During the move yesterday Ras came down and gave Linda a full body hug saying how much he would miss her (since she usually orders him to turn down his stereo I think he has a little domination fantasy going about her: particularly as he jokes about her whips and shouts “Yes Ma’am!” whenever she tells him to do something). After the hug he went upstairs and cranked death-rock on his 16 perfectly attuned speakers. Good luck next tenant.Our new apartment is large and very quiet. We can’t hear our neighbours at all; except the guy across the street. There is a Victorian house across the street where someone is practicing drums. Last night they had a whole garage band in there and this morning he is practicing again. While it's true he is a pretty awful drummer I am not sure I support daily practice, not when I have single-paned windows. Of course I haven’t started practicing my double bass yet either.
To drown out the drums I am playing the three CD’s unpacked so far.
Right now it is the Michael Nyman Songbook. The atonal clarinet and the soprano, Ute Lemper, singing Latin is creating a musically assisted suicide. Why did I buy this CD? I think I bought it to impress someone. It might have been God.I changed CD’s to Holly McNarland’s Sour Pie (see her video). Her song Stormy is like having a personal Twin Peaks soundtrack to your life. I need that soundtrack.
Creativity is a lot like insanity, at least it is with me. Being alone for days working on something that only I can see brings out the muttered one sided conversations. Once on a Bipolar Disorder Forum I asked a woman how she knew when it was time to be institutionalized. She said she knew when the fisherman only she could see at the end of her bed took off his head. I currently use that as the gold-standard of self assessment.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment