Scribble and Strum

I was sifting through my email attachments, and found this old drawing from 2003. It was a commission for a book of good sleep habits. (I'm pretty sure sleeping under the bed isn't one of them.)



I like this one. I know I have another version of it in color somewhere; I'm going to see if I can find it. Ah, memories. I'd like to draw more.

Good morning.

I made two new recordings yesterday; an instrumental and and a lyrical, soothers for the times I needed them.
(If you'd like to hear them, click here.)


Cut the Cord

Signs flash light on the river
I won’t miss them when I’m gone
Behind these eyes, I remember
The bridge I’m standing on

Where is my home?
Why do I roam?
Abandoned
They cut the cord

If God made Joey and Mary
Then God made Mom and Papa, too
With all these years I’ve forgotten
How I ever relied on you two

No longer a son
A family of one
Abandoned
I cut the cord

Tonight I’ll cry me a river
As signs flash nothing, one by one
With salty eyes I’ll be walking
My back to the rising sun, one

I’m saying goodbye
Now I know why
Abandoned
They cut the cord

I cut the cord
We cut the cord
We cut the cord

Got a package in the mail today...



Y'see, I'd lost my stylus a while back, so wasn't drawing as much as I used to. Excuse? Maybe. I still draw on paper (did my hourly comic that way; it's not worth sharing), but prefer what I produce with the computator*. So, now I've got the tools to draw the way I like. Great. Good. We'll see if inspiration hits, and if its absence really was an excuse.

I am so ready to not use this thing! ;-)

_________________

*Not the whole story, but the gist.

Um...
I'm just going to link them.

garfield minus garfield



Marmaduke Explained
(A picture can't capture its essence.)

Brilliant!

A circumstance; birth in earth
An element; bricks of us
An impetus; rising mud
A sentence passed down by blood

An anchor known by its chain
A limit; you must be this tall
A whip kept under a bed
A blanket of love and lead

A step; a step above weather
A step; a step below comfort
A comfort itself; it's something
An option thought better than nothing

An illusion to some until found
A bulwark against revolution
An identity born of starvation
A hindrance before inspiration

A stealth; economical anting
A prevalent planet-condition
A tangible comparative state
Nature seen by nature's mate

I've recently renovated my music page and, once I have some time, I'm going to arrange and record some of the new songs I've been writing. (I've been writing lots of new songs.) Here are the lyrics to a sweet one I just finished tonight. A little fiction...

We'll Be Fine

There's a friend of a friend
Who told me you're troubled
That friend of a friend
Is no friend to me

I see nothing, no trouble
We're the happiest couple
Though these ignorant people
All disagree

*Yeah, we'll be fine
'Cause you don't lie

You used to have friends
Now you never see them
Your days are pure patience
Spent waiting for me

To come home from the furnace
To give you some purpose
No storybook knows us
Turn off that TV

*Yeah, we'll be fine
'Cause you don't lie
And, baby, I've got mine

+The boys are so jealous
I tell them you're so sweet
When you treat me this well
You just can't be beat

Because we're best friends
We're close like companions
We share all the small things
From deep in our hearts

Now you expect me to eat this?
Please, go and reheat this
I'm glad we've no secrets
We both know our parts

*And we'll be fine
'Cause you don't lie

We will be fine
You don't lie--right?
Baby, I've got mine...

A little dark, a little disgusting, but sometimes that's how it's got to be.

Deep in the playground, a
Benchbound vagrant
Asleep, adrift--hey, I
Wonder if there's
Something to learn here
'Cause that might be
Me
Someday

Out on the corner, with
Only some quarters, a
Coffee cup, come on
Fill it up, man
Some compensation
May be all I
Need
To sway

This fate

These four clumps of words--a recent poem, recent song lyrics, not-so-recent song lyrics, and some sloppy prose from way back--are all inspired by or associated with Boston's Downtown Crossing subway station. I used to busk down there. Here they are, from most to least recent:

One Girl Singing
Why is the sound of one girl singing,
Out-of-view, behind a pillar,
Politely, perhaps happily,
The saddest bird I've heard today?

Half-kept off-key tune in unison
With iPod, Discman, or Zune.
Its trace pulls down my skin,
My heart, and my pen.

( Tunnels, Underworld, Downtown Crossing )

__

Last night
You cried
A migraine in your mouth
You needed quiet time

So I
Walked out
Rose into the street
You sank away to where

Midnight life
Pulled all around me
Cast hooks into my heart
Corner callers
Proud they found me
Played your counterpart

Last night
You had
A tired way within you
You needed quiet time

So I
Left you
Left you in your limits
Left you with that lie

Midnight life
Pulled all around me
Cast hooks into my heart
Corner callers
Proud they found me
Played your counterpart

Last night you cried
So I walked out
Last night you lied
You lied

"Who's there? Just come out!"

Brenda paced by the parlor window, rubbed her hand on her forehead, stifled a fit of sobs. She had dimmed every light in the house in the hopes of creating the illusion of an empty home, without having to commit to the potential terrors of a more complete darkness. It was one of those terrible nights in which unexplainable fear would lace her every thought. These nights, she could be doing something as innocuous as chopping a pepper or painting her nails, when the thunder of a large truck would scare her out of the potential a full night's sleep.

Her husband was home upstairs in bed. That should have been a comfort, but he scared her as much as anything else. He wasn't a frightening man. Harold McCarthy was calm, often calming, and as caring as the best of people. She listened to a set of his muffled snores through the ceiling--it was terrifying. Everything was terrifying. She almost wished Harold was an evil man; then she could interpret his night's breath as an indication of her safety. Her tiptoeing would then feel useful, and she would have something to protect herself from--a real monster. But the evil wasn't Harold, he was incapable of malice. The evil was everything around her and her caution for an unjustified idea. Fear, she thought, just fear.

That should do it, right?, she thought to herself. You tell yourself that fear is fear is fear is fear, and oh, God--it's supposed to go away! It's nothing, and I know it's nothing! There's nothing here! It's supposed to go away!  Go! Away!

This happened often. What Brenda didn't know was: tonight's fear would save her life.

Between stations, my muscles'
Jagged vertical intensities,
Each distinct in their areas.
Weather roams settings
Dialed idly, turning toward what
I don’t know; can’t say.

Overall: Sagging, slowly melting,
Though interior’s a jumble.
Some pull, all power, sings to me
Like an A.M. lullaby
Early in the tired time
Of premise and preparation

And a question of power:
Can I? Should I? Will I
Get away from this lethargy
And subtle soul-letting?
Lullaby dulling, its catchiness
Contagion to courageousness, killing.

Was poking around the new world, found this pleasant little brochure:



I went to the Village once, five years ago. It was on a Sunday, I think, in an unseasonably warm November. Didn't do much, just kind of wandered around and watched people, enjoyed my then-love.  The Village isn't now, or then, what it was in 1960, but that didn't matter.  Hummed "Autumn in New York", thought of Kerouac's "MacDougal Street Blues"--

( Canto Uno )

I need to revisit New York once the weather improves.

The Savages: Er...yay.  I'd be fine with not seeing this again, but it was interesting and enjoyable.
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly: So much more than "yay". I wish everyone would see this.
The Godfather (finally):  Yay, of course.

I can't write much now about the two great Wired articles I read today, so I'll just point you to them. I think you should read these if you care about music and the future of its distribution, or if you're interested in what either of these artists have to say about their experiences with delivering their art.  Especially if you make music, yourself, and want to live by it.

1: David Byrne and Thom Yorke on the Real Value of Music

Byrne: Are you making money on the download of In Rainbows?

Yorke: In terms of digital income, we've made more money out of this record than out of all the other Radiohead albums put together, forever — in terms of anything on the Net. And that's nuts.

2: David Byrne's Survival Strategies for Emerging Artists — and Megastars

What is called the music business today, however, is not the business of producing music. At some point it became the business of selling CDs in plastic cases, and that business will soon be over. But that's not bad news for music, and it's certainly not bad news for musicians.

Yup.

Maybe these reviews will expand into paragraphs.

Eraserhead: Yay! *shudder*
Before the Devil Knows You're Dead: Yay.
Revolver: Nay...oh nay, nay, nay.
Protagonist: Yay!
Margot at the Wedding: Hmm...nay.

1

Why, captain?
You'd sailed us
Northly,
Swiftly,
No doubt
Ingenuously,
On innocent notions
Of birth and buildings, when

That wind whipped
Wildly upon us,
Walloped
We willows as
Witches would,
Wherewithal an
Explosive zephyr--
Abortion and collapse.

2

It's silly, what I saw.
That jacket Willy wore
Was thicker than he'd told.
Wicked thick; it's wicked cold!
The wind will whip around,
Blow through you in this town.
Remind me, what's the thrill
Of living with this chill?

Good morning.