I'm considering turning this blog into a dream rant. Lately my dreams have been so remarkably visceral that I expect to wake up with a prominently-featured object from one of them forming a suspicious lump beneath my pillow that demands investigation involving mouths falling agape.
In other news, writing is going really well. I've written five or six songs in the last two weeks, though only two are in a finished state. All in all, the pulling-lyrics-out-of-a-hat method has worked really well not only in and of itself, but as an approach that makes me more aware of instances that could benefit from other practices. I may need to edit that sentence later; it doesn't make any sense.
My most recent dream was basically my subconscious' version of Eraserhead, with the added presence of Dog the Bounty Hunter as my mom's lover, and customers from the Soho Apple store who were impatiently waiting for me to bring them a dead baby shaped like a match.
Speaking of which, I watched my first episode of Gray's Anatomy last night. Too sad. Can't like things that are that sad. Must....not....like....show....ALL RIGHT, okay, it
was pretty good but it's still too sad. I mean, mommies dying all over the place and people crying like it's the coolest new fad. Newsflash: It's not cool. Play more Futurama.
My new mics have arrived, but as I'm in training all weekend, I have no clue when I'll get a chance to set 'em up, let alone record my new songs. Additionally, I have an unfinshed piece about a Dickensian street urchin that needs to be redrafted and completed for my solo perf class on Monday. In short, things are looking grim for everyone's hero.
No comments:
Post a Comment