One thing unmistakable about forgetting to check something: if it has aroma, it will raise the issue itself, with unseen fingers (up my nose is not the right place for any fingers to be left for any length or width of time or space, lemme tellya!) to remind my olfactory workers who should never go on strike if I want to have anything to say about it. Not with any taste, I shouldn’t.
Perception is what we make me make of it (yes, you made me do it you know you did), unless we don’t. Here are two tunes. You might recognize them, if I did not chop them to bloody bits so even their own mothers would not have them. (ouch?)
I did this because I was feeling lonely (even though it often is something I’ll forget to “check on to see if I am okay”) and almost like nobody ever really cares (or has cared) about me. Not at the same time as I was doing my uninspired recording session (using one five-minute block of my “studio time” here plus extra for the edit/convert/mix/label/chore-type stuff) did I feel that way, but I remember feeling that way, lots and lots of times. Either that or I have a very bad memory. Spank it. It should go to its room and think about what it has done, this awful, bad, hurtful memory of mine, with its evil brain-heart of dagger-thoughts, to hurt me with its own venomous lies. (how *dare* it???)
Pretty sure I got Kate’s arrangement botched in at least half a dozen areas if not downright spots where I’ll probably always wince if I’m listening and paying any attention to how it sounds like I did at the time (which was somewhat distracted, in half-dream thoughts) and have no idea how close the Beatles’ number is to any other chart I ever heard. I “read” charts inside my imaginary mind. The one that I think I have, but probably do not, unless I stole it from someone who actually has (had) one before bumping into my sticky five fingers (on each hand of the split).
So I’ve gone played these all two of them after midnight from memory without any other music playing (had on headphones and could “hear my own fingers” that way) except that cesspool that claims quarters inside my cranial cavity, where anything might fire off unexpectedly from the depths of the noise margin.
Inside, where it is dark, and the light never will get in, unless I cleave my own noggin, sharply. Problem with that is I cannot get above myself to get a good swing at me. So scrap that plan (again, as if it hadn’t ever been thought of by some angry child somewhere nearby). Life is rough. On the other hand, my footwork leads my mind to remember that Ruff was the dog of Dennis, which is reversal for Sinned. It is on that license plate I saw one day, which actually I have seen several times since. You have seen vanity plates, I am sure.
You see them when you chase cars, while driving in your own car, most likely. Better watch where you’re going in that car you’re driving, while chasing the one ahead of you but not really since you have no idea where that poor fool is mistakenly headed, not like you, of course, nor like me.
(nobody likes me since nobody’s like me… sniff boo-hoo)
Stupid memory. Personally, I thinketh it stinketh. But of course that is my ID, is it not? 😀 and it better not be another fake one! So unlike what I said I added a fake little trailer-caboose thing at the end, only this time it sounds like she’s saying “one leg…” instead of “Galen, oh…” like in my other weird-o-gram-o-phone. (it’s back there somewhere)
Before I forget to do this I should put up one example of music I wrote to go with someone else’s lyrics. Problem there is it is written in the “head” I mentioned, which might not be real, and even if real may be so unreliable as to be considered hostile. You know, with sarcasm dripping all over it, as if I ever knew what sarcasm was, or was good for using, or could even be allowed.
Is it? 😉 Someone better stop me ahile ago, in that case, or truckload. Meanwhile as I wait for the upload of my musical monstrosity (post-midnight, as I mentioned, when the other goblins are out, so thus they interfere with others instead of with me) it dawns on me darkly that poetic operator’s license maybe has expired long ago, and they’re gonna be pulling my writer’s cramp-mobile over to the shoulder any minute now. My elusive butterfly might just love watching the whole thing, yet how will we ever know?
=-=+=-= almost done with upload, oh how I ♥ my dialup! +=+=+=
Let’s call it a knight now.
“I hearby dub thee Sir Now, now…”