Waldweben

What is going on here?
Not much really.

I'm just trying my hand at writing my own static site generator. I had been using Jekyll before and it was pretty annoying, so why not just write my own that's as 'lightweight' as I 'want'.

It has been a fun little Sunday-Monday half-insomniac project (if you're curious, check out the code); it's pretty sloppy, pretty hasty, and I have intentions to improve it sometime.
Time is ... though.

The point of this site was always just a place for me to dump thoughts. I don't ask that anyone read those thoughts.

Not particularly useful;
neither clever.

But I'm so disorganized that I should really staple my keychain to my belt..
-someone I remain rather fond of.

Anyway here's wonderwall

Up in his flat
Up on his horse

Not gonna wake up
here any more.

Listen one time
It's all the truth.
Not just a story
I made for you.

Easy to say,
Easy to do.
But it's not easy,
Well maybe for you.

Hope that he found it,
Hope it was good.

Hope that she reads it,
Think that you should.

Cuts you his slack.
As he sits back.
Sizes you up.
Plans an attack.

Ah-da-da,
Brass, please,
matt---
I've got it all.
I've had it all.

Waiting for me,
down on her street,
now she's gonna do
somethin' special
for me :)

I'm gonna say

What's on my mind.

Then I'll walk out;
then I'll be fine.

Guess I'm under his thumb
now I'm on my back.
I don't think it's safe to show
my teeth so quick.

I needed her there. I needed you there.
But I didn't know.

how could i know

Go alone
I'll go alone.
We'll go alone.
I'll go alone.

... Back from his trip
He's at the door
Becca gets back-

And he hits the floor.

Innocent eye.
Innocent heart.
You know it's not wrong,
but it's not right.

Innocent time,
mid-night in Soho.
Can't let him do that
Fuck,
it's out of control.

I was just bored
Playin' guitar.

Learned all your tricks.
Wasn't too hard

It's the last one now.

I will promise you that.

I won't find out the truth.
I just won't come back.

...

I will leave the rest to Julian;
These are his words I've stolen anyway; I'm not sure why they've always spoken to me; his father was a mess,
wasn't he?

-words of Julian Casablancas, modified for the retelling- -of one night up in Soho

-mfw

There's a documentary, Twenty Feet From Stardom, I saw some years ago.
Mind you, only after many more years of listening to a certain brontesaurus's father wax quixotically about how great the film is.

But here's the thing:

It's always stuck with me;
I know I can't be the only one
Who wishes Mick Jagger

could have just stood out the way of Merry Fucking Clayton on Shelter.

That song - It is War

It is chaos.
It is sirens.

You hear them but you almost don't -
As on the nose as Hendrix wasn't?

It tells something rotten to the core.

It tells something that happened rotten on the streets of Saigon
and the streets of Boston.
something on the streets of Warsaw
and of Algiers.

Belfast and Selma and Havana.

I know the ones, the ones who still howl,

Rape. Murder. It's just a shot away.
You know them too:

It's Hanoi.
It's My Lai.
It's Fallujah and It is Port-au-Prince.
It's Babi Yar. And it's Rwanda.
It's Darfur.
And I won't give you the satisfaction of a cadence.
Did we to them?

It is Aleppo.
And It is Mariupol.

It is Leningrad.
It is Manila It is Santiago It is Hiroshima.

It is Guernica: Where Picasso Screamed in Paint.
It is Tenochtitlán and Wounded Knee.
It is Beirut

It comes from Ports of Empire.
It comes from Ports of Kings.
Must you insist I remind you:
The Name Still Howls in Nanjing.

It is an apocolypse.
Still no valkyries; not those of Wagner, nor Francis.

No Need
No Need.
The horror, the horror
It's Happening Now.

It is interesting; on a recent listen of Shelter I finally noticed something. Maybe I'd never noticed it due to equalizer[^1] or I don't know what. But then again I heard her isolated howls in the documentary...

In that studio; and on every street.
When her voice finally shatters.
finally ruptures.
some man finally cheers.

It's a shame that the name Clayton doesn't echo like Jagger.
It's a shame when we hear those fractured howls we think The Stones.
It's a shame that her body was broken for that song.
It is a damn shame.

That it was not only her body broken
A body politick?
No,
A body not yours.
Not mine.
Not even hers, one might claim:
That night, called to the studio,
Four months pregnant.

The voice she carries is seismic.

If you ask me, She was supposed to be Aretha.
No, no.. how wrong. Look at me:

She's suppossed to be Merry Fucking Clayton.
(In my very humble opinion; I'm open to asking her though.)

Now, do the right thing and Look at Her:
She still is.

You know, I originally planned for this little spot of writing to veer off towards a discussion of what I call Languages of Viscerality in my 'head-canon' or whatever. Pretty pedantic, right? Guess one needs to be that way if one has hope of using it in academic writing if one is ever 'credentialed' to do so. I was going to draw on Sennet who draws on Dudamel's idiosyncratic yet highly effective means of communicating musical idea without formal language. More, that prolific musical/artistic/literary/Anyary output is only made possible once we 'just...give it all up'[^1]. Trying to communicate so formally that is. I was going to make my own mention of Shelter, make a ludicrous assertion about some of the sounds that the brass are called to produce in Shostakovich's Leningrad, some more. But I sat down to write about Shelter and all I could care to write about was Merry Clayton and what she howled and is still howling for us.

Then-Studio-Gospel-Singer Merry Clayton said, four months pregnant, curlers in her hair a few strokes past midnight: That she would blow everyone out of this room. She did. And we cheered on pain.

Let's change that: https://open.spotify.com/artist/71cyZ6pH0KrM2MdtO8RGmy

-mfw

[^1]: Sapienti sat.

Straight from the brain's attic:

y'all

It's funny:
A certain person who told me they'd staple my keys and wallet to my belt[^1] also told me this:

If you cannot sing it.
You cannot play it.

And that was, well, said probably a few hundred and fifty times over the course of a few hundred and fifty years.
Time dilation is a bitch.
Jk I'm not into anything that heavy, at least recreationally ;).

Although, de temps en temps; it did feel that way a bit.

Neither here
Neither there.

Anyway I was listening to Ralph Sauer talk about the Mozart Tuba Mirum.
What?
Have you not come to expect this from me?

Moving on,
Yeah so Mike used to say 'if you can't sing it, you can't play it.'
And that's unequivocally true if you ask me.
There's not a long of things I believe are black and white, but this is one of them.

not a vox.
rather
a box

and you can ssh into it ;)
-mfw

[^1]: Frankly, it was necessary at the time ;) thanks for everything mike

Hold their interest.

But please don't shout.

Don't misunderstand me.

Go ahead.

Belt it out.

-mfw

you

looked for meaning in silence

but the fact of the matter
was there weren't

-mfw

For me, it's London;

Truthfully,

It's Soho.

... It's Sam.
... who didn't know
even my name ...

But later Maria.
Later, Maria, whose name I never could
quite pronounce the way she really liked
Aside from lambent moments,
Cast by city lights.

and eight years later, and I realize she was teasing.

and on the noordsee I whistled Bernstein;
and I whistled her name along,

And what lingers,
well a lot lingers,

but what lingers most is the understanding: that I came closest
to the correct pronunciation of that woman's name
when I was whistling,
whistling along mindlessly.

I miss her somewhat

-mfw