New new new
O.K. Here's the Cello duet (almost finished)
And the orchestral piece with the working title "Minnesota mittens, how musicians can stay warm in the arctic gelidity of a middle American winter"
I tried to repost "Aspice Quod Felis Attraxit" but it turned out I didn't send it to my flash, so I couldn't upload it at the library.
I'll load it as soon as I'm through here.
Caveat; I do intend to load it soon, however, it's my most popular piece, so beware!
Alex got a kick out of "nightmare prelude" so she should like this one, too.
Or maybe she has better sense.
It was basically not an unusual day, with the exception of the poppyseed muffin at Tully's whilst waiting for the #9 bus to take me home after class.
Well, that and Ladro's being out of peanut butter cookies again.
Butch has, once again, made poetry out of my inane persiflage.
Check it out at Feel Free to Read.
My step kid had a fit about my red-haired Celtic put on.
Said it was undignified or some damn thing.
Last person I knew who was that uptight is now pissing away whats left of his brief
stint in this Eden known as life at a monastary.
He needs to take Kochansky's advice.
Must be the result of another "upgrade" but I can no longer access this site's spell check or the "add image" feature.
Fooh!
I am tempted to refer Butch to Jeremy Denk's poetry postings but that would be a cruel thing to do to both of 'em so I won't.
You can tell I'm running out of ideas, can't you?
I still feel like talking, however, maybe I can think of something crude to embarrass junior.
This would do it if anyone in my family ever read this thing.
Yeah.....anyway....whatever.....ciao!
And the orchestral piece with the working title "Minnesota mittens, how musicians can stay warm in the arctic gelidity of a middle American winter"
I tried to repost "Aspice Quod Felis Attraxit" but it turned out I didn't send it to my flash, so I couldn't upload it at the library.
I'll load it as soon as I'm through here.
Caveat; I do intend to load it soon, however, it's my most popular piece, so beware!
Alex got a kick out of "nightmare prelude" so she should like this one, too.
Or maybe she has better sense.
It was basically not an unusual day, with the exception of the poppyseed muffin at Tully's whilst waiting for the #9 bus to take me home after class.
Well, that and Ladro's being out of peanut butter cookies again.
Butch has, once again, made poetry out of my inane persiflage.
Check it out at Feel Free to Read.
My step kid had a fit about my red-haired Celtic put on.
Said it was undignified or some damn thing.
Last person I knew who was that uptight is now pissing away whats left of his brief
stint in this Eden known as life at a monastary.
He needs to take Kochansky's advice.
Must be the result of another "upgrade" but I can no longer access this site's spell check or the "add image" feature.
Fooh!
I am tempted to refer Butch to Jeremy Denk's poetry postings but that would be a cruel thing to do to both of 'em so I won't.
You can tell I'm running out of ideas, can't you?
I still feel like talking, however, maybe I can think of something crude to embarrass junior.
This would do it if anyone in my family ever read this thing.
Yeah.....anyway....whatever.....ciao!
Labels: Red Dwarf, Threescore and ten
posted by Lane Savant at 6:34 PM
3 Comments:
Actually "Early Rose" is quite charming. Compare it to Emily's
.......Eddy
I agree with Eddy, EARLY ROSE is not too bad, and I already advised Emily to chill out. She certainly is one passionate and jealous bag of bones, enit?
Listen, Sir Savant, your mp3's are somewhat dyfunctional. Both the Cello duet and Minnesota Mittens are only (6)seconds in length; hard to get much of handle on the musical profundity there--like getting a quick lick off an ice cream cone, its good but more is better. So before you download or upload, or whatever the hell you do, the ASPICE QUOD FELIS ATTRAXIT, perhaps you ought to figure out what haps with the system. I am sure that Alex is hovering with bated breath awaiting the chance to listen it it.
What was unusual about the poppyseed muffin at Tully's? Did the bulls board the bus and do random drug testing, and you had to explain that it was only a poppyseed high? What's up with Ladro's? Don't they realize who you are? They ought to have a special box of those peanut butter cookies set aside for your weekly saunters.
***Vocabulary Alert!!!****
Persiflage: frivolous bantering talk. Thanks Lane, you will have us speaking English any day now.
Yes, it was not hard to skew your prose into poetry--it went willingly.
Are you putting us on about Keth? Most of us got a supreme kick out of your red-haired Celtic ruse/put-on! Those of us who kind of "know" you suspected a ruse, but there is always the outside chance that sometimes you are not full of crap, that you are being serious; one of the perks of being a FFTL reader and participant. Prudishness is a waste of time and energy, and usually it proceeds predisposition, religious fervor, zealous sexism, misogyny, prejudgement, and an attempt to join the John Birch Society. So Keth needs to get his shit together and make an attempt to lift it.
I assume you are referring to Kochansky's Approximation:
In the above figure, let , and construct the circle centered at of radius 1. This intersects at point . Now construct the circle about with radius 1. The circles and intersect in , and the line intersects the perpendicular to through in the point . Now construct the point to be a distance 3 along . The line segment is then of length
This construction was given by the Polish Jesuit priest Kochansky (Steinhaus 1999).
Although I am not exactly sure how this pertains to Keth, or someone as uptight as he might be.
As you know, sir, THINK DENK has moved, and I guess you have updated your link to him. I finally get the jibe from Eddy Emerald about the poem EARLY ROSE, and it still pisses me off that Mr. Jeremy has not reciprocated and posting a link to FFTL.
Early Rose
The world is
Asleep – sleeping
In those leapless
Limbless hours
When powers fail, save
The billion slopes which
Rise and rose and fall
In a billion breaths on their
Beds of repose.
To the garden, awake,
Tiptoe, quick, go
Slick-stairs down the
Steps to the pre-dew
Night morn before the
Dawn’s birth is born.
Follow to the foliage where,
Hidden as the future’s
Fall or rise, the rose –
Petals closed – will bud-burst
A billion atoms of beauty.
Let us bend down, our faces
Towards the flower which
Wakes and trembles
In that pause of hour.
Let us say the words which
Shake or stumble
In day’s poor prose, pour
Verse into the stamen’s
Quivering cup.
So when the day dries
Dreams, wakes dew, and
Sunplay in dazzling green
Or hue, the perfume from
That secret rose will
Breathe our poem to every
Nose: sigh language of love;
Encrypted script of ecstasy.
An unqualified, enthusiastic, passionate admirer of Mr. Hough’s playing, I had never before encountered his verse. I could not help a twinge of envy creeping as if from the sorrowful depths of my almost empty Venti. I felt that I, too, had something to offer the poetry world, reams perhaps of unwritten odes which could offer a poised foil to this “encrypted script of ecstasy.” I, too, wished to “pour verse into the quivering stamen” of something-or-other.
But wait!
I recalled, at this dark moment, that I did have a poem to offer the world. Mr. Hough’s poem is about the universal wonder of morning, of dew-covered, trembling foliage; whereas mine, poor postmodern thing, is more centrally concerned with mold and fungus. Let me explain. After many years of passionate entreaties from my friends, and the Department of Health, I was finally convinced to hire someone on a regular basis to come in and clean my apartment. This wonderful person, Monika, I have come to think of as sort of the “conscience of the greater world,” since when she leaves, my apartment looks more or less like you would imagine a normal person’s apartment should, if they were impoverished, blind, and loved to purchase books that no one else really wanted to read.
But, by a terrible twist of fate, both Christmas and New Year’s fell on Tuesdays, her regular day, and I found myself having to live several weeks without her, having become addicted to the semblance of normalcy she provided. And thus, out of the darkest moments, comes the greatest inspiration:
ODE TO MONIKA
Oh Monika, you moniker, you monster!
Oh beast who promised cleanliness
But now leaves only dusty loneliness
My detritus, you moniker, you monster!
Oh Monika, my dishes pile in savage heaps
From whence (who knows?) aroused bacterium leaps
Receipts and disused papers teeter in the winds
and crusted honey dropt from oatmeal past now binds
the sinful slothful pages of my present domicile
telling sermons on my flushed youth
an obsolete guest, a loosened tooth
well past prime, a milk gone sour a while…
like a poem written in the ancient style.
Oh Monika! my stale testosterone, I hear it!
It echoes down the empty corridor,
echoes nothing: vacuum of vacuums,
My filth foredoom of dooms
in these empty and yet cluttered rooms
once cloistered wombs, now tombs upon tombs
requiring brooms.
So at this point I do not know if you are taking a shot at my poetic prowess or Denk's or Hough's or Emily's? I guess being a poet, which most of us are, could be, probably are, wannabe, is not at the top of your creativity list Mr. Big Stuff Savant. No matter, I will continue to slave away in the shadows, brightening your day in every way. I suppose that is my lot in life, enit?
Keth and Meredith really do need to poke their heads into the screen and check out FFTL some time. Maybe you will finally get some respect, or not.
Melva and I are headed to Pac Beach tonight for a weekend of beach time, playing cards, haunting antique shops, and fooling around. Perhaps we will finally have that Sasquatch sighting I so crave.
Glenn
Space corps officer Kochansky is a character on "Red Dwarf" who once advised Rimmer, when he was going on about something inane, to "go have sex with someone, that's an order"
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