A name eludes me still.
Not that I need a title to be able to write music. I just quite like having one.
RhiBen has (as ever) pipped me to the post with a good name: 'Anchored in Dust'. Though that may not be the final name, it is pretty much somewhere near what I want.
I feel the need to express some feeling of decay. Not decay in the morbid or bad way, but decay as a means to birth or rebirth. The end is the beginning. Or something like a phoenix rising from the ashes, but not as grand and glorious. And not mundane.
Normal is not mundane.
Normal can be glorious and terrifying. The average can be every bit as spine-thrillingly spectacular as anything anyone can imagine. It just takes looking in the right way to see it.
I am reading an interesting book at the moment. It is called 'House of Leaves' and is very pretty.
Just words, laid out nicely.
It is a book about the notes for a book about a film about a house.
In the first book, we are told the film was (is) fictional. Everything that relies on the film for its reality is undermined by the non-existence of the film. Yet, like so many before have pointed out, it is the experience of something that makes it real, and by the action of recalling, reciting, remembering, recanting that thing, be it real or no in the first instance, makes it real.
I am only a few pages in, and I like it. For the simple reason that it addresses this.
Currently. This moment. During this period of minutes.
I am in an odd frame of mind. Utterly tired and unwilling to sleep. So a vaguely stream-of-consciousness blog entry like this is in order.
Making sense is secondary to making.
And yet names still escape me. It is on the tip of my tongue. I know I have the words to express what I want, but I cannot seem to push the flaccid lump of grey matter that inhabits my skull into dredging up anything from the mires of memory.
Curses.
Sooner or later I will get it worked out.
Tomorrow I must work it out.
The name. Not the brain. I like the uselessly illogical and utterly irritating pound of flesh upstairs as it is, thank you very much.
Anyhow. Enough is enough. I shall listen to the Widor toccata from the 5th, and wend my merry way.
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