Monthly Archives: May 2004

Bel Canto

I’ve been try­ing to fig­ure out how Bel Canto has cre­ated such ice cold music, then I real­ized that a lot of the mood comes not only from the chords, but the instru­ments them­selves. Most of them have no rever­ber­a­tion, and the ones that do begin with a stac­cato prick. On top of that, there’s no steady beat, just awk­ward, mil­i­tary style plucks. Add in some airy vocals with what I assume is a soprano sax (it’s a lit­tle too brassy to be a clar­inet, but sounds like a reed instru­ment nonethe­less), and almost any type of music would sound cold.

A Cat's Internal Schedule

In the morn­ings, Dolly will wake up from my alarm. When it rings, whether she’s on my legs, on her pil­low, on my neck, or against the wall, she’ll walk to the foot of the bed and stare at the door. At night, she’s usu­ally in my room by the time I go to bed. I think she’s finally been able to adapt to my sched­ule because it’s the first time I’ve been able to con­sis­tently go to bed and wake up for more two months.

Journey

Thumbnail: Journey

Bus rides are always either really good or really bad.

They’re really good when I find a win­dow seat. That’s when I can tune out com­pletely, lose myself in my music, and become totally obliv­i­ous to any­thing going on around me. I get to watch every­thing pass by and drift in and out of my thoughts. It’s when I get the most think­ing done dur­ing the day (even more than in the shower).

They’re really bad when I can’t find a seat and I’m left stand­ing up. I keep my music low so that I can hear any announce­ments by the bus dri­ver, or peo­ple try­ing to get by. I’m always on guard about where I should be mov­ing or when a seat might become avail­able. And music on a low vol­ume isn’t really worth lis­ten­ing to.

One of the rea­sons why I haven’t bought a car is because I’d lose all my think­ing time. Every day I can reflect for an hour going to work and an hour com­ing back when I’m on the bus. If I was in a car, I’d be too busy pay­ing atten­tion to the road, to bad dri­vers, to traf­fic lights, to pedes­tri­ans. I wouldn’t be able to think, and I’d prob­a­bly write a lot less.

Some days, when I’m com­ing close to my stop, I wish that the bus would just keep going, just keep dri­ving, and never stop. I’d ride it from morn­ing to night, lis­ten­ing to my music, just enjoy­ing the feel­ing of going some­where and nowhere at the same time.

Thinking about noth­ing and everything.