A Breeched Winter's Field

Through layers of sound juxtaposing the interwoven jungle of vertigo inducing branches atop leering old trees, I spot a haze ridden wake left by planes o'er head – soon the slipstream shall ease into a putrefying crayon scrawl across the endless expanse above me, lost inextricably within the vision of a few wayward travelers: the Frisbee flies on numerous occasions, though prancing practitioners hail the sky only in their expedition of retrieval; footy fellows juggle whilst spying upon scantily clad lassies (though the adjective applying merely in respect to the bundled garmentry invoked on a usual midwinter's day); egghead hair-bare professors cross by as well, fastidiously inspecting a well informed manuscript (but I expect not but a trickle of information transfers to those beady eyes, for this paper functions wholeheartedly as a disengagement from pestering onlookers wishing to babble on and on about a trivial matter of small talk); and I surmise that like all the others, not even the originators of a skunky sweet odor wisping wearily through the now cooling air noted the sky's jagged scar – only myself and the observant ocular sensors of twin toddlers (the kind firmly sheathed by arms of a mother wandering through a field of obfuscated collegiate memories), who, might I add, terminated in their toddling to spy me nestled in the barky embrace of a decrepit tree, so entranced by a mysterious visage as to tilt my own premature egghead to deftly inscribe a fourth apple pi's angle in the then ravishingly reminiscent space containing my flesh, and this most assuredly catalyzed the intrepid youngster to gaze shell-shocked upon the aircraft's now faded calligraphy.

Pelagic Pleanthes

Tack those tiresome tormented teeth

telling tales furrowed so far beneath

this bedraggled badger who nightly seethes

of incense inscribed insulting leaves.

Drooping wearily the wind does weave

matriculating deeply (oh yes indeed!)

through caverns of Marmite's mischievous deeds

dolloped deftly atop Pleanthes patched pleats

the pants constrained at knuckled knee

now ushers forth upon the sea

a denim clad pelagic dream:

waves phalanx for to team

then crash, cascade, collide, careen

round billowed oars ne'er before seen

of viking descent and Nordic mead

floundering furiously in attempt to free

a crew now cleaved

in half by me.

White Noise

A concerto of murmuring: coughs erupt in cacophonous corroboration of our incessant squirmings – (the discordant seat hinges shriek in one of two manners) a squeal emerges with each instance of immediate disturbance, though theses pepper the soundscape with paltry brouhaha, the auditory monstrosities of which I ruminate hold rank amidst the infinite Velcro disentanglement and perpetual zipper pull – those few who belabor the reclining process delay the course of consciousness for multitudinous millennia. Delving deeper into the room's firmly enshrouded acoustic encodings, I dredge our hesitant scribblings: syllabic inscriptions etched by a vertiginous array of eroding instrumentation, the white cliffs of Dover scrawled upon boards of obsidian basalt, though the deep black void now only a whimsical wish from my bygone days as preschool black board janitor, for chalk's sepulchral haze does now obfuscate my ebony desire.

Joanna Newsom

Though poetic words spill out as o'er a waterfall's edge, none tickle my spine like the lyrics dredged from the mind of a Bard, brimming with charm and cunning - phrases plucked for their stunning, aqueous viscosity. The bard strums on his lyre, uttering expressions garbed in flamboyant attire which weave thrilling tales of majestic myths and lengthy legends. Or rather she – and a harp not a lyre, for tonight Joanna Newsom warbles through the night air, recounting her streams of consciousness. Serendipitously I was out star gazing one night when I shuffled Emily; her narrative then seized me with delight, entrancing my thought for the full twelve minutes. Now every time Joanna belts out

Anyhow, I sat by your side, by the water
You taught me the names of the stars overhead that I wrote down in my ledger
Though all I knew of the rote universe were those Pleiades loosed in December
I promised you I‘d set them to verse so I'd always remember
That the meteorite is a source of the light
And the meteor's just what we see
And the meteoroid is a stone that's devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee
And the meteorite's just what causes the light
And the meteor's how it's perceived
And the meteoroid's a bone thrown from the void that lies quiet in offering to thee

I succumb to some sort of literary ecstasy, remembering twinkling dots in the sky above.

(These are both from Joanna Newsom's album Ys)

Emily


Sawdust & Diamonds

Gleam On Glamorous Gluttons

I call now for a change of pace, as I lack mobilized musical thoughts... so poetry shall soon flourish its flowery phantasmagorical feelers into this place of contemplation:

How does the moon feel so bright, shining forth upon splendid fettered swooning edged skies? My heart filters your downward gaze, as I often appropriate much to praise and silence emanates further. Piano reels pass by in time and thankfully await the omnibus's ever present wake. Lullabies and lovebringers swoop slyly into sight, the notes rain down upon dingy drums awaiting plucking parasites to end this fleshy fortnight's delight. Now the red behemoth does rise into the night, choosing gory sanguine color to do its flight. Dark and dreary does the rest of my vision hold weary contentment and still grows leery of the implacable void. And if disappear you must, fade fortuitously into slumber, loot the sailor's pithy plunder and tack no more of burdensome Earth - nay do it sunder.

Balmorhea

There's music for foot stompin', tunes for bass wommpin', limericks for tear jerkin' and melodies to whistle a walkin'; but I don't feel like listening to anything like that right now. I have in mind a sonic landscape befitting a fog laced valley, one with dewy expanse of vermilion blades undulating to the caress of a wispy wind. And as I now sit, nestled between headphones purring the ambrosial sounds of Balmorhea, my mind drifts to such a place.

Strands of banjo arpeggios interlacing with the groan of a cello; musicians voice's loosing fervent moans alongside the droning of a plucked guitar; shrewdly diffuse percussion inciting tumultuous climaxes – this is Balmorhea's third album All is Wild, All is Silent. But alas, my words fail to express the simultaneity of these event; I may only write in this linear fashion, so far removed from Balmorhea's polyphonic soundscape. So I instruct you to partition some time, fully immerse yourself amidst the music – let it cultivate a verdant vista within your mind's eye.

Remembrance

Harm and Boon


Truth

Thelonious Monk

I know of two musical comedians. The first is Eric Dolphy; the second, Thelonious Monk. These two men incite a veritable sense of hilarity within me. I guffaw at the absurdity of their melodic lines, I snicker at the acridity of their resolving notes. But I laugh not out of spite, nay, I laugh out of love for their vision. They spout forth notes simply for its intrinsic satisfaction - they adore their own art.

I surely now rank Thelonious Monk in the upper strata of iconic jazz heroes, but I do so vividly remember scoffing off his music upon a first listen. I read something about what a masterpiece 'Round Midnight' is and decided to give it a whirl, only to throw it to the side, hrumphing at the reviewer for leading me astray. It wasn't until I saw a video of Thelonious playing that I began to appreciate the music. So I've taken two of my favorite clips from 'Straight, No Chaser' (Documentary Produced by Clint Eastwood, and directed by Charlotte Zwerin) and also my favorite recordings from the album 'Straight, No Chaser' to share Thelonious' ingenuity.

Perhaps to appreciate Thelonious, one must understand his quirks. The video will surely reveal a few - in 'Evidence' he dances around on stage completely enthralled with the music, walks off and then rushes back to fly into a solo after realizing it's his turn; in 'Round Midnight' he maintains control of the keyboard whilst fishing out a cloth, smacking on the piano a few times to carry on the solo.

I love the documentary, but I do find that the recordings epitomize the beauty of his style. I still have yet to pay enough attention to the saxophonist because Thelonious captivates me even underneath the soloist (and please wait for Thelonious to solo, it's deep in the piece). He always meanders around the melody, disguising it beneath layers of dissonance, masquerading it behind prolonged silences.

It's strange stuff, but not without its own unique breed of logic and emotion. And remember, no matter if you love or hate the music, Thelonious simply didn't give a fuck.

'Round Midnight

Evidence

Locomotive; Straight, No Chaser


Straight, No Chaser; Straight, No Chaser