Saturday, December 14, 2002

So Damn Tired

Verse 1:
Fire in the iris
glinty steel reflect the light
Cool crystal comfort
fading to the edge of the night

Meat in the market
drink from a frothy mug
feed every hunger
before giving in to the urge

So damn tired
Stop eating on me
Cancer, bacterium
amoebas spread the disease

So damn tired
stop eating on me
So damn tired
Stop eating on me

Verse 2:
Smallest of things
eat at one's resolve
hangnail, hemorrhoid
corpuscles in the blood

Simple brute force
wage ware inside the flesh
Cough syrup, pain pills
Anything to get some rest


Verse 3:
Skin flake genetic
scratching dust to dust
breathe in each other
filter cilia lungs

Mites in the eyebrow
culture intestinal walls
part of the system
as we slowly dissolve

CHORUS and outro

My second song, So Damn Tired, is now complete. It is quite a simple tune, with three distinct guitar parts: intro/bridge, verse, and chorus. I look on these chord-driven songs as only the skeleton framework for a much more complex piece. I'd love to get together with a band or in a studio and add percussion, bass, sound effects, lead solos, and all that other propwork. Mostly, this guitar stuff is so much fun, but also a return to music, which at one time was a dominant force in my life. I lack dexterity, so am no great guitarist. But a good rhythmic sensibility and chord knowledge can fill in deficiencies in other areas.

I've got a third song worked out, even more simple, that just needs lyrics, which I will keep easy along the lines of "Baby, baby, baby, when you coming home."

Last night went to a high school basketball game as Harlem High School lost at home to the Freeport Pretzels. The Huskies led, 22-20 at halftime, both teams shooting horribly, but the Pretzels worked out something at halftime and stormed to the lead with a 12-1 run. The Huskies never recovered en route to a 3-point loss. They had three chances to tie it, and each time Freeport stole the ball back and padded its lead to four or five. A very frustrating game, as the Huskies were within shouting distance the whole evening.

Basketball games are the smell of popcorn, the sound of squeaky sneakers, whistles and the roar of a gym crowd. Cheerleaders, cameras, parents with video recorders, teenagers eating junk food and making fun of each other. The Harlem gym is cavernous and echoey. The pep band is twice the size it was when I attended. Even though there are a few familiar faces, I don't talk to anybody. It would always end up small talk, the "how are you" crap I detest. Too bad, because small talk is a precursor to big talk, a way to break through the onion skin of persona.

Today I attend Dorothy Larson's 17th birthday party. It's almost 2:30 p.m. and I'm still in my pajamas. This morning I watched Naked Gun 33 1/3, starring OJ Simpson before the fall. Pablum.

Today is sunny, temps in the 40s, a nice fall day. Global warming has resumed its grip after a cool fall. It's barely bike-riding weather. I should get outside and take a walk. Not much sunlight as the shortest day of the year looms. A black-headed wren clings to a wire running along the brick wall of the livery, gaining warmth from the weak light reflected off the stone.

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