Silence Of a Calm Winter Snow Fall

The silence of a slow winter snowfall adds to its patient nature. The beauty of snow's descent is heightened when un-availed by the force of wind, when allowed to glide without interference or inference. Upon such a sight she left her home and climbed into her poor excuse of a truck. It held greater visual and structural relation to a rust-bucket than to the truck it was meant to idolize, but it moved through the magic of combustion, and though it painfully creaked, it held together by some basic act of molecular physics. 

As she picked up speed and struggled to climb the snow covered hill beyond her home, the passenger of said rust-bucket began to feel tears sting her heavily mascaraed eyes, unleashing a stream of war paint which encompassed her pale cheeks. Her eyes shrunk as her driving become more haphazard and while her vision blurred she realized that her truck, though diligent and stubborn, could move no faster. At that moment without thought she slammed upon the brakes and felt the subtle power of momentum overcome the subtler power of friction and gravity. Rust-bucket slide upon the slick snow covering hidden ice with a wonderful fluidity and for a moment Rust-bucket appeared to be at home upon the ice. With a blink her deeply black eyes peered through the poorly swept windshield looking upon a blackness of white snow impenetrable to all. As she slide the snow carefully parted to the heaving and hole riddled Rust-bucket who glided towards an embankment growing in size before her slowly widening eyes. 

The wonders of winter remains in its silence. Movement always appears to coincide with sound, but as Rust-bucket slide painfully fast towards the embankment the silence remained. The engine, though running, did not break the spell, and she couldn't utter a word for what would be the point when utterance would invariably fail to change the coming circumstances. No, the slide and the collusion held the deep sustenance of silence for the pillowy sound enveloping frozen liquid encompassed Rust-bucket in its cold embrace while very quickly succeeding where gravity and friction failed. She heard nothing. 

The amount of time that passed between moments cannot be gaged. She sat in Rust-bucket considering her surroundings. Rust-bucket appeared to have finally lived up to her appearance for she was undeniably immovable, and as such would be fated to remain in her current position. Tears still filled her eyes, though wether they where from the previous moment or the future current moment cannot be said, only that they appeared during a moment either remembered or unremembered. 

Slowly and carefully she unveiled herself of Rust-bucket, exiting through the back window and stepping into the cab of her once faithful and trusted vehicle. Taking a deep breath she soaked in her surroundings through her blackened eyes. She felt the slightest hint of a cold breeze from the west and felt in her bones that a fierce wind existed beyond the horizon. She slowly climbed from Rust-bucket, feeling the ache in her muscles from the impact of stymied momentum and unwrapped a pair of snow shoes that lay in the cab. With gingerly patience she placed each foot in each set of straps and methodically tightened. Looking upwards she slowly struggled uphill, towards the same direction in which she was driving before. With a last moment of pause she looked back, blinked, and once again trekked forward with abandonment. 

Silence Unbroken (Poem)

Silence Unbroken 

Pen to paper between and upon lines

notes playing on repeat in your mind

dotted lines and expressive cursive 

bleed and scribe upon the empty page 

hands resting on white and black 

dense and clean to well versed tips

applying pressure to hammers inside

filling space with something not right 

pen to paper between crossed out lines

notes haunting echoed chambered mind

frustrated cursive and aggressive lines 

flood and expelled upon the busy page 

hands pounding upon black and white 

dense and pained to over used tips 

striking with unhindered hammers inside

unable to hear himself despite concentration 

When You're Gone (Poem)

When You're Gone

You would like to think you matter

that the world would be a little sadder

when you're gone

rest your eyes love and go to bed

the sheets are warm and you are cold

you imagine flowers and red bouquets 

laughter among the young and old 

when you're gone 

rest your eyes and come back to bed

the sheets are cold and you are warm 

I imagine life would be infinitely dull 

filled with greys where once was blues

when you're gone 

so close your eyes and lay with me 

the sheets are cold and so are you 

I Am a Liar: a Song Elucidated

I've used the blog format to showcase my writing and my poetry, though I have yet to take advantage of the medium in unveiling my greatest passion, music. I see myself first and foremost as a musician and that is where my artistic energies are focussed. I also adore the art and trade of composition, so I would like to explain my thought process when penning and composing my humble musical creations. I suppose you can see me as the magician who unveils the tricks of his trade (though I assure you I am no magician). 

The song I will be unveiling tonight is, as the title suggests, I Am a Liar. I Am a Liar possesses numerous genesises, all of which would be exacting to express, but I would like to break down the logic of my recording process (as poor as it is). The initial guitar riff, originating in Dm, is the backbone of the piece. It is where the melodic lines, both vocally and instrumentally, grow. The riff is in-itself melodic, building upon the Dm and the Gm7th chord structure, but its potential I believe is unveiled within the lead guitar line, which is importantly incredibly repetitive, and the vocal melody, which, through its use of octavus jumps, adds depth to the piece. It allows the listener to be engaged. The engagement is incredibly important for the structure and the layers within the song are by design repetitive. The Song is built upon the classic verse-chorus-verse structure, allowing for a vocal coda built upon the layered verse. 

The lead guitar line, which slightly echoes the initial song riff, is as mentioned before repetitive by design. It is built to link the chorus to the verse, allowing the initial melodic tendencies of the song to still exist above the changed chordal structure of the chorus. The lead line does not change, chaining every aspect of the song within the confinements of the initial melody. The phrasing of the lead line is also important. It cannot be exact to the original riff or it will fail to bleed forth from the pack, difficult to do when dealing with the shoegaze esc rhythm guitar that is purposefully layered to muddle the first guitar. The rhythm guitar by all intents and purposes is meant to make everything sound muddy and hard to distinguish. Built upon three chords, mainly Cm, the rhythm is drenched with heavy reverb and layered with an exaggerated delay/echo, ensuring that one chord bleeds into another, making it messy and hard to distinguish, such adding another layer of sound vital to the width and depth of the song. The rhythm guitar is removed when the chorus is played, but the basic feedback remains, adding a slightly different soundscape and allowing the lead guitar to shimmer through. 

The bass line and the (fake) string section are intrinsically linked. They are separated by a fifth, building a basic (power) chord and driving the song forward, but also allowing the bass to fill out and appear less monotonous (which it is). The bass is simplified to allow the hip-hop influenced beat to sound un-alien (to mixed results I must admit). At the very least, it allows the poor hip-hop beat to feel less arduous, and drives the song forward. The drums are vital for the pacing of the song, driving the song and adding tension to the work (again with mixed results).

Lastly the guitar solo. In all honestly the solo is a work of repetitive improvisation. I improvised a guitar solo over the verse section over and over, slowly piecing together specific phrases and note clusters I enjoyed aesthetically. Once piecing together 3 or 4 parts, I than improvised those tools overtop until a satisfactory take was created. Possibly the quickest and enjoyable process of the song. 

If you are interested in hearing the song, just click on the link below to my personal Soundcloud, entitled Winged Flight. There you will find other songs, which I will hopefully explain in detail on another date. 

Cheers

https://soundcloud.com/winged-flight/i-am-a-liar

What Makes a Man?

Looking at Jason I feel out of place. He sits before me, tall, handsome, and painfully arrogant. His cowboy boots and his belt buckle hold together the rest of his cowboy attire well, while his well groomed hair and awkward piercings contrast with his image. He is a man of polarizing styles which oddly makes him irresistible to the young women he has learned to prey on. The Heineken he drinks conveys wealth. That it comes from the rigs means little to his one night acquaintances. Jason has that smile which make women blush and men sigh in defeat. 

"Hey man, how you doing?" He asks in his melodic and confident voice. The master of small talk. 

"Oh you know man, I can't complain haha." My reply is as he expected. I am a downtrodden pathetic man. The antithesis of Jason. I am far from a good looking man, and lord knows I lack confidence. My clothes would be an ode to film Noir if not for their bright colours, a vast difference to Jason's Spaghetti western influences. I am a sexually frustrated and inept young man with promise while Jason is a sexually successful and charming man facing a dead end.

"for sure man haha. What are you drinking?" I look down at the Heineken.

"Ill have a Heineken as well actually." Jason smiled "good man!" The waitress walked over with two Heineken's and a smirk in Jasons direction. I look across the small bar table which stands between me and Jason. 

"So hows life man? Still working on the rigs?" Jason smiles as he takes a swig from his bottle. "Ya man, same old same old." I nod as I always do when I see Jason. "Cool, so you got a lady?" I always ask. I know the answer. With Jason, there is no point in trying to bullshit and move around different conversations. He wants to talk about one thing, women. 

"Ya man! I think this is the one. You know me, I want to settle, and this girl is real special." This is the carbon copy of our last conversation. Every girl is "the one" and Jason still clings to his frail christian ideals. I know in time, he will change her name twice, and talk about two other young ladies he is ready to settle down with. As he sits across from me I feel contempt and jealously for him. Contempt because he is a lier, thief and manipulator. I feel jealously for him because in many respects he is a greater man than I am. His sexual prowess is frustrating and his masculine projection is hateful. 

"You seem to be doing well for yourself eh Jason haha." Jason gives me that smile I disgust, yet I wish I had. He could swoon almost any dimwitted woman in any bar. His deep green eyes and his thick brown hair bring out his nose and whitens his smile. He sits with a ease I can only perceive but never conceive. 

"You know me man, always got them by the string" as he makes a reeling motion. What makes Jason more of a man then me? I ask myself this question often. I can't help but feel morally superior, and I tell myself daily that kindness means more than charm and dashing good looks. Every time I see jason though, my thoughts seem weak and petty. Who am I compare to this man? I feel like a boy, a lost one at that. 

"Well, its getting late Jason, but it was good seeing ya take care. Cheers" I say. "Sure man, take care. Don't be a stranger." I walk away hating myself and hating him for being the reason.      

Party

The haze of the room distorted the lights. The energy in the room encompassed the fleshy matter that was confined in the small space of the basement dwelling. Sweat added to the humid environment of the enclosed area. The sexual, sensual, intellectual, and physical tension was heavy and felt heavier than air, as it hung like smog over a sinful city. Eyes locked in every direction, as hands rested in ideal places. The movement of people was in perfect unison with the reverb soaked music that glistened in the dense air. The tickling sensation of vibrations caused shivers as each resounding beat of a bass note broke through the treble. Hearts came into sync, as feet shuffled, slide, glided, and rose in army synchronization. Hands delved deeply into thick and young hair, as nostrils flared, capturing hormonic desires. 

Youth has always found a way to express itself. Suppression of unbridled desires, energy, and excitement has been meet with dangerous consequences. The war rampages of the past have shown history that only the death of youth can keep the outflow of vitality from consuming everything indefinitely. Each juxtaposition of movement holds a dissonant beauty as youthful bodies graze, and lights bring to light thinly veiled thoughts. As skin continues to glisten so does the floor and the air that remains interwoven with the vibrations within the tight compact space of the basement. Rebellion can be felt. It caresses indulgent souls into fiery ideals. 

Hesitation of the masses is the start. 

Within an instant a pause. The flow of interchangeable and overflowed limbs stop. The crackle of speakers and panted breaths act as the only sounds in the room. White masked faces hold tragic, comical, and fractured expressions. The timeless quality of emotion etched and moulded into the abysmal masks are laughable in their lack of creativity. Youth, in its very essence, is striving for creativity and uniqueness when faced with the harsh reality of a past life already lived.

The crackle is broken by a snare crack. With each beat the figures move a limb in perfect unison. What adds an odd sensation to the sight is that each figure does not move the same limb. Some move a leg, though which, does not matter. Others move their arms, heads, hands, fingers, or hips. Some simply blink. Sporadic but fitting, each snare hit inches towards a pattern. First it revolves around an 8/7 pattern. Than a 3/4 waltz. The snare hit than warps to a 4/5 pattern before settling on a 4/4 beat. The strain of remaining in the same place is evident on the bodies of all participating within the event of the party.

A drum roll begins. One falls. Than another. As people fall to the ground the drum roll begins to crescendo, each body hitting the ground accenting certain beats, which fall on the third of every beat. After 33 beats, the snare roll tempo increased. Than again, and again, Until at last 333 bodies laid upon the ground, in a perfect circle around one lone individual, who stood without a mask. His hands resting at his side, and his hair in his eyes.   

Regretful resentment

"I know you hate me" I typed. I sat and stopped. The blue "reply" button in the bottom right corner stared at me. The finality it represented should have scared me more. It was quick, easy, and un-repent-able. All I needed to do was work the trackpad of my computer to waver the hand over the "button." I than simply needed to tap the trackpad with one of my fingers and the words which stood lit on my computer screen would be sent to the other person. It would move unimaginably fast and would tear at her heart to see my clearly hurtful words. They where meant to sting. So easy. It should have scared me more. 

I wish I could say why I am capable of evil. It seems to delve deep within my chest. I can feel it grow when I grow angry, sad, alone, or disturbingly so, when I am bored. I think the latter is the rarest. I hope it is the rarest. It grows quickly, not slowly. I don't think evil just appears, it is always within me, but it is sometimes small and sometimes great. I try not to be swept away. 

It seems petty to say but I don't remember why I wanted to hurt her. She hurt me I think. No. I am sure she hurt me at some point and retribution is something I enjoy in the moment. It fills me with a hollow pleasure and slowly deflates upon itself. I think the guilt which weights within it is to great that it must collapse when unleashed. Unlike the evil within me guilt doesn't exist within my chest. It delves within the pit of my stomach. It is always very great but on lucky moments it shrinks. Those moments of guiltless and gutless evil are frightfully wonderful though sadly when it disappears the guilt that encompasses me is tenfold worse. 

"I know you hate me" is no longer on the screen. Only a flashing 90 degree bar remains upon the white surface that my computer attempts to create. It doesn't seem all that real does it? The glow hurts my eyes in time and the feeling within my cranium is that of unreleased pressure. I still don't know where the valve is. 

"I hate you" has now taken its form before me. I think I was here before wasn't I? No, I typed "I know you hate me." It doesn't seem to make much difference. Hate is hate. She hates me so I hate her in return. Or perhaps I hate her and want her to hate me for hating her. I think the later is true. It is hard to say. Either way I am back to a familiar place. The words of pain are before me and the button is once again so easily taken advantage of. I just need to tap my trackpad and I will have successfully sent my insubstantial dagger of pain. though it doesn't hang before as if in a daze I am still unable to grasp it. 

The screen blinks "message sent successfully" upon a white background that doesn't seem all that real. It only sends a pressure to my brain which doesn't appear ever to be realized. I know I will blame the computer. It is easier to blame the technology than the user. I don't mind. It is a wonderful scape goat. If I had been forced to write a letter she would never have been wounded. She would be happy that night. She would be alive and with her friends. To bad for that easy reply button.