Disorganic.

The incredibly heavy handed point is that music is where you find it. I jam fistfuls of words better used by anyone else in history together to communicate ideas and stories and some people think Im good at this. I see bridges, glue, filler and waffle and they see music. 

When it comes to tumblr, we stitch blogs together out of reblogs and pictures and videos and things we don’t own and didn’t create, but between the lines, in the associations and order we stack these things, we show something. Occasionally we put something of ourselves in there, a tiny original chunk, a note of sadness or happiness, a personal flourish. We see reblogs and whining, or cat gifs and bragging. Where we see pointless unoriginal behaviour, others can see the music.

So when someone tells you to stop, or that you’re not good at something, or that whatever you’re doing has been done better by someone else, tell them to go fuck themselves. The answers is always more music, more art, more content. never less. never silence. You can be quiet when you’re dead.

The pianist squats, hunched at her desk, pencil tight in hand as the other winds angrily through the air, fingertips stabbing out at illusory keys. Originality is hard to find, everything is derivative of another work. She rearranges sequences of tones, looking for melodies unfound and untested. As the piece grows longer she feels more like a mechanic tracking down a problem than a creator, suddenly wincing, reprimanding herself. Mechanics can pay the rent: at least they have a value. More than once she says;

“This is stupid”

her belief is concrete, there’s no originality here; all the notes have been played before. There’s Rachmaninoff’s melody, here are scales stolen from Weber, a tiny flourish at the end of a bar was first written by Tchaikovsky, all the stolen parts glued together with clumsy bridges and filler. 

everyone says it sounds wonderful, and the more they say it, the sicker she feels inside. She’s no composer, no artist. She is Dr Frankenstein, and all she can see are the scars, the stitches, the lack of true creation is putrescent, stinking of formaldehyde and stuffing, the composers decomposing composition, attar and roses, a secret dirge.

Later that week, she performs on stage, thrashing her hatred and pride into an altar of ivory and dark wood until her hands ache and her heart stops. The crowd is clapping, she takes her bow, stomach churning, her old piano teacher stands off-stage, eyes bright. Every performance feels like fraud, like the last, like the next.

She never hears the music, she just plays the notes.

(Source: disorganic)

Why’d you delete your blog?

Honestly the thought that I might have had something to do with you ditching really bums me out. Come on back.

Dreamed I was little, had an even smaller brother, and my parents split in my last year at HS. They both blamed me. Ended up homeless and hung myself from a bridge.

Thanks for amping up the realism in that one, too.

A blue haired woman dressed up as the queen of hearts chasing around a dude dressed up as Alice screaming “Off with his head!” Would you watch or look away?


If there’s a bar, I’m watching. If not, I’m getting a beer and coming back. If I cant get a beer because its that kind of place then Im probably busying doing something else.