"After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music."
That quote is by Aldous Huxley, yes it is the same Aldous Huxley who authored the quote in my previous entry. Stop judging me, I can tell you're judging me. Just because I have two quotes from the same man in two consecutive web log entries, that DOESN'T MAKE ME A BAD PERSON. So, stop judging you heartless judging bastard people judgers, thats right, I mean YOU.
Anyhow, that quote leads me to believe that Huxley may have been a musician. The reason I deduce this is because whenever I am in a state of emotional duress (i.e. this past week) I reach for my guitar and I play. Usually I don't amass much more than one or two decent chord progressions and/or melodies, but it always feels like an anvil is being lifted off of my heart with every pluck of a string, depression of a key, or smashing of a drum. This feeling of relief applies to any emotional state: happiness :-), sadness :-(, anger>:-0, surprise 8-0, or whatever. I always seem to feel some sort of burden magically getting pulled away, as if I'm reaching toward the so called "unbearable lightness of being" every time I play my music.
With all of that being said, I have surprised myself with how much success has come from playing as of late. The typical one or two melodies is an atypical become eight or nine and shockingly I have managed to write a series of lyrics which I actually like. Granted, the lyrics are a bit sappy/cliched but, I think they're honest and that's the most I could ask of myself.
I wrote one set of lyrics today as I sat in my History of Urban America Summer Session Class. We were watching a video about the fall of Cape Verdean dominance in the New Bedford/Fall River/Providence area during the period of urban renewal, a time in which supposed helpful and necessary changes to city trafficking were violently disrupting or even completely obliterating richly populated ethnic communities. The lyrics I had started writing quickly turned into a poem of rhyming couplets about the destructive qualities of trying to escape one's demons by a self-propelled translocation, a.k,a running away from your problems by moving far far away. Id post the whole of the poem here now, but the notebook is in my car and at 1:15 AM I do not have the motivation necessary to go retrieve it. After I finished writing that song turned poem I doodled for a bit. I looked at my professor's metal bracelet on his right hand and tried to recreate the design on it in my notebook. I failed miserably and turned the squiggly line into a G-Clef and drew five staff lines next to it. Needless to say, I was quite disengaged by the film.
After I finished my sketching, I allowed the strong current of my stream of consciousness to carry me around for a bit until I crash landed on a phrase which I had said a few days earlier, "I wish I was stupid." As superficial as this statement may seem, it struck a chord with me and before I knew it I had written a song about the bliss of ignorance and how nice it must feel to be able to live within it's grasp. Again, I would post the lyrics here but they are in my Urban America notebook along with the aforementioned poem. As soon as I can figure out how to record some drums I will finish writing that song and post it on my Music Myspace for everyone to hear. But, that may be a while so maybe Ill put the lyrics up here, maybe not. I don't really care either way and I'm sure you readers don't either.
And so another day passes, and another entry is written.
I will end this post now with a Haiku:
The patter of keys
My eyes are feeling heavy
a Dream World awaits.
P.S.
Haiku Poetry is for dolts...and the Japanese.
P.S.S.
I'm not implying the Japanese are dolts, but rather that those who write Haiku are dolts whether they are of the Orient or not. In that case though, am I calling myself a dolt for writing a Haiku? I suppose not if I wrote it as a satire to begin with. But objectively speaking, if I met someone who wrote satires of Haiku just for personal pleasure I would probably call them an even larger dolt than the person who writes Haiku for the beauty of poetry. Whatever, I suck, Goodnight.
P.S.S.S.
Dolt. I had to say it again.
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