to hear my fingers across the keys

it's something to hear my fingers glide across the key of this keyboard; whether musical tones or numerals & alphabets, the sound of the mechanism--and the frequencies they produce--is something that I have always loved. My mind has been wandering.

I've become so sexual in his absence.

Maybe no more, but I'm short a partner.

In other news: I want to talk about men. About how men put up a font of masculinity for other men. Between two men, there is always the power struggle; there is always one mounting the other. This human nature; this killed or be killed.

Dreams Reoccuring

My dream world has been quite peculiar lately. Nothing in particular really catches my attention, and to bring it to words would only distort the images that are in my mind. The dreams have a narrative quality that picks up, drops off, jumps backwards & forward, all while staying in the moment every time I find myself there.

Cymbalta; the trappings of depression in modern America

I'm sitting at Kroger right now waiting to see if the shady coupons I found on the Internet will give me some reprieve from the absolutely ridiculous cost of Cymbalta. To my dismay, there is not much reprieve.I had to buy it with a credit card because I lack insurance. I believe it's just another way to keep me in the cast I was set.

I refuse to be a victim to this; it's time to plan an escape.

nameless; Fifth

I saw him again. What was the substance?

I was shown that I put other men in between me and the unresolved emotions I have for nameless; I want him sexually, so I'm willing to reach out to anyone to fulfill my desire.

But Demons come in many different sizes, and have the ability to shape shift; and, with being shifted into a fine blue eyed, blond haired, Aryan  beauty, it's easy to fall for anything.

And so fall I did.

Music; Putting it all together: words by Jason Martineau

Perceiving music as an unfolding of epigrams, molecules of meaning, unities of opposites, allows for a new appreciation of its narrative of transference as the music unfolds, and to appreciate more deeply the way in which the drama is reinforced or denied, by seeing the very mechanisms y which it accomplishes those things. Degrees of contrast and repetition ca be measured, and most importantly variation and transformation can be understood as a kind of evolution. Like the stations of the scale and the pulse, epigrams also have gravity, and what happens in between them communicates part of the drama of the intentionality of the transference; its story, its plight. and in the most skillful hands, our souls follow suit.

In melody these nuances are most easily heard in the large variety of scales found around the world. Although they all possess some forms of fifths and thirds, it is the notes between that convey the real meaning, tension and release, the distances of those " between" tones, and how they are rhythmically placed. Again, in rhythm, through there is often a predictable pulse, what suggest tensions agains the different beats, based on there relative distances from the pulse. These epigrams, melodic and rhythms, can then be arranged into larger coherent structures, compositions, also unifying opposites, and so music is born.

The music we love is the drama of the transference of epigrams, opposites in interplay, unfolding, repeating, contrasting, and most importantly, varying, through melody, harmony, and rhythm.

Music; Form and Structure: words read from Jason Martineau

Musical structure tends to unfold in parts or section. An idea, mood, or motif is first presented before something arrives that changes or contrasts it, while nevertheless relating to it, creating a sense of unity and, ultimately, arrival or return. This unfolding pattern also helps orient the listener in time, so that, using their attention and memory, thy can tell where they are in the musical texture. Without it they would be adrift in a sea of unrelated idea, and some music intentionally is composed this way that very effect. Most people go through vicissitudes of emotion in their life. leaving home, going out into the world, having adventures, and ultimately returning home. A life's journey is like a musical composition, born into the world from nothing, living for a time in form and structure, dancing spontaneously on the edge of chaos and order, and then finally returning. In this respect Western music tends to be more linear, Easter music more cyclical.

Musical time can be visualized as a storyboard (below), each segment expressing the essence of a particular character, meaning, intention, and purpose of a section or movement. Frequently these sections are ordered with consideration for he attention span of he listener, in varying degrees of complexity and engagement, like a ceremony involving invocation, meditation, and dance.

nameless; the fourth

I thought not saying anything of this would be appropriate, but in my mind as I see it slipping I shall relent.  

The fourth time; in the dream I have seen him. I can barely recall it now. I remember linen. I remember seeing him in bed, We were getting into bed.

 

This has been the fourth time since his death that I have seen him in the intangible.

It should be said that I don't believe that it is him. It's either my mind telling me thing, or a demon messing with me. Either way, I must recall that he chose his death, and death he has become.

"No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself had been undone."

Music Is Pink

To bear these words, and not speak of nameless; Music is a power. The color of it has often been seen as pink. Something supernatural; something privy, yet we all have the equipment to maintain it's use.

It's something that is alive, but a life somewhat of a brain capacity of plants. I've never been a botanist, and I've never come across any evidence other than my own intuition. With this capacity of life, it has the capacity of good and evil. During the writing process I learned what things an artist does that truly affects the work as a whole.

Suicidal thoughts are fleeting,

Organizing the Intangible

I've been writing music now since about 2002;  I completed my most definitive work earlier this year--Aquarian Floods.  The wonderful thing about completing work is everything that you have left over: song that didn't make it, songs that are incomplete, and all the songs that are still to come. There are songs orbiting my mind. They're all there, but it's the hardest thing to quantify. I'm not sure how many there are. Sometimes they over lap each other, and blend in melody and key signature. The majority of them have no lyrics.  The ones that do have lyrics still feel incomplete--as if they need a few years of refinements.

I've come to know that song-writing can be years of a long process, and I'm fine with that; however, with knowing that there is music ahead of me, I'm anxious to move forward. But, that's not necessary.

It's not necessary for me to rush into a new record. As a musician I have been on assignment for about two years now. It's something that I should be more firm in doing.

The writing process is something that has come so natural to me over the past ten years; but, I believe that I'm at the place in age where I should take control of the powers that have been given to me, and to focus my energies and abilities towards a goal. Though I don't like how that sounds, I feel it's right.

nameless; the third

Last night, for the third time, I dreamed of nameless; Let everyone remember the certainty that death can bring; for my friend is dead. I saw him.

What was peculiar was not what was necessarily what was happening, but a short dialog between he and I. "But I've had to deal with this; I had to shut to this down," I said to him.

I have been dealing with this. Today was his birthday, and on this day I know he sleeps: a sleep in anticipation of the resurrection; a sleep that one day we all will drift into; only to wake to the judgement we all will face.

Hallelujah;

Alien Fraud

Alien Fraud is the nature of Deception,But Deception so deceiving is not set on revealing.

Suspicious, and more than just, more.

My sister dreamed that I had murdered a baby, and buried it on the side of my grandmother's house: the same side where I would sneak cigarettes among the angel trumpets.

Demons, New Age, & Charismatic Churches

This past weekend I went forward, and had prayer about the demons while at church on Sunday. While speaking with the Lord the pastor told him that he new it wasn't  necessary for someone to flop around on the floor or be stricken with any level of charisma in order for the Lord to deliver them from anything. Coming together on a belief like that was important for me. I have some wonderful friends from the charismatic side of the faith, and--like always--their belief is strictly invested in their church's teaching and doctrine, their ministry, and their gifts and talents. In no way am I attempting to speak any less of the presence of the Lord among that group of people, but I've always had a distaste for church that try to corral people like that. It should be presented, however, that my thoughts about it are often perceived in wonder: "What if that's just what the devil wants me to think?" "What if the answer to knowing Christ is only & exclusively in the charismatic church and all it's peculiarity. In the dawning of the New Age it must be questioned if the fundamental nature of  the charismatic side of the faith is not THE only side of the faith. It must be considered that our cultural understanding of church is more than just cultural.

Perhaps a Better Day

"Sun" Atlas: Space 1 - Sleeping At Last I woke up this morning with time to tend to my senses before I started my day. Whether or not it was in a proper moral correction is neither the question at point.

It's still hard for me to see a candy apple red F-150 without thinking it's nameless; however, I don't say that this morning with despair in my heart.

My mind has moved to a point where it's just wanting to move on--to leave nameless; in the back of my mind only to be reminded of him whenever someone talks about suicide, but the reality is that he's actually attached to many more strings than just that alone. So, I digress.

Plans are made in my mind, and I contemplate this new worldview that I feel like I'm willingly accepting. What is in changing your world view? Does that mean that ones faith is to be affected as well? The reality is that regardless of what one would call the actual physics of the universe, it all comes down to the question of are we alone here? and how close of quarters are we keeping with the intangible.

--lunch--

Heart thump... thump... thump...thump

All in all, it wasn't so bad of a day.

 

I Remember Red Stick

I can remember a time whenever I was living in Baton Rouge. My creativity was stunned for the first time as--what I now call--a click was upon me. I remember having to hide myself away into the dark night time hours, so I could express myself in the night blind eye and deaf ears of my lover at the time. It was in these times that I found myself smoking cigarettes from my third story window as to not encounter my broken relationship with my best friend and roommate. It was in the Fall that year--two-thousand & six--that I wrote "A New Autumn". Here, some seven years later, I find myself hidden away in the dark night hours trying to hide from blue eyes that didn't see past first shadow, and longing for the ears of the same man who was gone before he left.

If it were so I would write a new autumn. I would keep his blood warm with laudanum, And his mind drunk on brandy wine. I would break the water, and not think twice.

Creativity Bleeds

Every morning during work--as my mind turns over and over about nameless--I bring myself to this blank document so that I can lose the words in my head that are haunting me. There is probably nothing that I could say on this morning that I already haven't already said about this situation.

I feel like I still have so much to say about it, and I probably do. I can see a narrative building inside of my creative consciousness.

At the beginning of the year, I completed my work "Aquarian Floods" and "Campaign One". I told myself that because of the toxicity of nameless; and I's relationship that if I returned to my music, the Lord would meet me there like he always does. There was a strong urgency that I had in my heart about getting the work completed.

I was right in thinking that the Lord would meet me there. It was as though I had to finish the work before nameless; would commit suicide. I couldn't imagine going into the studio in the state of grief I'm in now.  And so, with both of the works being completed I found them definitive, and all encompassing of the message that I've been trying to communicate since 2006. It was complete and final.

Such a perfect time to start over creatively. To end with a bang. Or start with one. So it ends, so it begins.

What is the next for me artistically. It seems almost normal that I would write about nameless; in my next work; however, at the beginning of a work it's hard to know what the picture really looks like. The beginning is often cloudy with very minimal details.

Here I am, at the beginning of a new creation. Here I am, waiting for the words of my Lord to spring me forward in the work.

I've learned of the power of my craft, and yet I'm still unable to fathom it's ability.

nameless; something recurring

I spend Saturday evening chatting on the phone with nameless; ex-wife. We chatted for over an hour about our grief and disbelief. Outside of that, I spent the majority of my time not thinking about him. I'm in a different place of the grief process than before--not to say that I've reached a different place along the arbitrary stages of grief of the mainstream; everything is still the same, but the flavor has changed it seems.

I've dreamed of him again, a night after the last dream here mentioned.

The recurrence is that he's always running away from me: in anger, in fear.

 I keep waiting for something to give. The pain of grief is a slow churning of emotions that have lost their medium of travel. It's as if I've been waiting for it to be over with; or like I'm waiting for him to show up resurrected from the grave, so I can tell him what's been going on since he's left.

He meant so much to me, but it was a relationship that was horribly mistreated. The habitual part of me can't remember him past he and I's sexual behavior; I believe that this figure of he in my dreams running away from me is evidence of non-rendered repentance. As if I'm the one holding on to the fowl nature of our relationship. I'm the one still craving his body, and I'm the one who's still wanting him as he was.

I dislike who I've remained as a result of this. I'm angry about what I'm left without, but the reality is this: prior to his death we were both on a path that would lead to he and I's departure. I can't spend the rest of my life missing someone that--even not in death--would have inevitably had to end.

nameless; the second time since you left.

I dreamed of him last night. It's probably been the second dream--since his death--that I've actually seen him, or interacted with him in some way. The dream took place in a time after his suicide. His family and I were at their house, and seemed to be grieving for him. He walked in, and became really angry that I was there. It was as if he was dead, but he wasn't at the same time. A manifestation of him after his death, but before his resurrection.

Smell of Autumn

Every year--And I saw the Leaves fall off of the trees. I ate the heal of the bread last night With a spoonful of my pride

And the crows-- They fought at me all night.

O' this grand harvest season. This season of repentance and death finds me in the latter part of the year. Reminding me of chili-cheese hot dogs & the kick-off of football season at Patterson High School. Bracing for colder winds, out come sweaters and Letterman's.

Now, it's a season of Loss: known that at the apex of August's cruel summer is the forever loss of nameless;

Now, it's a time recouping, healing, and longing.

With no answers to my questions left, I move on into Winter.

It's a time of melancholy.