We are two friends who love writing music. Enjoy.
Sometimes I have to listen to what we’ve already done to know that we really can do it.
We don’t suck. Those three words are so inspiring.
“how did you get here?”
“I dug my own hole. I lost my own fight.”
One guy fooling around with the Moon | Bad Astronomy
discovermagazine.comThere’s a series of pictures going around the web right now showing the rising Moon in the background, and people whimsically doing things to it in the foreground. It’s hard to explain, so here is a picture literally worth 28 words:
Neat
An alarm beeps with a constant 1 bpm pulse that eventually reawakens me. “Goddamn batteries,” is my thought as my eyes reopen. Looking upward, I gaze upon something familiar, but my mind is hazy and cannot compute. A droplet of water emerges, builds, bubbles and drops from the mysterious object and descends on to my forehead. A sudden surge of warmth fills my body, followed by an equal surge of chill. It had occurred to me that the reason the familiar object was so unfamiliar is because of the angle from which it was being viewed; I was staring at the bottom of the spout on the tub.
Gauging from the the amount of water that had run down my face from the spout and the relative dryness of my fingers, I had been here a while. Not days, but possibly hours.
Trying to stay calm, I begin to check to make sure everything still works. Toes wiggle, knees bend. Arms flex, neck rotates. But my arms. My arms have grown so weak. They extend to grasp the stainless bar my neighbor installed last year. My grip is firm, but my arms. “Can anyone hear me?”
Outside my home is the main drive through the neighborhood. Cars and children are always going by, making noise. Too much noise.
I have grown old and tired and weak. Everything has changed into a world I suddenly no longer recognize. Or maybe I am the one who has changed.
The light over my head will be my warmth, the beeping alarm my lullaby, as I fade back to sleep.
I have fallen, and I can’t get up.
CHICAGO—Following a protracted period of creative stagnation, struggling 27-year-old musician Tom Ruskin announced Friday his plans to retreat to a remote cabin in the Illinois woods with just his acoustic guitar and an old four-trac…
This reminds me of Randy Marsh and myself in about 10 years.
Monday started today as Mondays always do, as my eyes creaked open to examine my surroundings, as though my mind was momentarily unaware of where I was.
A stretch, a scratch and a step out of bed to begin the routine. Only, today was different. Instead of one foot thoughtlessly in front of the next, my steps to the sink are labored and premeditated. The weight of my bloated body compresses my right knee as my weight shifts between steps. A sharp pain reminds me that I am hobbled. This day, and possibly many to follow, will be encumbered by my newfound disability.
So I sit, naked on an exam chair, wondering what will follow after the door finally opens again.
Will I be unable to perform my job? If so, where does that leave me?
Only time and the sterile white door opening before me will tell. This cold, poorly-lit event horizon is wearing at my nerves and inflating my blood pressure as the tick-tock somewhere behind me slows to infinity.
