early, sleepy Monday

Sometimes I think that I like the Spice Girls a little too much :) Last night once I knew it was time to go to sleep I was kicking myself. By the time my head hit the pillow, it was close to 2:00 am: two hours past my bed time. Now, one this Monday morning, I'm super sleepy--sending out emails that I'm not even sure what I was talking about. ONE HOUR ENERGY + COFFEE = I think I'm going to make it. My stomach is in disarray. I've been eating like absolute shit, and I can tell. I'm gaining some sort of mass in this winter season.

None of these words are worth being read. I'm just trying to make myself wake up.

Going into the studio? Yes, yes; I am going into the studio. On February 2nd, I'll return to Huntsville to lay down some tracks. I don't have much to say really. I have two or three straggling songs that I would like to solidify, and also I'll be increasing my repertoire with some great hymns and worship songs.

I was slightly hesitant to move into the studio for this year. I think last year whenever I decided to go in for Aquarian Floods it was because I knew that I had a lot to say that was just hanging out in standby mode. This year, It seems that I have exhausted my material, but the urge to go into the studio is still strong. I keep thinking to myself that I signed a record deal with ME last year, and that I have a commitment to fulfill.

I'm looking forward to increasing my repertoire.

Demons

I saw a movie earlier that brought me to these words. I wonder if people actually believe that demon possession is something that could be released as easily as a modern day exorcism movie would make it appear. I wonder if people actually believe that demon possession is always as extreme as a modern day exorcism movie makes is appear. Demonic attack doesn't always happen like we think it does. I think more people are affected than we think, and that the symptom may be far less obvious than we would want to believe.

I Hate Christmas

So begins the horrible end of the year rant about how and why I hate the holidays. Firstly, because I am a musician, I have spent the better part of my life playing the crappiest Christmas carols known to man. Though "Fantasia for Christmas", may not fall into that category as easily as the rest, those days are far gone leaving me with no resolve for crappy Christmas music. Luckily this year, I have been excused from these activities.

A story about dice

I wonder if people who kill themselves do it because they feel as if they have made too many mistakes in there lives this far, and feel like there won't be enough time to make up for what is lost.I think that whenever life is left up to chance then that is the only logical way out things. Like a game of dice. While playing with my family earlier I felt discouragement to continue because I had already made poor decisions with what the dice gave me. I stopped playing without any intension, and gave up. There was know way to win, and I had surely lost.

But when the game was over, we all finished at the same time. We left the same as we entered.

This Lydian

I want to highlight what I'm seeing in these hard corners

I wanted you to stay on the other side

It's one of those mornings, where I can't wait until five. I can't wait to sleep until my body just wakes up on it's own. There has been a series of dreams that have haunted me over the past few months. I had another one last night; however, by the time I wake, it has escaped me.

The act of explaining the details of a dream is damaging to the dream experience. As with any retelling, the storyteller must reduce the episode he experience to the a few sentences: leaving out details, forgetting small parts, or by using the completely wrong verbiage all together. All of these would distort the listeners perception of what actually happened in the dreams, but not only that, even myself would be left with broken perception--bound in the words just used to portray something that seems explainable.

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And so on to my random ramblings of the day.

It drives me absolutely crazy that we file the newest files in the front of the folder, rather than the back. I hate it so much, that I develop very harsh emotions for the people who've requested it as so; Harsh emotions equals hate.

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I think about him. I could sit and tell stories of what my emotions feel like right now, but it's as if I have no words to describe what was going on. It's all so clear, but so cloudy. I feel like I'm waiting for a more definitive time to really get it out. Could I be hoarding these emotions? Stuffing? I'm not really one to keep myself balled up on the inside, but I often wonder if my over zealousness towards expressing my inner self is actually at times more hindering than not. As if I'm kept in a cocoon of my own energy while the raging waters tare at the ground around me.

I'm glad the Holidays are here in a way. Since nameless; died, I knew that this was going to be a rough season, and as the end draws near I brace myself for even colder winds. I'm more anxious than scared, but aren't they just one in the same?

Everyone is at lunch right now, so I decided that I would take the time alone to spit out these words.

I'm more comfortable in this job than I really thought I would be.

I think it's really cool that Spotify has these embedding options. It's really easy to share stories this way. It keeps this space much more interactive than online blogging had ever been. I've been writing online for a long time. I think that's really how I began to type fast. It wasn't because I had typing classes; it was because I typed a lot while blogging. Back then--whenever I was in high school--I had a group of friends who actually read the words that I wrote down. As of now, I only know of a few people who actually read, and that's OK. It leaves me with the freedom in know that even if I did spit out every dirty detail of my life on here, not that many people read. Its the luxury of knowing that I keep myself open by keeping This Intangible Existence running.

I think that I'm often too laiden with my own Narcisism, but would a place like this be fit for something just like that.

This place is fit for whatever is fathomable on the internet.

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It's cold.The pressure came in last night, and held me for about an hour. A poi flexing I my head. Took a Cymbalta and then I got in bathtub. I laid in the warm water and picked my feet up out of the water. My feet were high about my heart.

It wasn't long until the pain went away; was it because the meds or was it because of the water ritual?

I have a fellowship with the darkness I'm addicted to men Speak of the prince.

But this morning I heard a word. And a call towards Second Corinthians.

Do these small moments of hearing The Lord indicate that he's still interested, and that I should repent immediately--which is easier than it seems--or, is it the brisk, "Come on, Come on!", that a friend would give another who was beginning to pass out after a severe blow?

I think it is both.

"Sights and sounds bring me back down another year. I was here" I could continue to spout the lyrics of Tori Amos, but for a reader--and more so for my conscious--I can recall a year ago, about this time. I spent these cold November days writing about something that I could bring words to. Something so horrible, something so sinister, that I can't take it from my mind.

And now a year later, I still have not the words to bring out the truth of what happened, or the depth of humanity that was endured.

I think it would be hard for anyone to understand.

I went to see nameless; family today. I wanted to talk to them about this non verbal horror, but they declined my offer. They new better than I that it wasn't the time. I'm ok with that.

I'm sure It's some what pointless to continue on with naming every post that I decide to write about him after him. Today I woke up pretty late, and went to the store. I found him on my mind pretty hard. I read some text messages between he and I. It was nice, and kinda fun to pretend that they were actually current rather than from four months ago. I miss him this day. I don't know what kind of situation we would be in if he was still alive, so this is not a wish that he would have never done what he did; however, if it wouldn't have been as fatal maybe something would have given between he and I. There were other options to his problem.

to make a move to write again

To make a move to write again, is to make a move about writing down the things that matter. Back in 2010, whenever I started This Intangible Existence as a blog hosted on among the free domain space of the internet, I was actually in the early stages of creating something much bigger than that: the records that followed under that pseudonym.

One of the first entries that I wrote under my own domain was the ceremonial act of burning my books. At the time I was just listening to what God was telling me to do. Now I find my words pressed into the digital format; moving past the strokes of the pen, and into the realm of 0's and 1's.

The act of preserving my mind dialog is often questioned by myself. Is it necessary to actually log these words. Is it necessary to even let the content remain accounted for. The Father will throw away what is forgiven in the end, and let it burn away until all that remains is left to his desire.

In these past months of my life I wonder what I've done. My chest is heavy with my guilt, and my soul is burdened in ways that won't recede. A rut this could be; however, I believe this could be the bottom. I'm tired of the bottom.

I'm tired of being the bottom.

Even in the whims of an afternoon delight, I find myself feeling lost and unaccounted for.

So if I sing to the Lord, To repair my soul, It requires I die, Until the new leaves grow.

And let way for new budding grass, That in the fire it would not pass. So that by the end, my fruitless plane, Could bare the name of Jesus' name.

The power in the name is a concentration I've considered for my work, moving forward.  It's importance is of the utmost; for the Utmost High can not be denied any further. That the something-that-has-to-give should reveal itself shortly, and I could move forward with the only purpose my heart has truly known: to proclaim Jesus Saves; and to relieve myself of the oddity of the homosexual sin and lifestyle.

But what does that look like, and what does that really mean? Does that mean that I get married to a woman? Does that mean that I'm celibate? I know it doesn't mean that I should have sex with whoever I shall please, at any given time.

Trotting C Lydian

A trotting C Lydian, and dressed in mauve tones - accented in a blue twilight forest of sticks and stones - caught in the path of the predicted ISON - for the God of Aaron and Moses.

As much as I think it is inappropriate for me to talk about such thing in a public place, it seems that I'm caught in my addictions worse than ever.

Over the last weekend, I settled (somewhat) some things with a lady friend of mine with who I was courting month prior to nameless; and myself became emotionally and physically involved. I basically left her hanging in the wind with what was to become of she and I. During that time nameless; and I became sexually involved, and I couldn't muster up enough courage to tell her what was going on. Basically I lied to her, and I found myself caught up in a love triangle that would mangle the majority of sanity.

Promiscuous is the word that would describe this. There have been seven people since nameless; died. My sexual addiction has left me powerless in my loss of my friend and lover. Sexually frustrated is a word that could fit well, but I believe it's something more sinister than just that. To say that I'm sexually frustrated seems like a cop out in my book. It would be easier if I could just rub one out, and that would be the end of it; however the hunger is deeper than self pleasure.

It's demonic in nature. I can't stop thinking about who I could coheres in to "coming over". I've even reached out to people with whom the extent of our conversation have never breached a "hello" or a like on Facebook.

Perhaps there was a freeing subconsciously, as if to settle with my lady friend would be the release I needed to become a complete whore in the matter of days.

Whatever it is something has got to give in all of this. There has to be a bottom, and I would choose not to fall crashing into it. With all that said; however, I believe that there is a hope and a reprieve. Something has to give, and that's what I'm waiting on. November seems like it has always been historically difficult for me mentally and emotionally. November was whenever me and nameless; became sexual last year. November is when I'm starting to see how much I've been affected by the blow that went through the neck of my forbidden lover.

I wish that he was here still. Not because I miss him, but because he filled the void for me. Last year I had a conversation with him about how I thought I was "falling apart". What I really meant was that I wanted him so bad that I was willing to do whatever it took: spells, love songs, or food. He stood in between me and all the other potential sexual partners I could have had over the course of 2012 and early 2013 before his death.

Somehow I feel like he protected me from that--he protected me from myself, and the destruction that I bring upon my body. That in itself is a heavy load for any one man to carry.

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.

Spirit of the Flood

Spirit of the FloodFlow like a River of Love Bring me Down to my knee Break through my levee