The word "hotel" has a strange euphony about it, particularly in a
musical context. There are many songs that include hotels or are based
in one, Hotel California, Chelsea Hotel, Desperados Under The Eaves and
the Hollywood Hawaiian Hotel (how's that for alliteration driven
euphony?) I just passed the Fenton Hotel myself and immediately thought
of all those songs and how beautifully the word is employed. A hotel is
something a musician probably has a lot of dealings with on the road,
I'd imagine. Its something relatively familiar in a new town, with the
one bed, the lil mint and the Bible in the drawer. Its the modern day's
port. A symbol of rest yet also of impending adventure and eventually
an inevitable checking out. Its a perfect setting for a song. Or maybe
its just a matter of writing what's around you. Either way the
stationary is bound to come in handy.
I have decided to embark on a journey to acheive perfectly relative pitch. Why you may ask? Well I find the possibilities of such an ability quite astounding. If one has relative pitch and the ability to write music then there would be absolutely no need for an instrument at all in the composing process. I could simply write music like I am writing this journal entry. I find that appealing. Total creative freedom is the order of my life. So in order to fulfill said goal I am going through the course outlined in Hearing and Writing Music by Ron Gorow. So far so good, I am on learning to distinguish fifths from fourths. I am making progress slowly but surely!
As I grow weary by the dark of my bed and the dance of the dusk waltz overhead. With the silence of the night amplifying any noise, leaving room for the senses to shut down in time.
Day becomes less critical from across the globe, nothing is cynical as thoughts start to slow. My eyelids are tired now and sink in my face, I awaken by startle clink clink my heart raced.
I cower in the covers; my sheets are my shield, futile against what my imagination wields. Everything is suspect for my life's demise, from the walls to the doors, to the cat I claim mine. The closet moves open , the floors betray their steps, a light goes out, now my worries are set.
A violin's all I hear, yet through the veil of darkness I found the stars grow storming, by what evil are you bound? The substratum has a soul, a ghost on the wander, they pace those stairs, "Shall we show him," they ponder. They stay pulsing the stairs, my thoughts locked in fear, my breathing stentorian, do they see, do they hear? My breath betrays me as my sheets are now clear. I manifest myself dead in hopes there's no fear.
ON THE EARTH VANISHING IN THE FINAL DAYS -Scott Kraus
The ground beneath our feet, ambient of an earthen wear, grasps an impermissible malodor of an era. Tasting of the bitter tension of unresolved cadence, the Earth is ground in our tour as we herald this new epoch.
Let this old earth vanish beneath my feet. Let us see the very stacks of industry, incased in the grime and kindred of Apollyon, screech a piercing final cry as the Light pierces through. Let this final rapture rupture and crumble this old aeon.
We'll fly and fly in our newly found freedom, we'll feel light, as our worries are vanquished forevermore. We'll allow the winds to flow around us gently! We'll hear the resounding refrain of seraphs! We'll admit the taste of the apple of our longing, this sweet feeling of completion.
We can go anywhere and see long lost friends unearthed in fine attire Receive us from a long and lasting slumber.
ON THE LIFELONG STRUGGLES FOR ONE'S DREAM, A POEM OF EPIC PROPORTION TO CAPTURE AND ENRAPTURE THE VERY SOULS AND SENTIENT BEING OF ALL WHO HAPPEN TO STRAY WANDERING IN IT'S PATH, SCOTT WRITES… Scott Kraus
There and back again, I'll search the world beneath my feet. The dark sky at night, will guide me toward a day that my heart implored was the only way.
I have dreams in my mind, premonitions of greatness! I have a devoir to find, my heart demands significance.
The pain in my legs will lie to me, the sun on my neck will deceive, as I traverse this lifelong journey my eyes will forever strain to see,
the purpose for all my desires, is there an easy way out? I see this whole world conspire and bolster the sorrow of my doubt.
Yet behold, the perfect cadence of my dreams long ago grey age has come since then yet my heart still dreams of gold
There and back again, I'll search the world beneath my feet. This dark sky at night will guide the day I will to see.
Epic In-Class Poetry Slam Writing
MySpace has 124 different genres of music available to listeners
I know, I counted
When does it matter? to classify music to classify pitches and timbre, melody and harmony, to segregate the sounds of freedom?
The only real difference in genre is a name, as is the only difference in race is origin of ancestors long forgotten.
Each genre being composed from the same 12 notes using rhythms and meters none too different. Also, when's the last time you heard of a genre Completely absent of love?
Yet you proceed to classify, you proceed to segregate music blues, rock, country, jazz You block out any number of these just for the sake of blocking, to protect yourself from a potential onslaught of unfamiliarity,
When you look up at the stars would you only look at but one and ignore the rest? Why gaze at one star when there are billions out there? With billions of stars, planets, galaxies, moons and suns Why focus on but one, and ignore the rest?
We live in a musical mansion but we choose to live in the broom closet. We keep our eyes closed in a gallery of masterpieces, for no apparent reason
But I say no Why not let Picasso mingle with Van Gogh Let blues meld with metal, Let me see the heavy metal Picasso's Let your heart be with your mind let art and science of all forms into your life without the barriers of segregation