I suppose I am officially off the Blog Bandwagon. I haven’t kept a weekly post schedule since October, and I am averaging less than one a month at this point. Strangely, during this time of bloglessness, I haven’t been without a creative outlet.
When asked what instruments I play, I typically respond, “The French horn is my main instrument, but I have done quite a bit of choral singing as well.” When I get the “Ok. That sounds lame,” expression, I sometimes throw in, “And I suck at the guitar.” Although this always gets a laugh, it is, regrettably, true. Whereas I understand how the horn works, and how to manipulate it to get the desired sound, I haven’t a clue where to begin on the guitar. I can play chord progressions, but generally these are some form of G – C – D - G, in a slightly higher or lower key. I can’t really play anything that doesn’t involve strumming. Individual notes are right out.
Given my incompetence, I was surprised when I started writing songs a couple of months ago. I hadn’t played in ages (this being a serious problem with guitar, as you need calluses on your fingers to avoid serious pain), and knew I couldn’t just start playing. My solution was to drink away the pain; I had enough alcohol to, at once, numb my fingers and inspire several songs.
That night I ended up recording what would be three songs onto my Powerbook. Two of them are too eclectic, and one sounds like me trying to be someone else. So, I didn’t try it again the next night. Besides, alcohol is expensive.
It wasn’t until late July that I would write again. This time I didn’t need the alcohol, I had a night-long fiasco to inspire me. Strangely, as I was trying to write a song about my Fucking Curse, I managed to create two other songs. Then, as if my creativity were saying, “You’ll do what I say, punk.” I wrote a song about the curse.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Bit about Me
I wrote the following a couple years ago in response to a prompt. We were asked to consider an event or situation that has either directed or otherwise altered our course. What I came up with is interesting. It is horribly disjunct, and somehow gets the point across. I liked it, and decided a while back to expand it, and make it a bit less pedantic. The result will be out eventually, but till then, enjoy.
It is well within my nature to be clever. Barry-ish humour pervades my writing. This will not do at this time however. For, although the majority of childhood memories that remain are filled with comedy, the one I cannot forget is nothing of the sort.
It is by no means proper to teach children economical status or the disadvantages of lower social status. Children are supposed to begin school without the walls that socio-economic status creates. I am nothing if not abnormal.
I don’t remember my first day of school. I can recall neither looking just like the other five-year-olds, nor wondering why everyone else cried to see their parents leave them in the morning. I can not even remember being curious later that day as to how everyone seemed to know what each other’s dads did for a living.
I don’t remember crying when I was informed that every other dad was better than mine: the coal miner.
I have seen the insides of my dad’s office. A mountain. I have dressed up in his uniform upon several Halloween occasions. In short, I know my dad’s job pretty well. And it is a cool job. What does a lawyer do anyway? And why the hell do they tease me about my favourite shoes? It’s not like one just goes out and gets a new pair every time the get a hole.
But that’s just it isn’t it.
Apparently the other children had lots of new things. I was a minority. If I had associated with those like myself I would have to have given up interest in school. Somehow being the child of a coal miner was equivocal with being a loser. I was quickly on the road of the ‘scholarship boy.’
I had become a diversion. With humour and superior academics, I had managed to obscure the fact that my family was not as cool as it was supposed to be. I almost had myself convinced.
It is by no means proper to teach children economical status or the disadvantages of lower social status. There are words that must not be said too early in a child’s life. I wish my mother had read this.
Try as you may, there are concepts that children will not grasp. Tell a six-year-old that they are going to die eventually, and they may sing a silly song about death. If one mentions to a friend that they have discovered that they are bankrupt and that the bank may foreclose, an overhearing child will be utterly confused.
Unless that child was raised in the age of ‘Monopoly.’ Thanks to the wonders of family entertainment, I understood perfectly what my mother had just told her friend. All of my achievements were about to be disposed of, and I was suddenly afraid of becoming another noun a child should never have cause to fear: homeless.
I would like to say that this stopped affecting me later on in life, but I never really know whether that is true. Once I had planned to be a trauma specialist.
My passion for music has led me far away from that small town, and far away from the field of medicine. It was never really about money though, I suppose. I wanted to do medicine to help people in Africa who were worse off than I had experienced.
Rather, it is about distance. As a musician, I have the opportunity to perform all over the world. I can travel the world and make music with people whose speech I cannot even understand. And sometimes, when I feel like reminding myself that other people cannot tell me who to be, I can go home.
It is well within my nature to be clever. Barry-ish humour pervades my writing. This will not do at this time however. For, although the majority of childhood memories that remain are filled with comedy, the one I cannot forget is nothing of the sort.
It is by no means proper to teach children economical status or the disadvantages of lower social status. Children are supposed to begin school without the walls that socio-economic status creates. I am nothing if not abnormal.
I don’t remember my first day of school. I can recall neither looking just like the other five-year-olds, nor wondering why everyone else cried to see their parents leave them in the morning. I can not even remember being curious later that day as to how everyone seemed to know what each other’s dads did for a living.
I don’t remember crying when I was informed that every other dad was better than mine: the coal miner.
I have seen the insides of my dad’s office. A mountain. I have dressed up in his uniform upon several Halloween occasions. In short, I know my dad’s job pretty well. And it is a cool job. What does a lawyer do anyway? And why the hell do they tease me about my favourite shoes? It’s not like one just goes out and gets a new pair every time the get a hole.
But that’s just it isn’t it.
Apparently the other children had lots of new things. I was a minority. If I had associated with those like myself I would have to have given up interest in school. Somehow being the child of a coal miner was equivocal with being a loser. I was quickly on the road of the ‘scholarship boy.’
I had become a diversion. With humour and superior academics, I had managed to obscure the fact that my family was not as cool as it was supposed to be. I almost had myself convinced.
It is by no means proper to teach children economical status or the disadvantages of lower social status. There are words that must not be said too early in a child’s life. I wish my mother had read this.
Try as you may, there are concepts that children will not grasp. Tell a six-year-old that they are going to die eventually, and they may sing a silly song about death. If one mentions to a friend that they have discovered that they are bankrupt and that the bank may foreclose, an overhearing child will be utterly confused.
Unless that child was raised in the age of ‘Monopoly.’ Thanks to the wonders of family entertainment, I understood perfectly what my mother had just told her friend. All of my achievements were about to be disposed of, and I was suddenly afraid of becoming another noun a child should never have cause to fear: homeless.
I would like to say that this stopped affecting me later on in life, but I never really know whether that is true. Once I had planned to be a trauma specialist.
My passion for music has led me far away from that small town, and far away from the field of medicine. It was never really about money though, I suppose. I wanted to do medicine to help people in Africa who were worse off than I had experienced.
Rather, it is about distance. As a musician, I have the opportunity to perform all over the world. I can travel the world and make music with people whose speech I cannot even understand. And sometimes, when I feel like reminding myself that other people cannot tell me who to be, I can go home.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Me falda un tio, y no se donde verle.
It is almost irreverant to say this, but I am tired of having to process my personal eulogies. They are taxing. And, they are issues of death. I have almost finished my tribute to beloved grandmother, and this morning, at 4am, the oldest brother of my father passed away due to a heart attack. It has been fewer than two weeks since I have been in this place.
I just don't know.
Logan (Hoss) Hurt II, rest in Christ's peace.
I just don't know.
Logan (Hoss) Hurt II, rest in Christ's peace.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Movin Out
My efforts for the next few months will be aimed westward. Conversely, my writings over the next few months will, I am certain, exude nostalgia and remorse. I am soon to be a former Kentuckian.
After several years of planning, waiting, and chemical testing (read: two months) I now know what I am going to be doing this fall. I will be attending the California Institute of the Arts (www.calarts.edu) where I will pursue a masters of fine arts with a concentration in music performance. I will be living on the left coast. I will be living in LA.
This is nutz.
And I still haven’t quite grasped all that will go into getting myself over there and being ready to go.
For now, I will enjoy what’s left of my time as a Louisvillian. I will enjoy Pimps & Ho’s. I will watch Thunder with my parents. I will laugh at all the people getting hammered at the Derby. I will party like I was a freshman again, and then go out to my favourite bars. Just for rediculousness. I will shave my head (this one is still in committee), simply because it just came to me. I will read Marcel Proust, and frickin enjoy it. I will turn the channel on my dad’s truck’s radio ASAP when Louisville’s favourite crap music plays. I will hang out with Delaney Jane Dill, one of the coolest babies I have had the pleasure to meet. I will kindle the flames of brotherhood with my big, little, and grandlittle brothers. I will enjoy the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I will enjoy Sin City again. I will spend approximately 15 hours in a theatre on May 19th, watching the EXACT same movie over and over. And get chill bumps every time it starts. I will listen to my nifty read-versions of the Harry Potter series, and then read, in one day, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I will play in the Sacred Winds Ensemble for the 5th year in a row. I will have barbequed elk meat on toothpicks. I will teach music students from Eastern Kentucky, and inspire in them an awareness of music’s important role in the enrichment of the human spirit. And they might just get it.
Stream of consciousness moment. It is really difficult now that I try to relate plans to actually, shut up itunes, get them 1) in order, 1) all there, 1) without having thought of it. So to make sure I don’t sound like one of those lists that tells you to make your own list of things to do, I will instead say, “Screw you! I busy.”
After several years of planning, waiting, and chemical testing (read: two months) I now know what I am going to be doing this fall. I will be attending the California Institute of the Arts (www.calarts.edu) where I will pursue a masters of fine arts with a concentration in music performance. I will be living on the left coast. I will be living in LA.
This is nutz.
And I still haven’t quite grasped all that will go into getting myself over there and being ready to go.
For now, I will enjoy what’s left of my time as a Louisvillian. I will enjoy Pimps & Ho’s. I will watch Thunder with my parents. I will laugh at all the people getting hammered at the Derby. I will party like I was a freshman again, and then go out to my favourite bars. Just for rediculousness. I will shave my head (this one is still in committee), simply because it just came to me. I will read Marcel Proust, and frickin enjoy it. I will turn the channel on my dad’s truck’s radio ASAP when Louisville’s favourite crap music plays. I will hang out with Delaney Jane Dill, one of the coolest babies I have had the pleasure to meet. I will kindle the flames of brotherhood with my big, little, and grandlittle brothers. I will enjoy the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I will enjoy Sin City again. I will spend approximately 15 hours in a theatre on May 19th, watching the EXACT same movie over and over. And get chill bumps every time it starts. I will listen to my nifty read-versions of the Harry Potter series, and then read, in one day, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I will play in the Sacred Winds Ensemble for the 5th year in a row. I will have barbequed elk meat on toothpicks. I will teach music students from Eastern Kentucky, and inspire in them an awareness of music’s important role in the enrichment of the human spirit. And they might just get it.
Stream of consciousness moment. It is really difficult now that I try to relate plans to actually, shut up itunes, get them 1) in order, 1) all there, 1) without having thought of it. So to make sure I don’t sound like one of those lists that tells you to make your own list of things to do, I will instead say, “Screw you! I busy.”
Monday, March 07, 2005
Out There
People on dates try to present the best side of themselves at all times. This is not a problem when dating a recent acquaintance. In this situation the other person is suspending their disbelief that the opposite sex is treacherous. At least regarding their date. At least for dinner. So it is with this ninety-meter head start that we are able to portray ourselves as we want to be seen, rather than the vile, disgusting creatures we see in the mirror.
This is not the case with dates involving friends, though. Friends know things. Sometimes, friends know too many things, and they must be disposed of. But these are special circumstances, and I promised the nice people at county that I wouldn’t talk about it to anyone.
It isn’t as if the date wasn’t enough of a challenge. The girl has grown up to be gorgeous, leaving her hometown’s 3 or 4 for 9’s and 10’s. Simply talking to her has ceased to be simple, as my eyes plot against me. Any sanctuary such as the eyes has become hostile. By glancing into them I am taken aback, reminded of “Lily’s Hazel Eyes,” and become ensnared. To free myself I lower my eyes, and in my mind’s eye behold Bethar. Cognizant of my longing to see such a landscape in person, again I flee. Looking away I regard drabness: the world. Now drawn back from the recesses of my imagination I realize that I have, of course, NOT been paying attention to the speech of the girl sitting across from me. And I am still staring into space. Firmly in control of my senses, I return to her gaze. Damn those hazel eyes. I told you this was already tough enough.
It is as if she had been waiting for a signal from the insurgents within my mind. Perhaps a flare claiming victory over the sovereign me, and all my faculties. She asks me, “Where do you see yourself in twenty years?” It’s an easy enough question (And anticlimactic in lots of ways, I know. Don’t blame me though, I already informed you that I don’t write these stories.). Nonetheless, I was taken aback by my lack of latitude. I had never been put to the question by someone that actually knows me. Having been asked this or some similar question several times recently, I scanned my veritable filing cabinet of answers that I had produced. It was to no avail. Nothing seemed apropos for this discussion.
Realizing that I really wasn’t trying to impress, but rather survive a discussion with a pretty lady, I volunteered ignorance. I have no idea where I will be in twenty years. Having had my life determined for me to this point, I am become Yoda, declaring, “Hard to see the future is. The dark side clouds everything.” I feel I could see something if only my gaze were guided. Or maybe, like my myopic eyes, my mind needs corrective lenses.
That sounds great. And it is even mildly poetic. I’m not certain that isn’t just an attempt to circumvent the issue though. There has really been no point even I can discern within this post, so I wouldn’t expect too much in the way of a conclusion either. We'll revisit this one later, when it has settled.
This is not the case with dates involving friends, though. Friends know things. Sometimes, friends know too many things, and they must be disposed of. But these are special circumstances, and I promised the nice people at county that I wouldn’t talk about it to anyone.
It isn’t as if the date wasn’t enough of a challenge. The girl has grown up to be gorgeous, leaving her hometown’s 3 or 4 for 9’s and 10’s. Simply talking to her has ceased to be simple, as my eyes plot against me. Any sanctuary such as the eyes has become hostile. By glancing into them I am taken aback, reminded of “Lily’s Hazel Eyes,” and become ensnared. To free myself I lower my eyes, and in my mind’s eye behold Bethar. Cognizant of my longing to see such a landscape in person, again I flee. Looking away I regard drabness: the world. Now drawn back from the recesses of my imagination I realize that I have, of course, NOT been paying attention to the speech of the girl sitting across from me. And I am still staring into space. Firmly in control of my senses, I return to her gaze. Damn those hazel eyes. I told you this was already tough enough.
It is as if she had been waiting for a signal from the insurgents within my mind. Perhaps a flare claiming victory over the sovereign me, and all my faculties. She asks me, “Where do you see yourself in twenty years?” It’s an easy enough question (And anticlimactic in lots of ways, I know. Don’t blame me though, I already informed you that I don’t write these stories.). Nonetheless, I was taken aback by my lack of latitude. I had never been put to the question by someone that actually knows me. Having been asked this or some similar question several times recently, I scanned my veritable filing cabinet of answers that I had produced. It was to no avail. Nothing seemed apropos for this discussion.
Realizing that I really wasn’t trying to impress, but rather survive a discussion with a pretty lady, I volunteered ignorance. I have no idea where I will be in twenty years. Having had my life determined for me to this point, I am become Yoda, declaring, “Hard to see the future is. The dark side clouds everything.” I feel I could see something if only my gaze were guided. Or maybe, like my myopic eyes, my mind needs corrective lenses.
That sounds great. And it is even mildly poetic. I’m not certain that isn’t just an attempt to circumvent the issue though. There has really been no point even I can discern within this post, so I wouldn’t expect too much in the way of a conclusion either. We'll revisit this one later, when it has settled.
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