Musicma way! fathers and sons.

Vineri seara-sambata dimineata 19-20th Feb 2016

Main themes of these last couple of weeks:

Led Zeppelin, well this was two weeks ago yes, after watching Big Short. For 3-4 days letting it rumble through my days and nights – a pocket full of music.

Then, unsaved by Lhasa drifted onto classics a bit, more Eric Satie and variations of gymnopedies.

Then Gershwin. Yesssss! – the childhood watermark of my … pre-teens 12-15 years of age. My first encounters with jazz. And that filmic pace of his music, the scenes I would see in it, the contest of life, falling innocently over and cruising through love (, what love?, @ 12-13 those were early mumblings). A musical story-telling and dynamic of spirit I would later decant into Pat Metheny’s  The Way Up (, but check the ending of as well).

But now… ahh, Gwin allowed me to nimble through pages of being I hadn’t felt in a while. Especially the Rhapsody and Concerto in F

Of course dancing my nights off, on salsa, over and over.. but after a while you feel the need for a stark contrast to that, a heartfelt one, something to which you belong. So I woke up another vein of adventurous personality, of holiday and discoveries – Rory Gallagher, particularly his Irish Tour double! EVERY BIT OF IT, IN IT!. Brought memories of Pacific, of losing mind on a stranded beach. Falling asleep through patterns of convoluted fractals. Irrationally creating dreams to shapes and twirls wave crushing. all into it. Or further back… when I was lost for words for that girl and listened to what would later become her walkman. A story there. My Rory-ies and my Petrucciani-es night wanderings marvelled at these masters. (1999-2000. The year he died. Yet he was so alive!)

Been so blues cut these days, but not JLHooker style. Not now.. this time it is the spirit blast of  Gallagher that coloured my da-ights. All crumbling down to the sheets on my bed.

Up until last night. When suddenly it was Norah! Shy out of the fittings of my clothes – old winter coats full of snow smell, that dressed me up in my student years, then in the after teens and all. Touching gently her voice to my skin. Pace making my tremors. I let her slight away with me. But she was still an echo in my mind when reading The Gambler, The Nun and The Radio ( Her musings I would imagine played in the background of that hospital room.

Fell asleep into and woke up to Hemingway – The Gambler… Been struggling to finish this short story a few nights now. Would fall down sideways or over the leaves of the day, rustling through the pages, barely re-catching the storyline and feeling out a bit of the rest. Then suddenly the night, like a giant lover rising, would take a deep silence into my chest same time as it would breathe out a vast hallo over my eyes.

But then I found it again in the morning…

Break 15:30: now @ Southwark Playhouse for Orphans by… Lyle Kessler

a piece about a couple of orphans one dependent on his older

felt that street loose hustle, that life on a limbo, the proper “entrepreneurial” way a street smart would go for. And the way it can waste your guts. Ok play, a feeling of fatherhood, though was permanently trying to forego a feeling of adult wrong-meddling kids/teens of kind. I believe Spotlight may have imprinted a too long lasting bruise on my charts and got me too much into this scare culture in London, in US.. not all people working with kids are like this! common! Anyway, getting my head straight. And my joy and need of(f)springs together.

then in the intermezzo:

…resolutely through the “opium of the people” speech.

“Fathers and sons” after. Had a permeable layer of personal memories citind-o: sounds, feels, drifts and lonesome wanderings in my grandma’s country side, then the encounters with kids and fences, grass and dust. The everything of my summers. That bit about the smell of his father; how I felt about mine’s, more of my mum’s, or bro, grandma’s, my own, or my very orgasmic own. How I was attached to these and in what differing ways. Yes, could feel it through the lines.

(ahh ce fain! toata proza scurta a lui H e aici!, could I find Raymond’s as well?, nope :(, but there’s Sylvia’s, Virginia’s, James… Fitz)

But at the same time another page of meanings and references:

All the way Carver and his stories of childhood and fathers… on every turn of colour and broken words in Hemingway’s I would come to think and parallel into R.C’s. A world of dust and scatters in the sun.. innocuous adventure land of my childhood.

like in Nobody Said Anything…

or Bicycles, Muscles, Cigarettes

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