Friday
May152015
BB King 1925-2015
Share Article The chairman of the board has passed.
If you want to play the blues you have to pay your dues.
He paid his dues.
Entries in music (44)
Sunday
Mar152015
Martha's Zen Card
I am a short story.
You are a novel.
It never occurred to Matt to buy indigenous cultural music while traveling.
Martha his girl friend considered it essential.
Music made her edgy and alive.
When she heard music she danced.
She returned to her primitive self.
She danced naked.
Ballet. Flamingo. Tango. Cha-cha. Lambada. Waltz.
He wrote naked verbs. They loved naked. Naked cherished syllable skin music.
They wrote, danced and lived like they were dead.
One day they would be. It's now or never.
They were free. It's the way to be.
Culture is what you are. Culture means you can forget.
Nature is what you can be.
People are nature's tools.
Passing through Body Sat Quiet in Asia on a three week, “Look, don't think” holiday from frozen Europe they happened into an 8th century tourist town music repository.
They smelled music before they saw it. Seeing music is an art form. Synesthesia.
In music like life, the end of the composition is not the point.
A music boy handed Matt an orange book. Write your melodic request here. Matt opened the book. A vignette floated free.
A Cambodian orphan girl popped out of blank pages: I am sorry. Goodbye and good luck to you and your family. These are our famous words. Big vocabulary. Tongues speak. Small life. Big chance. Yeah. Yeah.
Hunger Angel watched 24/7 in the big leagues.
Sanitation workers in green environmental vests with broom music swept streets for the New Year. Make it new. Make it new.
We should be so lucky to have crystal clean sheets.
Every day is anew year.
One day is like a minute.
One minute is like a day.
That's relativity. All my relatives are dead.
Never trust an atom. They make up everything.
When you know what you don't know you realize moral character with social intelligence, integrity, and courage.
Courage is an unknown word in our head and heart. Running away is our way. Everyday I have the blues. No one loves me but my mother and she could've been lying too.
You absolve in the rhythm when you have adequate life experience.
Silence and hunger are identical naked twins.
Fear and Ignorance produced Expectation & Greed.
I am good at two things:
Eating and sleeping.
Fighting and fucking.
Laughing and crying.
Reading and writing? That's for idiots.
The less I do the fewer mistakes I make, said Insecurity.
The fewer mistakes I make the less I am criticized, said Fear.
We know the essence of survival. Keep your fucking mouth shut.
One day, Bliss's part-time lover said, buy me a TV.
NO.
You have a job, a TV, a mother, a 12-year old daughter, two brothers, no father and no husband. I gave you money to buy a bike for your daughter and she lost it, money for clothes, money for medicine, money for food, money for temporary naked lust and currency sobriety. You play me for a sentimental fool. You're fucking crazy.
Her arrival was sporadic at best. She visited randomly at 8:37 for a shower, fucking and another shower.
He explored her lips, thin neck, small ears, crest of skin throat, narrow brown shoulders, pinpoint breasts with tongue talk, flat belles letters, long legs and played his way into her valley of potential.
He loved giving her oral pleasure.
Edging rose lips, long and deep. Slow and sweet.
Little man in a boat sang, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.
She reciprocated playing his bone flute.
Riding the pony, priming her G spot grinding hard and fast she exploded with precision and extra ambition whispering, Give me a baby. Give me a baby.
He deferred chromosomes. Fat fucking chance, there's no way under the tropical son I'll give you anything but short time, small money, temporary love and the high hard one in your strike zone with runners in scoring position.
Here's the pitch.
She stayed until 9:45 and left for work at an upscale spa wearing aromatic Grecian urns. He gave her 10 bones. Feed me.
Familiarity breeds contempt.
Get out of my life, said Telepathy. You are subservient and I am stupid to put up with this shit. He creased her indifference into a cumulus cloud. It rained goodbye and good luck.
She sat on the bed with her back to him. Sniffle, sniffle.
Her fake tears formed rivers named Regret and Hopelessness and Indifference.
Fish behind twelve Laotian dams financed with Chinese capital to provide electricity to Thailand fed 60 million Asians downstream in deltas.
His NO created black-eyed daggers. They stabbed him with hatred, loss, self-pity, violence and starvation. Revenge is best served cold with DNA.
They put on death masks.
Your mask eats your face.
They walked out into tropical heat. Separate directions.
Waves of loneliness shuffled down a broken street. Children dying of malnutrition at a health clinic on the coroner of Hope cried as desperate mothers received free blue placebos.
The day after tomorrow belonged to orphans and lucky losers with Wabi-Sabi.
Wabi - the beauty of the most ordinary circumstances and objects.
Sabi - to feel one's own sharp existence.
Martha and Tolerance danced through life.
Everything you know is a lie.
Thursday
Sep182014
share a story with Grade 4
Many tribes love to look back. Is it safe yet?
It’s all passion and illusions of suffering. A genetic molecule of fear, healthy doubt, uncertainty, surprise and adventure. A childish innocent curiosity lives in the present. As people age they want and need the past.
Living in the past is time consuming, said a kid.
Yes, said a teacher, Focus on your needs not your wants. Your need for freedom and freedom from need. Needs manifest a desire for a memory or a ghost or a regret.
We are all passing through. Humans look back to see if they see in their vivid reptilian imagination their ghost.
A ghost from a family or friend looks for clues at their personal ground zero. They’ve evolved from distant galaxies. Java man was discovered here 40,000 years ago. Accepting an evolutionary premise, their DNA star chart continues its genetic dance today.
Oh, and one more thing. Don’t let school interfere with your education. See you tomorrow.
A wandering teacher lived in talking monkey zones. They eat rice. They drink water. They fuck. They breed. They wash one set of clothing and hang it on bamboo. They burn down the forest. They breed, work and get slaughtered. They harvest brooms. Shamans bring rain.
Tropical downpours allow people the luxury to wash cars. They use faint energy looking behind them wondering, all the wondering and wandering and milling around.
Food is cheap. Let’s eat mantra. This has nothing to do with simians. It has nothing to do with the two women sitting in a dark warung neighborhood food joint near a private school outside Jakarta.
The warung faces a tall cinder block wall. Chickens, goats and cats prowl, peck and forage through garbage. One woman sits in a deep meditation. Her friend parts her hair looking for insects, cleaning her scalp.
They take turns cleaning and inspecting. This genetic behavior is repeated in zoos, jungles and rain forests. Chattering storytellers play the gamelan, pounding out 40,000 year-old tunes.
Heal people with music. Music is the fuel.
Males wash toy machines and study accumulated grime under long yellow curling fingernails. They play chess waiting for passengers. Checkmate, said Death.
They visit the warung to chat up girls while eating spicy rice mixed with tofu, chicken, veggies, green chilies and deep-fried snacks. One explorer creates a Brave New World. Forging new futures with cold, detached logical intention they create an assessment on process in a data based star cluster.
Men know the music. Women know the words.
Creating her dream in Nepal.
Tuesday
Mar252014
echo
New music echoed. Everyone ran to a window.
Across the street an Indonesian boy sat on a piece of plywood in the shadow of a long tall Sally art deco three story building. It towered above a gated Jakarta community filled with designer homes, wild tropical blossoming fruit trees, displaced dysfunctional spoiled offspring spinning yo-yo’s and orphans sleeping on broken bamboo bed springs or swimming to Cambodia through flooded dreams.
In his left hand he held a shining silver chisel. In his right, a flat edged hammer. He slammed metal against metal on a bronze bridge between the Stone Algae and the Iron Algae.
Between knowledge and wisdom.
Between an object and a concept.
Tap-tap-tap. Music flaked dust. His chorale was a tribal creation song remembering family and soft rice paddies feeling wind carry his song.
A Cambodian slave girl in the background using a brothel broom of thinned tree branches whisked a gentle rhythm. She created her symphony of sadness and neglect waiting to be abandoned like a manuscript.
Thursday
Feb272014
Paco de Lucia
Paco de Lucia, the Master of Flamenco guitar has passed.
66. Playing on the beach with his children.
Born into a humble family on December 21, 1947, de Lucia grew into a musical giant who blended jazz, pop and classical influences with the folk tradition of flamenco.
He said his father, a singer of gypsy origin, introduced him to music and encouraged him to practice for hours.
"The gypsies are better since they listen to music from birth. If I had not been born in my father's house I would be nobody. I don't believe in spontaneous genius," the guitarist once said.
From the age of 12 de Lucia was out playing and earning at flamenco "tablaos" -- the intimate bars that are home to the authentic form of the tragic gypsy lament and dancing.
