The Music of the Night

I know it has been a while, and my blog has been void of visitors like my house is void of children. I felt the need to update the status at my own little personal cave of the blogosphere in which no one has dared (read, "cared") to enter thus far. Yet I persevere and post regardless of the absence of dear readers. Such is my lot in this life.

I have nothing to review or plug this time around, but should soon with my completion of the first book in the Illuminatus Trilogy. In the mean time, my brain is still being thoroughly messed about by the constant effort of trying to figure out what the hell is going on while I am reading it so that I can come up with something witty, intelligent, and life altering for nobody to care about when I do write a review of it. But I digress. Mostly because I sound like a blithering idiot right about now.

On to other fun stuff and matters of insanity. I have been in the mood of a morose and pissed off Beethoven as of late, sitting at my piano and pounding on it relentlessly in an effort to get a sound other than that of a cat being molested by a donkey out of it. I suppose to some twisted bastards out there that may be music, but to me it is far from the 5th Symphony. Moonlight Sonata has become my bane as of late, prompting a hypnotic, trance-like fondling of the keys in the dead of night by candlelight. The sound puts my brain to rest as I play but I usually grow restless and begin shortly jumping around between my music books until they are scattered on the floor around me like a flock of birds that flew headlong into a poison cloud.

I have also been trying to get a sound out of my guitar that in my head would be different than the one it would make being smashed against the wall due to my frustration. I firmly believe that my left hand was not created to bend the way it must have to in order to work the frets the way that I have heard on the radio. All I continue to get is a muffled mush that I could probably replicate with ease if I played with my feet.

Night is the best time to attempt this noise. I find that it works better to put me out of my misery than exercise and my sore, contorted, and stretched out hands are all better by morning so that I can still play again the next day. I believe the louder I play, the better it sounds, but in all reality I know in the deepest recesses of my heart that the louder I play, the more it pisses the neighbors off.

So I continue to ply my trade at the darkest hours of night.