July 8th, 2008

abstract butterfly

Sam I

After work, I headed over to Bill's Record Store in Dallas. Bill's is a good bit smaller than it used to be, and it's more focused on Texana (and also eBay sales) than its earlier incarnation in a northern suburb, but it's still an old-time record store, with interesting things in the store. I keep meaning to get down to the store on a Saturday afternoon, when free live music of the Texana/roots/Americana brand is on tap weekly.

I like the way that record stores give rise to conversations one can have only in a record store, a book store of a public library. A fellow patron regaled me with tales of his avocation as a magician. I like it when people understand that a good story is a fine thing to share.

I spent the latter part of the evening remixing, as I found a spoken-word track for which I wished to create a melodic accompaniment. I'll use the melody in another project I'm finishing up now.

I'm really enjoying the Edgard Varese biography I'm reading. Complex lives have their own fascination.

My latest fantasy is less creative--to build a birdhouse from scrap lumber. I do not know that I will pursue this fantasy, but the idea of a home-made home made for birds appeals to me.

I keep seeing the "100 book" meme, and wanting to set up a parody which begins with "Green Eggs and Ham".
abstract butterfly

dark wonderful skies

When I emerged from Firehouse Subs, the rain fell like ammunition from a sky-borne gatling gun. Summer rain cuts me to the quick with joy. He who would stay dry on such an evening will be all wet in the coming times.

When I first arrived home, some ten minutes' drive away, the rain fell like soft dew: the kind of dew that hangs lightly from dandelions past their bloom, and congeals in huge drops apparent only in photographs. Then the sky opened like a can of sardines in a deep blue corn sauce, and swam down to earth like a mackerel run under a huge barge parked in the Santa Monica Bay by Redondo Beach.

Thunder roared a message to my dogs to which they replied in barking kind. My wife turned off the sprinklers, because the unexpected rain made water superfluous in one sense, and over-abundant in another.

Texas Summer is an ornate and heated thing, like going on a date with hair mousse', a maroon leisure suit, and the aftermath of an hour spent under a blow-dryer while the future feathers out like layered hair. When the rain comes, then the temperature drops and everyone and everything heaves a sigh of relief. People in Texas are big on iced tea--which I despise--and the relief of cool contrasts, which I adore.

Tonight a metric at the Creative Commons website noted that 130 million things have been labeled CC.
The sharing economy is in session, like raindrops that keep falling.