Old Stuff and Cold Stuff

Am I getting old? I've just bought six CD albums for 50 pence each.

One is 'Announcing' by P2 (or Point Two) - a local twopiece who've heard far too much Peter Andre. The cover shows two tall chiseled shirtless young men standing almost as close as Bros used to. Oh, and I think they're brothers too.

That's not why I paid 50 pence for it - I thought it might be the P2 who covered Fade to Grey a few years ago. Unfortunately it's an EP of limp ballads. And the sleevenotes have a credit for 'Hair and makeup'.

The rest are 90s dance-pop compilations. One third nostaligia, one third filler dreck, and one third that I'd have heard when they were new if I'd been paying attention.
The new DivX player works fine, and about half the cable channels are back. There'll be another NTL man around on Saturday to see about the other half.

At the time, I will probably be with Simon M. Moving his computer around, checking for viruses, fixing spyware uploaded by fraudulent websites, maybe having a go on his super-duper multiple workout machine, and borrowing another DVD from his 'special' collection.
I've looked at USB and FireWire soundcards for laptops. Latency is usably low (10-15ms) but bandwidth is a big problem for multitrack recording. In that there isn't enough of it - Dropouts and 'lagging' much to common. Noise floors are low (around -100dB) but jitter in USB is high.

It looks like I'll be able to use this 3GB laptop reliably as a producer of songs. But only rough demos, and provided the effects processing is all offline.
The whole sky is moving. Enormous grey and black clouds fill all space between opposite horizons, and some unheard massive wind is pushing them rapidly westward.

Down here, it's warm and the air barely moves. Three miles up, it must be freezing with an unstoppable wind.

Bang Bang Bang Bang

The recording session was not terribly successful. Paul was being even more of a perfectionist than usual, found he couldn't play up to his own demands, got frustrated and self aware - afraid of the songs, as he put it - which of course made him tense and play worse.

We got some takes done - at least good enough as guide tracks for Fabio to lay down drums to - and went out for a relaxing nighttime picnic on the beach, watching the final firework display of the festival with hundreds of others, sitting on the pebbles.

There were two hundred or so boats of all kinds, visible only by their lights and flashes of firework. A barque and a longship amidst all the yaghts and inflatables.

We cycled home past the longest queue we'd ever seen. Easily a thousand people on it's own, maybe two. They were queueing for...transport home. Dozens and dozens of busses and coaches gridlocking Portsmouth all trying to get back to towns all over the UK at the same time.
I always forget just how much software is installed on a multipurpose computer. And how many drivers. And when I reinstall windows from scratch, I generally forget where some of the installation disks are.
Today's television is all six episodes of Invasion:Earth. It was an attempt to create a gritty, big budget, british sci-fi miniseries. Most of the flak it recieved wasn't about the script or characterisation, though both could have used a few more drafts. It wasn't the acting either, though that was patchy. Or even the effects, though they were very primative CGI. The macguffin of the alien motivation was pretty weak too.

No, it was the fact that the good guys lost. It's the story of a hopeless war fought by humans against a barely seen, undefeatable enemy. Every time the humans come up was a weapon - technological, biological, nuclear - there's a temporary reprieve, then the alien monsters came back stronger. In the end, the only defence against them is for mankind to destroy the entire earth. And that's what I like about Invasion:Earth.

Boom Boom Boom Boom

It's raining again. Great big black clouds and quadraphonic thunder. I wish I was set up to record it - it would make a great background to some ambient music. Even the unmarked black helicopter circling the rained off festival is good.

But tonight I'm recording possibly the country's only flamenco-skatepunk band. If the weather clears up there'll be a midnight picnic on the beach, and if it doesn't...I've been asked to take some Doctor Who videos.

Hey it really is a cloudburst. With luck I won't have to cycle through it - it's half an hour before I leave. Mark S wanted to meet tonight, so it's probably a good thing I couldn't - sex in rainstorms looks good in movies, but not real life.

Nick's put up mp3s of the Global Fusion gig. I haven't had the chance to hear them yet, but looking forward to it.
Right, rain gone, I'm showered and reclothed, time to cycle off.

TV or no TV

The new DivX player arrived today. And didn't work, so it's going back to Maplin Electronics.

As expected, the Strict Machines want to record 7-10 songs instead of the orignally planned 4. They want to include some bluesy tracks, and some flamenco influenced acoustic songs. All of which is fine by me - the music's good and I get to wave my magic wand over a complete album instead of an EP. But it does rather extend the production time. And the time I'm without a proper computer.

Cable TV is still down, and a man with a boiler suit and a box of tools will be round from NTL to lookm at the reciever box on Thursday. Oh stop it, I know what you're thinking. Maybe he'll have a trainee in tow. Ha!

I'll have to come up with a biography for the band that is Kapitano. From earliest days as Pinc Noyz, through teenage years as 3.14, collaborations as Introduction to Philosophy, before emerging as Kapitano and one half of The K Twins.

Nothing on TV

I was supposed to spend this evening recording guitar tracks for the Strict Machines EP, and the night chatting and drinking with (and then giving a blowjob to) Mark S. Then Paul T called to say he can't play because of broken fingernails, and Mark did his usual thing of cancelling without explanation.
Cable TV is still down, as might be expected given the usual standards of NTL.

Several months ago Simon M gave me a box of old videotapes. He's been clearing out that decaying mansion of a house of his for a year now, intending to turn it into flats. What junk doesn't go into skips, I get offered. I've got a rowing machine and various computer bits from him.

If I'm still in this godforsaken town in six months I may ask to be one of his first tennants. At the moment, my television is stuff he recorded over 20 years. Now playing an excellent surreal musical documentary by Malcom Maclaren - The Ghosts of Oxford Street.
Guitar recording is set now for Tuesday. We're thinking of adding one or two bonus tracks - live accoustic songs. I'd like to do an extended remix as another bonus track.

I got this laptop partly to act as a portable studio, but the onboard soundcard is absolutely abysmal, and a USB external card gives dropouts. It's actually a very good, fast computer for a lot of things, but not sound.

I've looked at laptops designed specially to function as studios - £1000 to £3000. But precise information about their specification is hard to find.


Portsmouth has had no cable TV since the thunderstorm yesterday afternoon. So, instead of watching repeats on thre UKTV channels, we've had to make do with videotapes of repeats from a year ago.
My laptop has contracted the computer equivalent of measles, and has come out in a rash of popups. Well, I was intending to clear off unused software and repartition the drive anyway.
Today sees the start of the 'International Festival of the Sea'. So far as I can tell, this is when fourty seafaring nations of the world parade bits of their respective maritime history around the coast of my home town.

There are tall ships, warships, yachts, wooden exploration ships, aircraft carriers, cruisers and probably the odd tug boat.

Someone has decided to move the 200th aniversary of the battle of Trafalgar forward three months to become part of the festival. However, the organisers have decided that the battle itself and the war it was part of should not be mentioned, for fear of upsetting the French.

We can mention the Spanish Armada, but not their defeat. The African slave trade is also deemed a distasteful subject. Indeed, colonialism and wars should not be mentioned at all as we celebrate the existence of ships built to make these things possible.

At some point over the next seven days, Portsmouth will be honoured by a visit from the queen, who will 'inspect the ships'. This apparantly involves the monarch going on a guided tour of some floating villages to check they are not sinking.

To ensure no one tries to blow up a battleship or shoot the queen, security has been tightened. There are helicopters flying around in circles, and the local police are complaining about undermanning.

Anyone who bothers to go and see the event will see policemen in riot gear wandering around the common ground, shore, and harbour. They may even see one or two local people who remember when this was a navel town, 40 years ago.

Home Town

Paul T called round just to say he couldn't manage recording tonight. On account of some broken fingernails - important for guitarists. Provisionally rescheduled for Sunday.

I want to get back to composing and songwriting, but recording four tracks of a skate rock band is dragging out somewhat. I can write lyrics, but all the hardware is in Paul's bedroom.

Current favourite listening material is the Trilenium CD by Sash. That's Sash spelt with a pling - Sash!. Completely insincere mediteranian trance. Mindless, happy, loud and not at all fashionable to listen to as music in it's own right. I picked up the CD in one of those semi-illegal fleamarket second-hand stalls you find at weekends in the shopping centres of small towns.

I told H it was an old joke, that Portsmouth was a northern industrial town on the south coast. He agreed it had the air of sadness you get when a community grows up around a single heavy industry (shipbuilding in our case), which then evaporates.

I woke up at around 10 this morning to rain, wind, and incredibly loud thunder. At 16:20, it's just come back. Worse than earlier. We had a week or so of swelteringly hot sun, then suddenly it turns cold and stormy. There's lightning and the rain is so heavy it looks like mist.

Did I Miss It?

A quiet day, finished with an unexpected few hours with H. We won't get the chance to meet again for a while, so it was good we could say Au Revoir. He's growing a beard - a red sideburnless Richard Branson affair. Make him look...well...like a science teacher.

We talked about the issues I raised in the last entry, but didn't resolve them. He's going away for at least a week - home to Cumbria to see family and house. And I'm going to be occupied with music recording and trying to get jobs I don't want.

This time last year I was in a job I enjoyed, experiencing the most intense relationship of my life, getting slim and fit, and even thinking about getting a place of my own.

Now I have no real prospects of a decent job, feeling lonely because a relationship would be a bad idea, decidedly pudgy and unfit, and there's no way I can afford to move out.

For several months now I've had a feeling of being on the edge of some change. I wonder if the moment has already happened and passed me by. It's like the feeling that you walked straight past the person you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with, but your eyes didn't meet because you were looking in the wrong direction.

Red and Green in Amber

I have limited internet access, through my dodgy old laptop and mother's wireless network card. Enough to check emails and write blog entries.

Tonight was taken up with a recording session and a political meeting.

The session was for the second EP of the Strict Machines. We actually didn't have time for recording, but it was useful as a practice for when we do record the guitar - arranged for Friday.

We also have a possible title. Semantic Christ - anagram of Strict Machines.
The meeting was a discussion between RESPECT, the Peace Council, various small environmentlist and anti-globalisation groups, and of course the Green Party.

The four speakers gave their various takes on why third world poverty exists and how to make it history. They all agreed that the G8 'alternative summit' is a jolly good idea, but were I thought overcautious to avoid arguing with each other.

Soft pedeling on contentious issues is a standard part of building coalitions, but I couldn't help thinking that the anti-globalisation movement has to start having more hard discussions within itself if it is to move forward with definite purpose.

There is a long standing disagreement between Reds and Greens on the causes and cure for world poverty. The argument runs like this:

Green: The world is overpopulated, and a fairly small segment of it vastly overconsumes. To allow the third world to stop underconsuming, the first world must stop overconsuming.

Red: Population is not the issue. Nor really is consumption. The capitalist system of production vastly overproduces some goods, and underproduces others. It creates and maintains poverty in the third world so it can cheaply produce for the first world, maximising profits.

Green: If the third world consumed as much as the first, the world could not support it. But if both consumed sensibly, it could.

Red: This only applies if the mode of production remains the same. A productive system geared toward producing sensible quantities of what is needed, as opposed to massive quantities of what makes the most money, would allow a high level of consumption everywhere.

And this is as far as it ever seems to go. Green repeats that people are the problem - with their excessive number and consumption. Red insists that productivity increases with population and technology - enough to exponentially outstrip any potential demand from an increasing workforce. Greens are fixated on consumption, Reds on production.

Speaking as a failed red going out with a lapsed green, I don't supposed the issue will be resolved before the world becomes a lifeless rock.

Big Baby

Sunday. Most of the day was spent clearing junk from John M's computer. Spybot found 93 'problems' and fixed them all. But I tried four different anti-popup programs, and none of them had any effect.

Max still wants 30 VHS copies of the film I took of his play, to give to contacts in the local theatrical and political communities, to get them interested in his next play. He'll pay for the videotape and my time spent cleaning the audio and transferring the VHS, and I can't find any more excuses not to do it. But he really hasn't thought it through - 90 minutes grainy footage of people who've never acted before is not a good advert.

Donna S came round with Daisy - her 4 month old baby. I spent far too long lying on the floor playing with Daisy. She probably thought I was another bald chubby baby.

Home again, I'm typing up the events of the last few days. Once again, the clock tells me it's exactly four 'o' clock in the morning. There's birdsong in the dark outside.

Too Darn Hot - Saturday

I woke at 6 on Micheal's sofa, then again at 9, and then 11. Mick had a migraine, but still drove me to the station - an embarassing but very welcome act of selflessness.

On the uneventful train journey home via Brighton, I made a few entries in the video diary about how surprising Nick's friends were, and how their unforced generosity made me feel. Undeserving is one word for it.

I intended the video diary to be about the events before and after the concert, not a confessional or forum for self examination. But several times that's what it became, and I broke the promise I'd made to myself not to edit the footage, by obliterating some reflective monologues.

If it were just for me, I might be more open and self indulgent, but the idea was to send a VHS to Nick, as a kind of extended concert film. Even the personal bits that remain make me a little uncomfortable.

Back home, there wasn't much chance to doze before Paul T called about recording the band and Simon M called just wanting to gossip. And then...a date with H.

Both tierd, hot and sunburned, sitting in a pub garden as the sky grew dark. He doesn't really have the money to take the holiday he's been promising himself, but he's bored and restless in this dreary town.

Even though I'd miss him, I tried to persuade him to just grab a cheap flight to somewhere far away and see what happened. He may do.

Probably the last thing he needs is a partner right now. A friend, always, but not a ball and chain. And the strange thing is, a partner is probably the last thing I need too.

We're great as friends, but he's a lonely romantic disguised as a consumate professional, and I'm a soppy old dreamer disguised as a jaded socialist. We've almost fallen together twice, knowing it was a bad idea.

we talked about it as we said goodnight. It's odd how we rarely touch until we're about to part, and when we do, it's so difficult to stop the embrace.

Back home in front of the TV, I finished the day watching the finale of Doctor Who. Wonderful dramatic tension, awful dialogue, juvenile humous, quite good characterisation, and a piss poor deus ex machina ending. Just like everything else written by Russell T Davies.

The boards of Gallifrey One are humming with fans desperately persuading themselves it was a work of genius. Though the longest thread concerns a brief pointless scene of two men kissing.

Too Darn Hot - Friday

The hottest day of the year, and the first proper concert I've been to on my own. I filmed it, and turned the event into a video diary, starting at midnight.

The train journey took about four hours. Portsmouth to Brighton, change for Hastings, then for Battle, then a taxi for the Pestalozzi villiage. Unfortunately, I was a little bit early. About five hours early. So I spent the time exploring endless country roads and reading Marx's sociological essays.

Nick and the band arrived about six, and I helped out as I could, carrying amplifiers and fetching water, before meeting the band properly.

Mick the keyboardist was loud, fat, ostentatious, cheeky, cynical, unpretentiously intelligent and a thoroghly nice chap. One of nature's uncles. David the bass player was quieter, and the drummer - Peter, I think - I barely got to speak to, but both seemed reasonable and reliable people, and somehow carried an aura of being good solid musicians.

Non-band-members included Bridget - Nick's other half - who had an air of being extremely used to things going wrong. There was Andrew, his adopted brother Michael, and their mother. Her name constantly escapes me, though she made a big impression.

An old fashioned elderly aristocrat-socialist lady. A Margret Ruthorford figure who danced to the african drum band and lay on the grass with me in the evening, as we munched spicy chicken and debated revolutionary Trotskyism and the ethics of armed resistance. Lovely.

Andrew is a disabled film maker and Michael is a schoolfriend of his who'd been through three bad foster families before falling into this group of admirable eccentrics.

I'm confused about exactly who lives with who, but Andrew, Michael, their mother, David, Mick and another woman who I only met briefly live in the same block, and have known each other for years. It's like an extended family commune.

Coming from a pretentious middle class backgroud, I found their warmth and kindness both disconcerting and refreshing.

Ah, but what of the gig itself? Nick probably wouldn't thank me for saying it, but it made me think of a happier Coldplay. Melodic pop with angsty lyrics and an upbeat sound.

Half the songs were familliar to me. Gin or Ginseng transformed from a minimal man-and-piano ballad to something catchy and anthemic - the chorus is still in my head. A similar transformation for Spring of Teal, which is a special song for me anyway.

The highlight for me was the closing song, Friends of the Earth. A dark and bassy stomping eco-song - my new favourite, I think.

I Am The Sound Man

Right. Tomorrow and Wednesday I'm recording a studio EP for The Strict Machines. This means finding all the cables, converters, microphones and stuff. And clearing a load of junk off this computer to make way for great big WAV files.

It also means lugging the PC around portsmouth in a succession of taxis for two days. Oh, and putting up with the little foibles of the band members.

In practice of course, it's going to take a lot more than two days. It's just the next two days that are scheduled for cirtain. Wednesday is set aside for recording the drum tracks. Then most likely there will be guitars on different days (and in different rooms), followed by vocals - probably in a third studio, which may be someone's bedroom.

THEN production, mixing, mastering, and all the stuff that producers do after recording engineers provide them with raw material.

The Big Picture

Months ago - maybe a year - I saw the second half of a film called The Medusa Touch. It impressed me a lot. Not the host of famous cameo roles, and cirtainly not the cheap special effects. It was the idea of a profoundly moral man given the ability to influence the physical world at a distance - but only to create disaster and death.

He kills his pretentious parents, a cruel schoolteacher, an unjust judge and his own grasping wife. Weeding out the unworthy and hypocritical like a supernatural vigilante. His first victim is a vicious fundamentalist who longs for the bloodbath promised in the book of revelation. She gets it. Is he a glorious avenging angel or rampaging demon? There is no difference.

He sees delusion and hubris clearly and refuses to tolerate them. When his deformed baby dies an hour after being born, he understands without flinching the relief everyone feels - but which only he has the integrity to voice. He rejects notions of god and religion with contempt, but wonders if he is cursed.

Finally, he threatens to bring down a cathedral on the heads of bishops, statesmen, tycoons and royalty. A woman kills him to prevent it happening, but though his brain is smashed something in him survives, and destroys the cathedral. He warns of his next target. A nuclear power plant.

The film was on again tonight, and it still impressed me. A story of why you can't make the world a good place by killing all the evil.
Max wants me to make 30 copies of the film I made of his play. And advise him on getting a new computer. Paul T wants to record a Strict Machines EP this week, so I've got to clear my own computer and turn it into a recording studio. I'm going to the Pestalozzi 'international village' on Friday.

Looks like a busy, stressful week.

Still no big picture yet

The sweetest part of dates with H is saying goodbye. Standing in the dark, arms wrapped around each other - sometimes talking, laughing or kissing. After five hours of good natured disagreements, he'd drunk rather more than usual, and was feeling a bit frisky. The bite marks on my neck are still there.

His plans are still 'up in the air', so he'll be around for another few weeks, but until September when he moves to start his new job, everything else is uncirtain.

I didn't want to lose the feeling after he cycled off, so I went for a walk around town. Got a box of calamari and chips from one of the dozens of fast food shops serving the student population. The man behind the counter asked about salt and vineger, sauce, and money in a strong but hard to place mediteranian accent. Then said 'Cheers mate' with perfect portsmouth enunciation.
Pestalozzi have very promptly sent me a ticket for Nick's gig, plus some info about their history and philsophy. I'm not entirely sure why a thin strip of orange paper constitutes a ticket, but nevermind.
Strict Machines are playing another gig tonight. I'm sort of obliged to go, but I have another reason to turn up, as Simon F should be there too. Call me an old slapper if you like, but he's a nice guy in vertical as well as horizonal situation. Oh, and the band are premiering some songs I haven't heard yet, and we may even get an appearance from the mysterious new bass player.
I now have five days worth of recorded Beethoven from Radio 3. That's 5*24=120 hours. Recording was easy, now it's a matter of editing and encoding to mp3. There's always time to do all the tasks you've set yourself. Energy is a differnt matter.

Still pretty small, picturewise

Three small announcements to make.

First, there's a plot for a novel that I've been rolling around in my head for the last eight years. I've started to putting together a list of plot points and backstory for it. There's a lot of details I've added over the years, but they've been piecemeal and uneven. I know a lot about the cultures that form the background of the events, but never got around to giving the characters names.

Well, I might even get around to writing it at some point.

Second, night out with H this evening - probably the last time we'll see each other for a few months. Unless his plans change at the last minute, which they often do. Whatever happens, treat it as the last date for the immidiate future.

Third, it's bloody half past seven in the morning and I haven't gone to bed yet.

Oh yes. A late fourth point. I've bought a ticket to go and see Nick and his band on Friday the 17th. Strict Machines are thinking of recording their second EP in the same week, so there will be some juggling of timetables.

So, good...er...morning.

Written under the small picture

I called Jon S. He wants me to write a 500 word essay on his art, communicating his philosophical ideas to the general public, in ordinary language. I'll need to sleep on it.
Email from Nick. He hadn't had the time and energy to organise the K Twins gig on top of his own band's, and had difficulty plucking up the courage to tell me. I thought that was probably what was going on.

Sent him a reply saying I understand and there was no need to worry about my reaction. I respond badly to manipulative people, self important bullies, and not knowing the situation. Not to someone honestly saying "I thought I could but I can't."
I never thought I'd say this, but I'm rather enjoying Enterprise. After three absolutely dire seasons, the final season of the final Star Trek incarnation is rather good. Just concievably this is something to do with a new producer hiring differnent writers.

There's a final Star Trek film on the way though. And a glance at the directors and producers tells me it'll be just as crap as the last one.
On Friday is the university's annual exhibition of the work of graduating art students. This is the event where I run into graduates from my own year (class of 2001), the haggared remains of my old tutors, and a room full of quite stunningly mediocre artworks, usually with one brilliant work somewhere in a corner.

Friday is also the evening H is free. I might be able to persuade him to come to the exhibition, instead of seeing the League of Gentlemen film. Maybe.

The Small Picture

John S has a one-man exhibition of his photography, starting July 2nd. He's told be about his work, and I've seen some of his emornous blow-ups of domestic engineering, but nothing recently. I'll cirtainly have a wander round the gallery.

It would be nice if I had someone to go there with. I expect H will be out of the country at the time. Maybe I should put an ad in the paper: "Wanted: Substitute boyfriend for intellectual discussions, art gallery visits and extremely long hugs. Three months, must have own mind."
Mark S phoned, asking if I fancied a beer and a laugh. 'Laugh' is code for 'blowjob against a tree at one in the morning' - quite compact as codes go. I told him I was busy and tierd, which amazingly is true. Besides, he's got a girlfriend.
What's Nick doing? No indication that he recieved my emails, and no presence on IRC. I reckon he's overstretched with work, overwrought with stress, and overcome with stage fright.

There's not much I can do here, seperated by distance. Short of jumping on a train, banging on his door and shouting "Speak to me!" - for which I suspect he would not be grateful - all I can do right now is wait and hope.
This week's songfight titles are Janjaweed, Policy of Rape, and What's In It For Me?. Just when I feel like making more music, they go and give us three overtly political titles. Politics is what I do when not doing the things that I write about in this blog.

Politics is my 'professional' life, and music belongs to my 'personal' life. Politics is what I do because I must; Music, friendship, sex and philosophy is what I do because I want. I try never to mix the two.

3rd of June

"Who's that? What's that? What do you mean?
I'll never know when I lost my dream
Who's that? What's that? Give me your name?
Third of June. End of game."
- 3rd of June by Yello (1988)

Okay. Not a completely devirused computer. But nearly.
I've got an installer for Reason 3, but haven't used it yet. I don't know how much I'd use the Combinator and mastering tools - I generally don't use the densely wired setups of the Combinator, and the mastering tools probably aren't as good as the plugins I use in Audition. However, I'm cirtainly prepared to be proven wrong.

Reason still can't host 3rd party VSTs (which is understandable), and still can't record from the microphone (which is less understandable).

Incidentally, I just rediscovered the 2-band EQ effect in Reason 2.5. I noted it when first trying out the program, then completely forgot about it and never used it. Again, the VSTs in Audition are much better, but it's embarassing that here's a module that's been staring me in the face every time I used Reason, and I looked right through it.
There's a lot of films on in the next few days to record and convert to DivX. Radio 3 are also doing a full week of nothing but Beethoven. Mother wants it recorded from DAB.

Oh, and the Strict Machines are still trying to find a free week to record their second EP. As well as introducing the new bass player (who I haven't met yet!) to 35 songs, written by people almost congentially incapable of writing down chord patterns. When they do find a week though, I shall have to be ready, and it might be next week.
Perusing the songfight board, I stumbled upon this columnist.
Looks like I won't get the SF 'Crossroads' song finished in time. I've got plenty of lines for it, but they all scan with different rhythms, and refuse to rhyme.

I rewrote Zero to Phantom as Piece of My Heat when the former wasn't finished in time. Probably do the same with Crossroads.

Nick is working on something for Satisfaction - hope he can finish it. Even if he can't, an unpolished first take of a good song is better than no song at all.
H should be leaving for foreign climes in a week or so. Three months away - he hadn't decided where when we last met - then returning to take up his new job. It would be nice to see him one last time before he jets away, maybe even see him off with one of our extended hugs at the station.


*Devirused computer - 1
*Half written song that refuses to let me finish it - 1
*Lines that could go in the song if they could be made to fit with any other lines - about 50
*Things to do that would take days each - Lots
*Jobs to apply for - 4
*Chances of getting any of them - Unmeasurably small
*Need to be someone else - High
*Energy to make it happen - Low
*Reasons to be cheerful - 1,2,3

Zed again...ZZZZzzzzz....

One of the things about music is, it makes just as much sense when you're exhausted as when you're alert. Lying in bed, eyes close, muscles not so much relaxed as done in - rhythm and tone seems to require no effort to experience, appreciate, take pleasure in.

Write lyrics when you're buzzing, compose when you're alert,
produce when you're awake, and get inspired when you're zonked.
I'm copying 20 albums of chillout and ambient music onto my N-Pod, for inpiration. Because I'm zonked.