Is it too much to think everything in nature has a balance and rhythm to it? Is it stupid to think every mood, every emotion, every instance, every example, and every other little thing could be captured in music? The answer to both these questions - Yes. However… Is it moronic, eccentric, or indeed, psychotic, to try doing exactly that?
No.
Music is an exaggeration. It is an overplayed version of reality. Almost like a caricature of real life. Creatively smart musicians are certainly aware of this fact, and it’s exactly these extremes of exaggeration, that work to inspire most of the human race on a subliminal level. Meaning, most people enjoy music, they just don’t know why they do.
In any case, I loved music. I loved every heft, every bump, every groove and grind of a tune; so much so that I created my own acoustic versions of soul searching. Thankfully, my parents were musicians when they were young, and there was an abundance of old, disintegrating instruments lying about all around the place in my house. I removed what little furniture I had in my room, and littered it with battered instruments. And played them.
Like most stories that end with tragedy, the vital start to all of this eccentricity started with love. Of course, it did. I met her when I was fourteen. People always associate musical themes to denote love with this whole rainbow of colors; they fail to remember that it starts with simpler compositions than that. Love starts off simple and builds up to a crescendo of emotions - if you start off with a crescendo of emotions, you’re fucking retarded. The sort of understanding you have to build up with another human being is complex and detailed, so it starts with tiny brush strokes, until you build up confidence to paint the canvas with more broad, experimental strokes. Of course, by the time you build up the confidence, it all goes away. And that’s exactly what happened to me. I felt completely reassured by her, and that’s when she chose to leave.
The feeling of loss, no matter what age you’re in, is you get the sense of total worthlessness. It helps if you feel worthless all the time, then consistent losses don’t matter as much. The drinking, the heroin, the violence and seclusion you impose on yourself are infinitely more painful than rejection. What most lovers, in popular culture, get wrong about, is the idea that rejection is infinitely more painful, which is a bogus idea. But, like most stupid human beings, it took me two years to figure out that there are more things to care about, and cherish, than a single person.
This is when, I suppose, my music started getting more erratic for the sake of being erratic - No patterns whatsoever. When you reject the fear of loss, you start to reject fear itself. Which probably attributed to my music at the time. No one got it, even I pretended I did; when I honestly didn’t have a clue as to what the fuck I was trying to prove at the time. That’s when the drugs started again - to pinpoint ideas within this time of mental blankness. It’s during this turbulent mental state when I started to realize what I could do, without the use of substances to alter my perceptions, to get untested ideas. And that’s when I developed this feverish obsession to create themes through music. I’d noticed that subtlety and extremity in music were the toughest to capture true to what it feels like, just like in life. The only way to determine those, is by looking at every angle, every note, that takes us through that trip of connecting the subtleties and extremities of music. Which, I suppose, was a major creative step for me. Unfortunately, this is when I got caught for my drug abuse.
Two years of prying off toenails, sodomy, and other forms of physical torture, coupled with mental agony derived from alternate bouts of insomnia and narcolepsy, and later, solitary confinement, I was free again. Fame didn’t matter anymore. Recognition didn’t matter anymore. Money didn’t matter anymore. And certainly, Reviews didn’t matter at all. I started to create music that sublimated to the real Soul of the music, not pandering to what the reactions would be, or how I would benefit if I created something in a certain light. I stopped caring. Apparently, this was the greatest thing I created. I don’t believe it myself, but in the off chance that I’m wrong about this, and people are right about it, it probably happened because for those specific moments of inspiration, I drew honest references from my life, and did not care about the consequences of creating something genuinely disturbing or obscure.
The story of my life. As it happens, my method for the genesis of something truly remarkable.
Life’s like that.
Nothing is what it seems to be. And nothing goes according to plan.
I suppose life is a Celebration of Tragedy. It appears to be so, and ironically, the joy of life rests in this accumulation of absolute Uncertainty. There is no process in Nature which does not involve stress, and ignorance. The trick, therefore, is to work on eradicating personal ignorance, and realizing the fact that relaxation and relief are temporary emotions. It is perhaps the stigma fixated on imperfections, that get us hooked on this non-practical impossible idea of perfection. The truth is, life is a series of trials, and mistakes, and errors, and incredible fuck-ups. It’s only in the act or thought of accepting that universal truth of sadness and tragedy being totally natural things, that we’re able to create the extraordinary.
END
No.
Music is an exaggeration. It is an overplayed version of reality. Almost like a caricature of real life. Creatively smart musicians are certainly aware of this fact, and it’s exactly these extremes of exaggeration, that work to inspire most of the human race on a subliminal level. Meaning, most people enjoy music, they just don’t know why they do.
In any case, I loved music. I loved every heft, every bump, every groove and grind of a tune; so much so that I created my own acoustic versions of soul searching. Thankfully, my parents were musicians when they were young, and there was an abundance of old, disintegrating instruments lying about all around the place in my house. I removed what little furniture I had in my room, and littered it with battered instruments. And played them.
Like most stories that end with tragedy, the vital start to all of this eccentricity started with love. Of course, it did. I met her when I was fourteen. People always associate musical themes to denote love with this whole rainbow of colors; they fail to remember that it starts with simpler compositions than that. Love starts off simple and builds up to a crescendo of emotions - if you start off with a crescendo of emotions, you’re fucking retarded. The sort of understanding you have to build up with another human being is complex and detailed, so it starts with tiny brush strokes, until you build up confidence to paint the canvas with more broad, experimental strokes. Of course, by the time you build up the confidence, it all goes away. And that’s exactly what happened to me. I felt completely reassured by her, and that’s when she chose to leave.
The feeling of loss, no matter what age you’re in, is you get the sense of total worthlessness. It helps if you feel worthless all the time, then consistent losses don’t matter as much. The drinking, the heroin, the violence and seclusion you impose on yourself are infinitely more painful than rejection. What most lovers, in popular culture, get wrong about, is the idea that rejection is infinitely more painful, which is a bogus idea. But, like most stupid human beings, it took me two years to figure out that there are more things to care about, and cherish, than a single person.
This is when, I suppose, my music started getting more erratic for the sake of being erratic - No patterns whatsoever. When you reject the fear of loss, you start to reject fear itself. Which probably attributed to my music at the time. No one got it, even I pretended I did; when I honestly didn’t have a clue as to what the fuck I was trying to prove at the time. That’s when the drugs started again - to pinpoint ideas within this time of mental blankness. It’s during this turbulent mental state when I started to realize what I could do, without the use of substances to alter my perceptions, to get untested ideas. And that’s when I developed this feverish obsession to create themes through music. I’d noticed that subtlety and extremity in music were the toughest to capture true to what it feels like, just like in life. The only way to determine those, is by looking at every angle, every note, that takes us through that trip of connecting the subtleties and extremities of music. Which, I suppose, was a major creative step for me. Unfortunately, this is when I got caught for my drug abuse.
Two years of prying off toenails, sodomy, and other forms of physical torture, coupled with mental agony derived from alternate bouts of insomnia and narcolepsy, and later, solitary confinement, I was free again. Fame didn’t matter anymore. Recognition didn’t matter anymore. Money didn’t matter anymore. And certainly, Reviews didn’t matter at all. I started to create music that sublimated to the real Soul of the music, not pandering to what the reactions would be, or how I would benefit if I created something in a certain light. I stopped caring. Apparently, this was the greatest thing I created. I don’t believe it myself, but in the off chance that I’m wrong about this, and people are right about it, it probably happened because for those specific moments of inspiration, I drew honest references from my life, and did not care about the consequences of creating something genuinely disturbing or obscure.
The story of my life. As it happens, my method for the genesis of something truly remarkable.
Life’s like that.
Nothing is what it seems to be. And nothing goes according to plan.
I suppose life is a Celebration of Tragedy. It appears to be so, and ironically, the joy of life rests in this accumulation of absolute Uncertainty. There is no process in Nature which does not involve stress, and ignorance. The trick, therefore, is to work on eradicating personal ignorance, and realizing the fact that relaxation and relief are temporary emotions. It is perhaps the stigma fixated on imperfections, that get us hooked on this non-practical impossible idea of perfection. The truth is, life is a series of trials, and mistakes, and errors, and incredible fuck-ups. It’s only in the act or thought of accepting that universal truth of sadness and tragedy being totally natural things, that we’re able to create the extraordinary.
END
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