i feel sick.
i've been sleeping poorly, writing music, and listening to too much death in june
. it's snowing here, today, and i have another mile and change to walk before i get to my semi-final goal of the evening. yes, folks, i'm going to go back to coffee hell and be voluminously verbose
at high volume. or maybe i'll actually scoop up my guts and finish that jazz song i'm working on. it hasn't been titled yet, but i think of it as 'the prince's wings' -- a complete nonsequitur, even if you have met the muse. it got the name because i began writing it while thinking about a conversation i'd had about persian royalty
and the colour of a man's wings.
sitting at werk, now, listening to the 25 minute version of the andromeda suite, and trying to decide how to explain to my professor that i couldn't synopsize (is that a word?) the article he assigned because he was mistaken and the library doesn't contain the periodical in question. i know. i went there more than once, just to verify that i wasn't crazy. i s'pose i could say it just like that...
and now to totally break stride: have you ever had a friend who had seen and done more than most people will see in their dreams, but they know they haven't seen it all, and their eyes gleam with the lust for data? one of those people who glows when you show them something new, who shimmers with rapture at techno remixes of classical music and laughs hysterically when you explain that on the album version of boiled in lead's rasputin, the line is 'outrageously well-hung man'...there's nothing like it, i tell you. dancing in the machine room, talking about vivisection, and revelling in the decadence of sparkling peach juice....shit, man, with friends like mine who needs lsd.