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I began listening to Zaar's debut and only album beinning on track two so that when it arrived to track six, I'd have already begun this entry. Not so! I was dealing with an email concerning my new flat in Logroño. Yes, and the correspondence is in Español, so it takes my watery brain more time to processes and compose.
So, we're on track six. The name of the track is *Omk*, and I find that name very descriptive of the music therein. It's a meandering piece. It runs for over seventeen minutes. I've listened to it in the background numerous times, but never sat and absorbed it on headphones. At least I don't recall doing so.
I should mention at this point, as an aside, that I received this CD from Wayside[1] in December of 2006. Michal chose to visit me in Brno later in the month. As predicted by the whorling constellations as seen from the depths of Andromeda's super-massive black hole, I loaned said CD to him. Samozřejmě, I have not seen it since. So, it may as well belong to Michal at this point. Heh. I hope Mirka is playing it perpetually to Bart in his cradle. Aural education!
In my novel *November*, a long, meandering scene sees Shambal and our favourite protagonist sitting in a café in New York City. They are the only occupants. Well, they are the only non-imaginary occupants. Actually, that is not exactly right, either, since the scene takes place after the protagonist has *died*.
Note to reader: Dying in *November*'s world and your world are not precisely the same.
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Approximately seventeen minutes have passed.
Many habitual actions fluster me. I don't recall sometimes if I've taken my antibiotic capsule or not. I have strange sticking feeling in my throat. This indicates that I probably **did** take it, but I have no actual recollection of the action. The deed was either immediately deleted from my short-term memory or wasn't recorded in the first place.
Many habitual actions are useful, including most all things related to muscle memory, but deliberacies such as the aforementioned pill taking are frightening. For example, it is bothersome to not recall if one sucked down a tab of LSD half an hour ago or not when a few more are scattered on the bar amidst the bottles of vodka, beer and ether.
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Approximately no minutes have passed.
I'd be pleased to live in the flat I mentioned earlier. The location is here[2].
In Tuzla, I also lived in a studio and was pleased. I'm not one to need much space. If someone does end up coming to visit (such as that cretin, Christián[3]), they have a sofa on which to slumber and surely soil. Not to say that I am against soiling things. I've soiled a good number of sleeping places in my day. In fact, some were soiled so badly with grease from my filthy body that they were subsequently used as pyres or foci in furnaces to heat the homes of millions of poverty stricken rodents on the oceanic islands. Those fuckers always get shipwrecked.
The subject of this entry is not very indicative of its contents. My surly reader will most likely note that this is a common trait in my *journals*. Speaking of writing music, however, we are back at the first track of Zaar's initial and only album. The title is *Sefir*. Michal and I listened intently to this one and he commented that after the current *floating point* (however, he did not use that phrase), the following building theme (beginning at this very moment) reminded him of **King Crimson**. Surely he meant *Starless*. I can see that, though the tonality is more **Henry Cow**-like to my leaky ears.
You gotta love that shrieking hurdy-gurdy.
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Shambal and the beloved protagonist discuss the metaphor of the music cascading from some ambient point all about them. The piano is footstep by footstep around a constricted space. I don't plan to mention the name of the piece in the book, but anyone familiar with latter 20th century classical music will most likely guess.
The first three movements are on repeat as I write that *chapter* (I laughingly call it a chapter) of the novel. The music moves my fingers to write in the same stumbling manner that the piano plays. The footsteps steady and the two characters discuss creativity and constriction. Art made in a bubble is only valid once the bubble is pierces. But, ironically, it loses its meaning when that happens.
The relevance to the author is never the same as to the listener, try though the latter may to interpret the original intent. The quartet is made from circumstance as much as from the mind of its author. All creative acts are part of their context. They are then taken out of their context and applied to a new context. Abstractions become concrete, but the solidification takes different shapes.
Pop has a more universal appeal because it is more trasparent. Easily, a pug-nose wench in Bolivia can relate as well as a drug-dealer in Berlin. The more opaque the liquid one drowns in, the more intense the experience, however. Magnificent abstractions create more complex and overall compelling tangibility.
The orginal intent may be lost, ultimately, but, again, the more opaque the abstraction, the more of a shadow it casts.
1: http://www.waysidemusic.com/
3: http://christianmnewman.com/blog
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