words support like bone

Oh, the cycles of life. Specifically, the cycle of writing has been getting me thinking a lot.

In the last two weeks, I've written a bunch of songs, both finished and not, both in my regular notebook and on shreds of thermapaper from cash registers, both being made up of my usual pet themes as well as being about nothing at all. It's been good. But everytime I hit a writing flash like this, it's only a matter of time before I unconsciously start seeking out other writers.

Maybe it's just because my brain wants to surround itself with what I'm into at the moment. But I think it's because the more I feel like I'm getting a handle on writing, the more I realize that there's a whole freaking pandora's box in my mind, and once I start letting out slips of thoughts in a steady stream every day, I can't turn it off, and don't know how to handle the less-familar, shadowy ideas that I didn't even know I had.

Consequently, I've been voraciously gnawing at books all week. Barnes and Noble (the one in Chelsea that has that coffee bar on the balcony floor) always makes me feel pseudo-intelligent, and I try to get a dose of it when I'm in these moods. Anne Sexton -- a brilliant poet, who I only became familiar with after obsessing over the Peter Gabriel song "Mercy Street" -- revealed some insane poems to me this week, among them, "Rumpelstiltskin" and "Suicide Note." I don't know loads about her, but she moved into poetry rather late in life, which is mind-boggling to me because her writing would suggest she was swaddled in it from an early age.

In passing I picked up a Dylan Thomas collection, eenie-meenied my way to a random poem, and had my mind blown. All I knew was "Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light," or whatever it's called. I'm retarded.

It'd be nice if all this intake will give me more perspective and help me manhandle all these pandorian matters.

my love, she speaks like silence

Songs can be regrettable things, even if you didn't write them.

I was out busking tonight (briefly, as drunken homeless types forced me to relocate a few times), and going through a few songs I hadn't played in a while. About ten seconds into "Love Minus Zero/No Limit" by Dylan (seriously one of the best love songs ever), it suddenly hit me that I'd associated this song with someone, and that for whatever reason, it was no longer appropriate to sing with that person in mind. The song totally lost its soul as I fell into this mental well, splashing around and trying to get a hold of why the song had ever meant so much. It seemed really hopeless, and I couldn't figure out why I was just going through the motions.

But songs are independent things, no matter how you attach yourself to them.

Dylan's song is all about "his love," and since I first heard it, I assumed he meant a girl. His "love." But all the wonderful qualities that he details about this woman throughout the song...it's too idyllic, too idealistic. No girl is like that. And it hit me. Maybe he just meant his capacity to love. His Love is "like some raven, at my window with a broken wing." Not some perfect girl. The whole song very well could be about him, and this cryptic, beautiful quality in himself that is perhaps so surprising to even him that he felt compelled to personify it in song as if his love was a lover.

Thinking all of these things in an instant, somewhere during the third verse, I felt the song take root again. I hadn't lost anything. I guess it's pretty impossible not to link songs to people, and that's not all bad. But it's a nice feeling to remember that they stand on their own, too.

Is this all really obvious? It might be, but I'd forgotten.

Many thanks to the gentleman who dropped a ten dollar bill in my case, as well as the couple who rode the train with me to 28th Street and stayed in the station for a few minutes to hear me play. It made my night.

busker about town

i just spilled soy sauce on my shirt.

also, busking sucked tonight. cops were doing a bag check (at 9:00 pm, mind you), and asked me to go to the other side of the station. not one to be told what to do, i hopped a train uptown and tried finding a spot elsewhere. they were not to be had. I circumvented 59th street and headed back downtown, ending up where I'd begun at 23rd street. well, at least i can say i got to see a lot of new york tonight. not that i needed that.

i mostly did originals tonight, but the one story of note happened while i was meandering my way through don mclean's "vincent." I noticed a woman standing behind me, on the other side of the fencing. she stuck around for the whole song, leaning against the fence with her eyes closed, and when I was finished, she got my attention and told me "that was beautiful," and put her hand to her heart. she handed me a dollar through the fence and walked off....that lifted me up a little bit. i'm not sure if she had left the train and heard me on the way out or what, but it was a really...I dunno...artistic/nice/cool thing to do, sticking around like that.

in writing news, i'm going to have all my lyrics (or a sizable portion) on my .mac page soon. click the "rob's music: free" link to the right to download some of the songs i've posted to the aforementioned page. it would be nice to have songs on blogger, but this website doesn't let me do much.

there's been an overload of poetry reading every night for me...i'm a walking cliche. anyone who knows me or my writing well knows i'm pretty obsessed with william blake. i wrote a concept album based on "songs of innocence and of experience" a few years ago, but there were a couple poems that fell through the cracks. i've been reacquainting myself with a few of them, and one in particular really hit me. in case anyone's interested, i transcribed blake's poem "the clod & the pebble" below...it's awesome.

the clod & the pebble

love seeketh not itself to please,
nor for itself hath any care;
but for another gives its ease,
and builds a heaven in hells despair.

so sang a little clod of clay,
trodden with the cattles feet;
but a pebble of the brook,
warbled out these metres meet.

love seeketh only self to please
to bind another to its delight:
joys in anothers loss of ease,
and builds a hell in heavens despite.

nothing's to win

I've been laying around writing a lot, which has been good. Probably need to go out into civilization soon, but I can't handle any more disappointments. I mean, there had better be telepods by the time I get out there. Or at least no more rumors of Gremlins 3 with CG-only effects.

Anyway, check out my new .mac page and listen to "Tides." Or does it look better if I go like this? http://homepage.mac.com/digitalshrub. I can never tell.

I have a bunch of unfinished songs from the last four months or so that I'm going to try to sketch out and record in the coming days. May as well. I don't like leaving things unfinished, it's a bad habit.

No time like the present.

I've had a rough few days, and I guess it's given me the slight perk of being able to write a lot and try to get some stuff out there. So, I'm relatively pleased to tell you doods that I have a website through .mac now, which hosts a few of my songs (including a new one and maybe one or two that aren't on my other music pages).

In time, I'm going to plan on having weekly song updates there, but right now, you can click here to download my new song, "Things I Say." Take the other ones too, see if I care.

No busking lately. Can't get myself to go outside really.

Afterbirth of the Cool

There hasn't been a single night in the past week where I haven't spent at least an hour listening to jazz on the radio. I guess I go through jazz phases from time to time, actually. It makes me feel sophisticated, and maybe a little less white. Also, I think it just reminds me that folk and rock aren't the only things out there, even if they're the only genres I do anything with. Nothing beats listening to some good Thelonious or Miles to get an idea of how different people handle improvisation.

This all fed into what was probably a twenty minute harp solo last night. Having made a fair amount of cash already, or enough to make me feel like I didn't need to attract an audience by playing anything recognizable, I decided to just mess around with a chord progression and noodle on the harp.

Now, I definitely have set harp rhythms in my brain. I resort to these usually at the beginning of a solo, and then slowly but surely manipulate them until it becomes something more legitimately improvised. Last night, I challenged myself to use none of these. To make use of rhythms that I normally don't even think of when I'm in the heat of a song.

I definitely fell back to a few habitual patterns, but on the whole it was a really enlightening exercise, and I definitely broadened my performance vocabulary. Not that it was earth-shattering or anything. That's only going to happen when I hook up a kazoo to my harmonica yolk.

The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls...

...or heard within them, if I may be so bold. I went out for just around 45 minutes tonight, long enough to make a couple bucks and rouse Meltyface from her roost in a far off bench.

I was halfway through "Mr. Tambourine Man" when I heard my voice echoing strangely. I thought I'd managed to tap into some previously unutilized resonators in my chest or something. Nope. I woke up Meltyface. She continued howling out the chorus no matter where I was in the song, be it a verse or a harmonica break. Great. As usual, this didn't help me make any money. After the station was cleared out by a subway, I saw Meltyface's hand emerge from behind a wall, pawing at a garbage can for support. I dunno what her deal is, but she always walks like that. Poor lady's probably got no liver left...she's got quite a stink to her.

That was my cue to peace out. She hobbled over to me and posed some unintelligible questions (at least that's what they sounded like), to which I responded, "have a good night," and vamoosed. Gotta sing "Maria" in the morning, so I needs my rest.

Blurg

"Did you come up with that song?"
"No, uh, it's a Johnny Cash song. Well, it's actually a traditional song I think. The Band also covered it. It's called 'Long Black Veil.'"
"Well, I--" (look of fatigued frustration at the din of an incoming train, then:...) "..you sing it right."
"Oh. Thanks. Yeah, I do it a little different."
He rushes off to an opening in the train during this.

That was an interesting encounter. Flattering, but weird.

Let's see, what else happened? I played "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" and "Second Hand News" tonight, though I've never looked up the tabs for them. I figured they were both three chord songs, and it worked out. So that was nice.

I bumped into Desiree and Carl, both of whom were involved with the production of the Full Monty I was in last fall. Additionally, I saw this guy Alex that Leslie knows, but it was pretty awkward. We don't really know each other, and after we made eye contact, he shuffled away. Boy, it sure is nice to have a job that so many people aspire to.

My brain's a little melted since I was down there for 4 hours tonight, so I don't really remember much else.