I will be putting up some of what I've been actually doing/working writingwise on the past five months. Nothing terribly substantial and it's mostly for school, which is -- well, let's not talk about that for now.

Birds still sing and children ages 5 through 23 still chatter amicably
And the leaves are the mellow green-yellow, green with white blossoms.
The sky clouded white-blue, but the dark of night hasn't shown his face yet
And Skol vodka tastes stranges with regular roast instant coffee (expiration two years ago, but we figure that irrelevant)
I take my last smoke (the lucky) alone, though I bought the pack yesterday; while hanging with acid trippers wanting to be Cowboy Bebop they will bum the life out of you
--Spike is not the cigarettes nor the chains, he is culture curated by import, the gunslingers and jazzmen sent overseas (what replaced them?) to be taken and held gently by animators, consolation prizes--
Now that we think about it, the 20-year-olds (children younger have left), they're not speaking in English...some Eastern Asian tongue, not Tagalog, that much is sure.
The tones sound energetic, but angry or jovial, I cannot tell.
Steam no longer rises from my vodka-coffee and I consider the marketability of philosophy, then our philosophy of marketability.
Then the value of placing words perfectly compared to the value of getting out of systems of words, words, words, grammar and style, styles of grammar, Evocation and Supposition--
the former an evocation of response in another person, the latter a failure of such.
But this is not a reflection on failure, a fading day and encroaching darkness. We've been there before, done that before, and we'll likely do it again.
But no; this is a reflection on anticipation--
To you, a supposition: Take from it what you will.

Nah, I don't care for the places I saw across the sea,
'Lessen they got anything of what all I need to see,
Put me up on that silver stage to scream something out,
Y'all'd know what I'm talking about.

I'd howl out the tongues nobody ever taught in school,
Tongues of love, tongues of loss,
Tongues of what they all cost,
The high cost of living, the high costs of dying,
Take your high-falution and shove it where it can help, ol' fool

Of mine, oh fool of mine.
Cos the sun it does shine
The same on all this earth of blue sky,
And need there be telling of what we do to try
To make it out here, to say it out here,
To do anything but disappear?

Lady, don't leave, lady don't leave,
But nothing's ever stopping you, oh lady-fool of mine.
But I never cared too much for the places 'cross the sea,
Either here or there would they know the belief
Everything's translation, so much for education,
But y'all know what I mean.

Sisterly rejection. Familial rejection. Familial loyalty. Familial necessity. Familial responsibility.
Gimme Shelter, Dana Fuchs' cover, an ominous solo guitar, the haunting howl;
Grand time for a full moon, some honking harmonica.
Writing, rambling, and trying to do the right thing. Screw just getting by.
"oooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOoooohh.."
Mean, not like I had anything better to do that night--
And that's with the bullshit mode off--
--Lines of red lockers, wide halls,
Absolutely nothing on the mind, just a wait away,
"Ba ba ba da ba da ba da," Some muttering to keep the mind occupied,
Maybe throw a little dance into my black leather shoes;
Finally a drive to a drop-off at Steak'n'Shake that I probably didn't need to do in the first place,
Girl's got friends, y'know.
Yeah. I know.
---
Back up to Chicago and the rest of this semester tomorrow.

Aka, Yeah, probably do have ADD.
---
Sergio's Trio - Western, full-bodied; at least how Leone saw the West, Arizona next to Chicago; the desert, archetypal, no sense of where it began or where it ends; "the man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed." We chase that illusion across the desert - our stickgirls, our oases, our heavens, that endless beats that govern our souls -

No Heaven - reverberating chants across the waste, faint riffs of a nature sly to the reality - savvy to it, that is; "Don't talk about it, if you do I'll cry" / "Don't come around me, if you do I'll die." - well, what waste? Speak of a mother at a station, then cut back to "what my son has done"; drugs, women, dancing, heathen music; "Didn't bring me any silver, didn't bring me any gold; Did you see me working on South Carolina? Just to see me, we're gonna come-" T-roll? Who knows what it's supposed to mean.

Nn Gg - speaking of knowing what something's supposed to mean - the nice thing about music is that it's not supposed to make sense, least on a sensical level; on a different level of sense, the aural, yeah, we seek patterns and meanings if we can find 'em; though the meanings and patterns we construct on our own, the psychic response as it were, not the same nor all that different from that of most other human beings - ignore the gal in the corner saying stuff about not being a human being or being sick of human beings - being sick of being human? Whatever that's supposed to mean - here's the patterns; we follow the beat through a few bars, repeat the beat with another set of layers of sound, all of it runs in the same, every layer's something you say, something somebody says into the ear canals of the race at large, until the ending when layers are stripped away, changing of beats; breakdown, cooldown. Afterglow.

The Plow - (if we pronounced it "plowe - plO"...hard "o", this'd be perfect) Hot, warm, silk beat. Usually suggestive to whomever wants it / needs it badly, Christ she needs it badly. 'Course you've an idea of how it actually turns out, end of the day; she's unfriendly, building up on the unfriendliness of the past day and the anti-sociality of the past three or however many years. Mean, you tell me how to change personality, you see how funny that goes; she's a real piece of work. And it's not really my problem; not really something anybody can fix.

Gore Gore - Delocalize; she's somewhere around Bloomington? Or Edwardsville. Names, places; they're not Kankakee, they're not Chicago, they're nowhere I can help. These are the loci, locations, habitations, haunts, the Barnes & Noble in Bourbonnais mostly populated by old folk free from the smoke of the old addictions (most of them) and the new ones - I'd envy 'em if - well, I couldn't say why I don't. Different people, different times. They've their problems, I've mine. Mean, that's why we communicate, hopefully solve each other's problems - but really put into another's cockpit, another's shoes, would you know what to do? Maybe in younger folk's; sometimes you feel that

Die in Peace - segues right from the last one, repeating layer that creeps up on you, then a grindy, staticky beat - you want the last five, ten, twenty years of your life back, or that "what if" and "should've" I get from my father occasionally, should've gone into nursing, get a job sooner - crescendo of smoother electronic riffs, faint chanting in a foreign tongue (French?) - In the present you don't really know what to feel, thinking about the immediate future - give it a name? Optimistic? Pessimistic? These are the names we give 'em now. What's in the word? The name? - ultimately I don't make sense cos it's way too easy to get carried away in the manifold meanings of words that ultimately don't apply cos the abstractions we create from concrete manifestations of alternating black and white, they're all different on a different psychic level - that is, you read into something however you want. When is a cigar just a cigar? Strip it away from interpretation...hell, I don't know.

Keep on Ridin' - well, speaking of cigars and stripping and interpretation however you will; what's sex in music, anyways? Oscar Wilde once said and I badly, perhaps mistakenly attribute and paraphrase him here, "Everything in life is about sex except sex; sex is about power." To ride, to mount, to bump'n'grind, to rock'n'roll - y'know what I mean, nudge nudge. And they say content is 20% of communication; the rest is all sex. Or nonverbal communication. To dance - the horizontal bop. The song is stimulus to an overall narrative, or confined to its own thing, constraints of four minutes and a half - damn, see, that's ridiculously quick.

Tawoumga - Singles, whaddya expect? And I have no idea what the hell the title means or what language it comes from, don't bother to ask - very percussive, this song; least 'till 2:19 or so when the electric guitar riff comes in - my sense of description tends to tire after 30 minutes, gets bored - so what's that say to ya, love? Lack of commitment? Lack of caffeine? - In around 4:30 comes another electric riff, lower, gets about twenty seconds highlight then the rest of the layers come in. It's around this point that the mind realizes it's just spitting out vague descriptions of really, really no logic as to how they connect; wonders if there ever was a logic to begin with, and the supposition that there is a logic is a social construction in itself, it is not in the nature of things, besides that the cellular structure of things is what's worked; though nowhere in logic does it say what exactly looking into a girl's eyes on the move at any distance, what that does or say? [Logic would say that it's all in my head; and the logic in my head says that it's all whatever I pseudo-make it out to be and it doesn't all make sense anyways and absolutely none of it means anything. Comedy.]

Tavern - Chiptune-esque. Cyberpunk bar. Cyberpunk Western-ish. 'Least one or a couple of the terms that you could give this music so far; though on genre on music proper some songs just cover all kinds of themes. On a more logical note, yeah, we force meaning upon them. And on another note, no, I'm not saying that there's an otherworldly inspiration to things, just that logic's a social construct. We create the patterns, we see the patterns, we realize that some patterns are far off a supposed mark and debunk those. Scientific method.

Two Hoboes - What's this about this girl's voice that makes English sound like some distant country on another planet, and this [her English] is what she's gleamed from the Frenchmen relatives who show up every now and then?

Guy Doune - The chill out ending. DJ Champion, Chill 'em All, a play on words. That is, give peace to 'em all? Usually in an imperative; "Dude, chill." Get off the coffee, get off the caffeine; find serenity, get some sleep. And ultimately, y'know, I should start using the English everybody's using. I'll get to it. It just bores the hell out of me after a while. But - eh. Somebody'll find it interesting. Me making sense is probably the last thing anybody expects these days.