a fat, boorish finger excitedly in my face. "Oooh! Like the Land O Lakes chick...you know, that Indian chick with the butter?"
I thought of that trick where you cut out the butter she's holding, then fold her up so that her bare knees show through and look like boobs. I was going to mention it to Steve, as I'm sure he'd constructed one before; hell, probably even jerked off to it, but he pre-empted me.
"Do you think, Joe, that they were..." he seemed to lose his train of thought for a bit, then found it again, "think they were...passionate women?"
"Fictional," I repeated.
"Man, I bet they could fuck," Steve said longingly. "The both of them."
I shrugged again. Soemtimes, that's all I can do.
"Tell me you wouldn't hit that," Steve demanded.
I did not tell him that, or say anything, actually. All I could do was sit there and think, over and over, that I simply had to get a new pot dealer.
----------------
Listening to: Brendan Small - Louis Louis Rap
via FoxyTunes
Monday, August 3, 2009
NewMusic Moday - Rule of 3
Well, it took me all of about an hour and a half to throw this together...typical busy Summer weekend. AS with all my recent posts, there are no vox yet; that will be added in Fall, when I have the house back to myself and don't have to worry about near-constant interruptions.
Anyhoo...here ya go!
----------------
Listening to: Dead Confederate - It Was A Rose (Acoustic)
via FoxyTunes
Anyhoo...here ya go!
----------------
Listening to: Dead Confederate - It Was A Rose (Acoustic)
via FoxyTunes
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)