only days have past since the end of the most depressing period in the year: in terms of music...
i welcome January as that month where i can return to music, to serious music... if it weren't for some of the songs i will cite: i would find even more allure in the Adhan...
but thank god or the devil for the month of carol singing is over! the month of carol singing is over! the "god" has been born - we'll see him in 33 years to come - and with his birth the carol singing can finally be silenced...
why oh why do i find christmas such a melancholic period? the carol... even if nietzsche found reading thomas a kempis' imitation of christ to be a depressive lot in life... i too have read it... and thought of the joy i experienced for week in Taizé (Burgundy)...
Burgundians in France... the Kashubians in Poland - or the Silesians... how seemingly loveless it is to peer at intra-national entities... with a dear eye scout for the details... the germans love to sing! wasn't it an austrian that came along with an opera in german when all the operas where still in Italian? to be honest... it sounds much worse in England... i favor Händel... greatly...
john suchet can have his Beethoven ****... his 52 week long saturday 9pm 1h show dedicated to the deaf dunk'e... i quiet like the backdrop of Händel's life... the composition for the fireworks on the Thames... Charles II in general... point being: the carol season is over... i can return to what keeps me well met with countering any hunger for new music, even from the genres i'd appreciate more...
there's no: last christmas - wham! all i want for christmas - mariah carey... fairytale of new york - the pogues... merry christmas everyone - shaky stevens... the usual suspects...
all that singing for a stone's worth of a sad little heart...
give me the songs of anon.! llibre vermell of montserrat - stella splendens! cuncti simus! carmina burana - bonum est confidere... minnesang - neidhart - meine die liechter schin... refenbogen - gott vater sparch zu abraham... hugo von montfort - fro weit konrad von würzburg - hofton... wolkenstein - wer ist, die da durchleuchtet... german 15th century anon. - ich var dohin... ditto - mit vrouden quam der engel... neidhart von reuental - sumer deiner suzzen wunne...
and the last can go on... which i find an alternative to classical when... when jazz becomes too congesting... there is always an alternative... and classical music doesn't have to be: the ultimate counter to modern music... even if jazz helps... there is an alternative to what's being pushed among former newsreaders who have become "d.j."-'ey-'eys...
how naive of my to have the following thought: if german was to somehow disappear from the face of the earth by a lightning bolt and become a lake of tears...
would i borrow anything from the 20th century - the anglophonic victory and subsequent gloating? or perhaps just a songs from the medieval period -
and even if the medieval period was as glum and ignorant as modern rubrics of science demand - a scientific can't leverage a joy - with such certainty of knowing - with so much certainty - with weather forecasts... i demand myself to not watch the forecasts and beckon my moods on the weather and the weather on my moods... if there's anything organic to be retained with regards to weather - if i were a farmer perhaps i'd listen to the annual forecast... but on a day-to-day basis? why rob myself of this last desire for a surprise? why be robbed of the organic sensation bound to air, to the electricity tickling the skin when a thunderstorm... then there's a deluge and the frogs start speaking in a crescendo of their curriculum of barrage and referendum: and simply fall with the cats and dogs and reprimand the man who bodly goes into down... a man who takes an umbrella with him out of his residence... and never will never buy an umbrella on the whim... being surprised... what joy when all you buy is predictable... when all you buy is... an addiction focus... to feel any better: how can one feel any better buying an umbrella spotaneously?! what greater joy comes from buying an umbrella when it unexpectedly starts raining! and what of the joy of running barefoot in the rain! what of the joy still harvesting our eyes our ears our nostrils! has science really served up the right sort of an anaesthetic?! that we are incubated by pure mind... pure reason and all the trivia crescendos any mind will want to warrant further... when not a single ounce of joy in song can be captured? intellectual complexity of song: progressive rock and hyper-inflated pop... classical music you will never be able to whistle to... will never be able to take up with a guitar and play the skeleton...
perhaps edvard grieg's: in the hall of the mountain king... but only perhaps! play me the skeleton accent of any piece of classical music! from 'ear alone: this... but the rest? hardly a whisper, a whimper a whistling pete the piper would have minded in inducing hyponosis on the rats... that whriling crescendo... the bombast pandemonium reaching ******... the cloud of bats and satans descend...
who cares if peter sutcliffe wants his ashes to be scattered in yorkshire... my bigger pet peeve was that he wanted the cremantion to have.... saint-saëns - danse macabre to be playing in the background... yes... for all it's worth: the shrill violin... the: scratching of nails on a blackboard... the running of a fork or a knife on a piece of ceramic plating...
also of note regarding today: - vierschanzentournee - outside of the english-speaking world... there's much more than merely an Eddie 'the eagle' edwards biopic... come on! a world darts championship?! darts?! the pub go to thing if there's no pool table?! that's gonna be an olympic sport? so what's so terrible about ski jumping? or the biathlon? or indoor volleyball for that matter? the english and their cricket (ok... i concede to the genius of the sport)... but lawn bowls?! what's wrong with... nip'n'tuc pin bowling? curling... that's also a serious sport?! tennis versus ping-pong... which is like throwing darts... and those demigods at the olympics with the very recent south korean women in that sport of archery! darts and archery... savvy? Lu Bu... Jumong... never mind... a fellow "countryman" of "mine" might win this tournament this year... a дaвид кубaЦки... why would i upper-case the kappa or the delta... when the letter of curiosity is the... Ц "ts" C?
- liverpool's second team with the help of Gomez... Origi... Lallana managed to beat the first team of Everton... boys vs. men... 18 year olds etc.
- i finally perfected oven cooking butterfly chicken *******... temp. at rest? circa 165° farhenheit... circa 30minutes at 200°C... the roast tatties looking pretty and smiling at me with that roastie brown... etc. etc. - but the juice on those butterfly *******? who would have thought that stuffing the ******* with the skin still intact... in between the skin and the meat... a healthy nugget of butter either side... fresh thyme... au provence sea-salt (rosemary, thyme etc.)... succulent enough to make you forget ever wetting your appetite for a chicken thigh... or a drumstick...
- and finally getting what i want... the mirror vanity project of: not needing a turkish barber to trim my beard... finally! i'll admit... whenever in a barber shop and sitting in front of a mirror... i always close my eyes and let the barber do his work while i relax... perhaps the presence of two bodies in focus on a canvas of mirror is... well it's not exactly a third party detail... the subjective experience is beyond the necessity of being captivating... i can't focus on my face since i don't have any compliments for it... and a barber working his way around the excess hair that i should, technically, tend to myself... i never liked being pampered by feminine men... although: a barber can become... and butcher the whole thing... then again: feminine men? the men who cook, are... feminine? perhaps they're not engineers... they are not metallurgists... but... a **** good shave... a **** good meal, cooked to perfection... they're no more feminine than the other definition: the men of aesthetics...
today i became a man of aesthetics with regards to: how i want my beard trimmed... i became the gardeners of my own garden of chin neck and cheeks... side-burns in tow... and the evil 'tash... slim on the sides... and a bulging uvula of hair dangling from the chin and its vicinity... the evil 'tash trimmed so i can sip some god's blood / ms. amber: forget god's **** and all that's beer and cider... fake it making to sit hunched until 1am... push this over the "finish-line" and say adios today!
perhaps i once "glorified" laying out a tier of "help" of the 3Ps... the priest, the psychiatrist, the *******... of the last? well... imagine wandering the labyrinth of the english outer-suburbia for long enough... fiddling with bricks with the tips of your fingers until either rust or diamonds spark of the scratching... i would do ever so often... stroke bricks, harshly... go up to the oak and fiddle with its coarse bark etchings... a week would pass and i would have my fingertips readied to bring before me an example of human flesh... was it was tender as ******* an oyster?
i needed to revive a compensation of sensation...
i once made myself visit the barber after a long repose... did i find the barbershop experience more: rivetting... than any experience bound to a brothel?
england: prostitution is legal! but owning a brothel... isn't... if in amsterdam i was given both the freedom to seek the advice of a ******* and... smoke marijuana freely... this paranoia-shadow of smoking it in england would... simply fizzle out... i wouldn't be some obnoxious **** trying to get my rocks off with the "gateway drug"...
why did i smoke marijuana? i simply "don't know"... but of course i do! it gave me an escape from being congested with parrot narratives of the cartesian RES COGITANS... i experienced... the most unbelievable due of: RES VANUS... the empty thing... no more thinking than if i were dead... tightrope spectacular... it would seem that nothing bothered me... there were no petty social rubrics to be cited or be bungled into: the sire of sight before me: and a bending crux knee...
but there came a time when going to a barber was... so much more than going to a brothel... of course: you can't appreciate the one without the other in making the statement that... the latter overpowers the former... nothing of my grew that would have to be trimmed and tended to... i wasn't magically circumcised in a brothel via oral *** to allow me to enjoy *** more... and since i can't be circumcised: this caduceus of protruding veins entwining... and since ******* is... at best the closest i come to satisfaction... and all else is: pretending and... ensuring the other party is satisfied...
no wonder i would allow myself to showcase all the possibilities... before having to retract and state... petting a cat... getting a haircut and having my beard trimmed... but since i can trim my beard... and if i need a haircut... i'll be satisfied with the Auschwitz syphilis crew-cut... so be it...
barbershop... how can these men sit and stare at themselves... it's different when you're doing it solo... but i rather see the vampire and nothing before the mirror otherwise... i would love to see myself: "myself" on the canvas: 'fairest of them all' in the snow-white fable mirror... otherwise there's me looking more like a ******* over-inflated pupernickle... pumpernickle that uses yeast... and this bloated ****-head's face...
but also this barber: this harlequin... i wouldn't mind sitting before a mirror in a barber shop... if i could also see this barber-harlequin doing his aesthetic trimming on an empty space... so i tended to close my eyes... while in the brothel my eyes were also open... this whole: milan kundera debate about those who **** with their eyes open and those who **** with their eyes closed...
still... going to a barber was more than getting a *******... she... and i just imagined getting indigestion from binging on gulping down raw oysters... and how many oysters would it take for her **** to be turned into the taj mahal...
come to think of it... what is best taken from this spew of words? no rhyme, no meter... well... there's that umbrella spontaneity... isn't there?! that ought to be kept... in spirit of the times when too much is made predictable... when predictabilty is certainly least warranted...
will there be: the evil of my ways? oh sure sure... walk into a brothel... see the Nazgûl waiting in the ante-chamber... and you ask one of them: which one of you? and this other replies: that is against the rules... you have to chose... ******* strapped on... then pulled back... imitation ***** and: evidently ******* ******* is a bit like ****** ******* in movies... and you do... but in the back of your mind... you have: Solomon and his prayer being answered... his "wisdom"... and of course the harem... and then you have David... prayer or no prayer... sure-as-**** no prayer when it came to killing Goliath... and... David's harem of psalms!
but i'm pretty sure that circumcision should be... something requiring a man's permission... baptism shma-anabaptism... abracadabra-water trickle blah blah *******... that i can survive...
there's still this 15th century german music to mind! which goes outside of current, appreciation of escapist music... shawshank redemption: mozart... or jazzy jazzy bleu ooh blue... there's medieval folk... there's old christian music that's outside of... and in the measure of retaining: the Cramp... the Krampfmuschi... not this ******* coral singing... no wonder i'm always depressed... i'm always depressed when they start to coral... what sort of achievement is merely being born?! oh... right... when you have an a posteriori light ahead of you... when you don't commit suicide... instead you decide: nothing more fitting than a public spectacle... i will not hang myself in "private"... i will make sure that my psychological agony of those around that have instigated it... will need a spectacle!
carol singing out of my own ***... he might have survived... i don't doubt it... in all the icons... the nails were nailed... not at the wrists... not in the tarsus talus region... if they nailed him by the wrists? and the tarsus talus (leg foot wrist circa)... oh yeah! he'd be walking! third day! but if you have a hole in your: just above the metacarbal digits? and how modern t.v. portrays crucifixion? that... he wouldn't be hanging by nails alone... that his arms would also be tied with rope?! what's next ******* spectacular was to be awaited?!
whatever the clues: i have a night to catch... a night that's deserving of my sleep... and tomorrow... will be: tomorrow.