It Rang Out As Pure...

... as an imposed sub-octave wave on an open D guitar string. The sound of silence was outright overpowering.

"... It's two in the morning, Nat. Why in the hell are you still awake?"

He chewed on the question for about five minutes before realizing that it was taking so long to do everything because of all the music he was listening to. Ever so slightly earlier, he had six free songs on the iTunes music store to redeem, which he naturally chose to pour into Dream Theater tracks he'll end up having to buy the actual albums for, due largely in part to the fact that 128 kilobits per second is not now, nor will it ever be enough data to coherently digitize audio while maintaining enough clarity to warrant calling said audio "music."

The philosophical approach he takes to music can best be described by watching and writing about what his hands do while he listens to a new piece. 64th notes, fermataed trills, kick drum triplets, on and on and on, thumping away on the corner of his bed; in fact, it's more often than not the parts of the music he can't play that he tries to keep up with. There's no need for 64th notes on the bass! he'd think to himself while trying to match the obscene pace of a guitar/keyed bells duet. Why would I need to bounce around four octaves of the same scale? on the trip from the left corner to the right.

Only thinking about the events of the evening is enough motivation to stop. "Tappa Tappa Tappa, indeed," he said to himself as he started to stare at the disgusting amount of definition in his hands, a fact itself only made apparent now by the dim glow of the backlight on his laptop. It's the kind of definition that results from five years of trying to play songs just outside your reach. They say that's how you learn and grow; they say that's why getting outside of your comfort zone is important. Some others say "Bollocks!" to such sentiment. It depends largely on what perspective the person in question chose that morning when they woke up. Writing about such a topic made him remember – and almost choke on – the fleck of ice his frappuccino tried to kill him with earlier this morning. Oh, it was hours gone indeed, but that didn't stop the situation from confusing his stupidly rational mind anyway. Never in his life had he understood why physical sensation was so strongly tied to memory, and only lately had he begun to understand just how important his sense of touch was to him. Just flapping his hands wildly through the air would be enough to give him goose bumps; the sensation of his shirt caused seizure-grade spasms from time to time. Just feeling his fingertips was good for 15 minutes of entertainment at a time. "They're different every time," he'd explain if anyone bothered to ask why he was staring so intently at his thumbs as they circled his index finger's callused tips.

Nobody bothers, though. Sometimes, he wonders if the people at the Starbucks really hate him for making them use the blender. He can't think of a reason why they would hate him, but, to him, that's more than enough cause to believe they should hate him. "Call it making it more work than necessary." Such is the story of the Sunday trip to the place he never goes anymore. "Funny how five years will turn you from daily trips to the coffee stand across the street for triple shot iced drinks to 'hey, it's bi-monthly tasty treat time'," he pondered as the songs just kept rolling on. He had graduated from Dream Theater to an old standby, 311, proving once and more that homogeneous musical selection accounts for having absolutely no taste. His friends would give him a tough time for listening to such popularized tripe, even more so for being able to say "I can play this song," but that didn't stop him.

It's all about the rhythm.

---------

And if you carry something away from this ill-conceived pile of horse dung I decided to put together for you, let it be that. All the changes in time signature you want as long as you manage to tie it together sensibly enough for yourself. If only I could take that advice, I'd have been lights out three and a half hours ago.

Look for pictures and a couple new recordings tomorrow. Of course, if you don't read this today, then it won't matter, will it? "And, in case I don't see you... Good Afternoon, Good Evening, and Good Night!"