Waiting, Adjusting, Dreaming

So, let's see. Where have I been? In the last two months I've been to Taiwan, moved to a new place and got embroiled in a war (still going on). I've also been doing some writing, though not enough in both quantity and quality. Let's take it one item at a time.

Longshan Temple, Taipei

The trip to Taipei was a business trip as well as a colossal culture shock for me. Everything was so different and yet so similar. On the connecting flight over there I saw the movie "Her" for the first time. Eerily, I had a feeling I actually landed into it, this vast city of the future. Though, admittedly, I had some issues with the local cuisine, I adjusted. The 2 weeks I spent there will not be forgotten anytime soon and I still miss the place and its people.

A week after I've returned, I moved to a new flat, a change long overdue. While some things in the new place can be better, even more can be worse. I do not quite feel at home here, but I've adjusted. More or less.

About three weeks ago the latest round in the seemingly endless regional conflict here has erupted again and we have been at war ever since. I write 'we' because although I'm just a regular civilian, this war seems to be focused on us, the regular civilians from both sides. It is us who are running for shelter when the missiles and rockets come, it is us who find ourselves homeless, it is us who suffer needlessly. And yet, we adjust. Some laugh about it, others grieve; the weak succumb to hate and despair (the net is full of vile and baseless hate; that and cats) and the dreamers... Sometimes I think it is only the dreamers who are truly awake and see reality; not this dismal reality, but reality as it can and should be. These dreamers are mocked, called traitors or cowards, a few are silenced forever.

We need more dreamers and men and women who can translate the dream into reality. On both sides. We need to understand each other and ourselves. We need to adjust to the present and build for the future, not the past.

I don't know how all of this will end. I used to think that the future was going to be better than this. This, this endless cycle we know already. It's time for something new.

It's a hell of a segue, but this blog is supposed to be focused (at least loosely) on music, so this post is dedicated to Henry Pope, among many things of Lemonwilde renown (covered here and here).

Pope has released a new EP last month ("Waiting") that has so far resisted being labeled as any particular genre or style, and yet it manages to weave together electronica, funk and hip hop and something else that perhaps can be termed "L.A.". The EP was created with Keaton Simons (Gnarls Barkley, Snoop Dog, Josh Kelley), Fernanda Karolys (Kinky, Nortec Collective), Sophie Holt (Govinda, Kraddy) and Parker Ainsworth.

Henry Pope is on Facebook and the EP can be downloaded here (Recommended).

For Maya, The Woman Who Lived

I don't know why I cry for Maya, but I do. She has had a long and difficult life, its beginning fraught with prejudice, it middle years of struggle; its end of peace. When I think of her, she is like a mixture of the three, and yet somehow towering above it, strong and wise, enduring. 

I don't know why I cry for Maya, the woman who lived. Perhaps there are some tears of joy for knowing her. Perhaps those are tears of sorrow for not knowing. 

Perhaps I cry thanks to Maya, the woman who lived. 

Love Liberates

The Detached - Maya Angelou {All Rights Reserved, taken from Poemhunter}

We die, 

Welcoming Bluebeards to our darkening closets, 

Stranglers to our outstretched necks, 

Stranglers, who neither care nor

care to know that

DEATH IS INTERNAL.

We pray, 

Savoring sweet the teethed lies, 

Bellying the grounds before alien gods, 

Gods, who neither know nor

wish to know that

HELL IS INTERNAL.

We love, 

Rubbing the nakednesses with gloved hands, 

Inverting our mouths in tongued kisses, 

Kisses that neither touch nor

care to touch if

LOVE IS INTERNAL.

Avoiding the Red Wedding

Apologies in advance for any potential ear-worms generated by this post.

Over the past few days I've been plagued by a particularly nasty ear-worm: the Game of Thrones opening theme. This might be a bit surprising considering I don't actually watch the show.

I know it's a high quality production and the original author, George R. R. Martin, is involved in its making. I read the books long ago so I should be really excited about watching it. Part of me is excited and longs to see Westeros and its people, not just in the way I imagined it to be.

But the greater part of me remembers the pain, anguish and cruelty associated with reading the books and their various intricate plots. I remember the deaths, disappointments, lack of vision and the overall sense of mindless futility of it all. And I don't want to experience the Red Wedding ever again.

Am I a milksop pacifist* who only accepts "happy endings" to be consumed? No. I know there are no "happy endings" in real life, particularly where I happen to live. Books and TV shows allow us to imagine outside of our immediate reality (under some built in constraints). But, sometimes, it just seems a little too extreme; a little too far.

Why, then, am I plagued with this incessant ear-worm, calling me to join Daenerys in her rightful quest to take back her throne? Or see how Jon Snow is doing beyond the wall? Is it a sign of anxiety? Just a matter of catchy, inspiring music? Or am I trying to tell myself something else?

Game of Thrones Main Theme by Ramin Djawadi {iTunes}



*I'm not implying pacifist are milksops. To be a pacifist, on many cases, requires more courage, principles and determination than to be a non-pacifist.

Cosmic Exhilaration and Anxiety

I don't remember a lot from my childhood. Perhaps not a lot has happened then or maybe I choose not to remember. Many of us don't have full recollections, only memories of memories; it is how the mind forms and matures. One of the few memories in sight and sound I do retain is of Carl Sagan on his "Ship of the Imagination" exploring a starry space to the sounds of the opening theme of Cosmos. I did not understand much, perhaps nothing at all, but I do remember a sense of wonder, sincerity and a subtle urgent importance.

Years later, I have re-watched, or perhaps watched for the first time, the entire series, this time as an adult. Watching it has touched me deeply, perhaps especially with the half buried memories of it and with understanding and a framing of many contexts I could not do earlier (it is, after all, dubbed "A Personal Voyage"). Each time I play the opening theme in my mind I can still sense that feeling of wonder that was there, a special kind of innocence I strove to preserve, not always successfully.

I have been in the US these past few weeks as part of an assignment from work and so was fortunate enough to watch live the newly made Cosmos, hosted by Neil deGrasse Tyson. It will take decades to see how the present series affects the children and teenagers growing with it today. The times and the generations have changed, and I cannot say if the medium and the way the message was chosen to be delivered are the best for the current audience (I'll need to ask my nephews). But as part of the 'older' generation, who can't really avoid the comparison (the first episode in particular, it seemed, carries with in it more than a subtle homage for Sagan and the original series) I think it was very well done and look forward for the next episodes. Tyson is perfect for the job and I think Sagan would have been proud.

Funny enough though, as eagerly as I was waiting for Cosmos to air throughout the trip, my day started in church. I am not a christian or any sort of theist for that matter, though, again, my childhood had some affect on me in this matter. Still, I have a strange fascination with churches. Whenever I'm abroad I dedicate a few minutes to sit quietly in a church or a cathedral (New York's St. Patrick's is a favorite of mine), watch the people around and try to absorb the atmosphere. Today (Sunday) I decided to attend an actual service so I put on my least travel weary clothes (one dresses up for Sunday, or so I heard) and went to a church in Brooklyn. I wanted a taste of an actual gospel immersed service, passionate choir, heated sermon and a devout congregation as I imagined it.

And this is also what I had received: friendly, open and welcoming people, thundering music (yes, a joyous noise), a not too long a sermon that was not illogical (for the most part) and a unique experience to take with me and reflect upon. Oh, and also a two hour long panic attack; being in a large hall surrounded by hundreds of people is not easy for an agoraphobic. Yes, I have anxiety (and related depression) issues.

What brought that up, though, is the Scott Stossel article from The Atlantic, that I only fully read today. It is indeed long, but it is also something I could have almost as easily have written myself, with the exception of a few points:
1. I have not been formally diagnosed or treated.
2. I have not taken any medications to deal with it.
3. I don't drink, so that can't numb me.
4. I never met the Kennedys.

How does it all come together? Stossel concludes his story and say that maybe anxiety also has its positive sides, that without it he would have been a different person with a different life. Personally, I think the 'tortured artist' image is far more romanticized than it ought to be, and that there are moments I would do quite a lot to be just a normal, anxiety free (or reduced) kind of a guy. Would I be different? Yes, but isn't that also kind of the point? To try to make yourself better? More free?

As I'm writing this I can still hear the echoes of that opening theme of the original Cosmos. I am tired, tomorrow is my last day in New York, and I already feel the sleep deprivation caused headache. But I am also reassured that I am still on that personal voyage, that I know what I am not (a theist, among other things) though I can appreciate what comes with it and its costs; and that I am still anxious for the road ahead.

I highly recommend the original Cosmos (available on DVDs and probably unofficialy on YouTube)


And the new series (It is Past time to get going again)


And some good old gospel/soul music: Mahalia Jackson - Trouble of the World

Find Your Spot

This was a hell of a year for me. As in hellish, really bad. As the years progress you are expected to be wiser and more experienced. What is the nature of this mystic wisdom that is supposed to accumulate as time passes you by? I'm not sure.

They say that the basis of wisdom is "I do not know" or at least the recognition of that fact. If that is true, then I am wise indeed. I have re-learnt several important lessons this year (that I will probably revisit next year as well thanks to my amazing memory). One of them is the importance of context, how lack of information or the reliance on false and misleading presumptions can lead to cognitive and emotional errors and mishaps. The view of the world and its people is always partial and to judge according to this partial knowledge is to inevitably err. And yet, additional data will never be quite enough for a full and comprehensive picture. It is always limited to and based on your own flawed perspective.

What do I do then? If gathering additional data alone can't help, what will?
Patience. Empathy. Imagination. Compassion. Constant learning and developing. Interaction. Challenge. Being aware of the tendency to judge and jump into conclusions and instead trying to be open minded and perceptive.

The coming year will bring many changes and challenges: a new flat, possibly a new job, a possible trip abroad with its own opportunities, maybe even a new iOS (yeah, haven't upgraded yet). Looking back, I think I've acquired some important tools of thinking and skepticism this year, and I hope to put them to good use.

I can't say I'm optimistic. I know where I live and what some of my limitations are. But in the end, my life is my own (another important lesson I've failed to internalize). It is for me to choose how to use it.

It is past time I do.

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I was going to write something a little different about music in this post, before I got carried away with the pseudo resolutions. I was listening to a recording of a concert by Nils Frahm on Youtube the other day. I got to it by the seeming randomness of life - one of Youtube's suggestions based on my previous listens.

The concert is made of several pieces and it was only in the second or so pieces that I got hooked or turned on. Frahm, it seemed to me, plays the piano with a sort of a strike, almost a hammering (though it's quite possibly the poor audio I had). It was an interesting technique, but somehow by that particular piece it had changed. I felt oddly connected, like I knew what he was trying to say and how. The technique seemed to flow and it wasn't hammering at all; it was a mode of music and feeling.

Today I listened to the same concert again and I wasn't able to pinpoint exactly where and when I got hooked. I still felt the music and enjoyed it, but the experience was different.

So what is it that gets us hooked on some of the times and not the others? The way we listen, open ourselves to it? The environment and technical parameters? Our state of mind? Is this the upside of jumping to conclusions that might have ended quite differently had I gave my first listen today instead of that other day? Will I now on future listens always look for that point in the track when I thought and felt "yes, this is it" (and thus ignore, to some degree, the present)?

What are we shutting our eyes to when we're looking for that one thing?

Take a listen. See if you can find that spot that works for you.

Oh, and Happy New Year.

Nils Frahm - Live @La Route du Rock 2011

Nils Frahm's web page and twitter.

And It's Alright

My chest hurts. It's probably nothing. Stress. Anxiety. There is much to be anxious about these days.
I try my usual tricks to help me relax, to calm down just a little.

I venture into the imaginary world that I pay a monthly upkeep to access, but I can't find myself there anymore. There are echoes, traces of who I once was, but I'm not there anymore.

I try to write, to create a world of my own. There is so much to tell and paint, so few words. I write a paragraph, then stop. Try another, then pause and stare at the waiting cursor. I know the story but I don't know how to reach it. I am lost to it. Without me it cannot be told, and I am silent.

I turn to look for friends, companions, acquaintances, but I cannot reach them. I am lost.

I try to look inside myself, but there is nothing. Only emptiness, a riddled past, an ever stretching present and a cloudy future. I try to break away from the selfish pain and the gnawing anxiety but it's as though I am trying to leave this body behind. They are too much a part of me by now.

Finally, I turn to music. It has always been there for me. I can still hear it, still listen, though my attention span is declining in favor of the pain and dread in my rib cage. And I am so tired.

But it still works, it's still a lifeline out of this place and, for a short time, out of this existence.

I listen and remember I am still alive, I still hunger, I still dream.

I know it's not going to be alright, but for a few minutes I can believe.

"And It's Alright" by Peter Broderick (from Home)

Nothing to do, of course, with the current situation*

The bells were ringing again today. Sometimes distant, sometimes close enough to shatter my windows, they ring now more frequently than in the past. More urgently at times too. Crying wolf or just plain crying.

And me? I deftly avoid the airwaves that follow, hollow and loud. Despair? Apathy? The naive belief that everything will be alright? I do it all. Is there nothing left but to wait for the other shoe to drop, at long last, and let it be over?

Sure, there were times the bells tolled a story so contrived that it couldn't be true - it couldn't, could it? - that reached beneath the surface, briefly. But all things pass, do they not? Look at the greater picture, they say; it matters little.

The bells are ringing again today, recalling echoes of distant beacons that shone with promise and hope, and now crumble greyly, choked by vines and grime. Mocking, the sounds drift away, becoming blessedly muffled as I take another dose.

* This, for example.

A beginning - IV

IV

After diligently having taken care of several cracked doors and windows in the spacious but aging lobby, our tenacious Mistress tackled the issue of pets and other animals around the properties. Though cats, both stray and resident, showed an unusual attraction to LDB, dogs had, for the most part, quite a different response. The day time doorman's dog, a large old Lab that seemed to have spent most of her time lying on a mat next to her master's feet, used to begin a snarl cut abruptly by a retreat into a corner when the old woman was rarely passing by. The night time doorman, with whom I was a little more acquainted, told me that on occasions, when the shifts change, LDB would pause and stare briefly at the dog, a fleeting sense of amusement in her eyes. Other dogs, large and small, mostly avoided her all together; that is, except for Old Watson's little mutt.

A Beginning - III

III

Shrouded in mystery as she was, LDB was forthcoming enough to slowly take the reins of the building's managing board. A compromise candidate at first, she defied her frail appearance to appear and resolutely drive the board relentlessly over its meetings. No one was quite sure how or why, but she was elected into a second term in office, and then a third and a fourth. And as some tenants came and went, the only fixture, apart from the Darken Maiden statue on the roof that gave it its name, LDB ruled supreme.

A Beginning - II

II

An ancient, partly emaciated creature, the LDB, as Jacob Nichols, who lived in the apartment above her, tagged, has lived in the building for what seemed to be centuries. No one remembered a time without her small wrinkly presence and no one, not even the rare postman, knew her name. Her mail box displayed a worn yet elaborate silvery name tag that may have borne its owner's identity with pride once, but now was illegible to all who took interest. Mrs. Craig claimed she could decipher a few letters, including a reference to some old world nobility title, but the overly thick lenses of her glasses inspired little confidence there. She did show LDB some respect though, going even as far as a clumsy attempt to curtsy one Christmas eve. Mrs. Craig refused to go into great detail over LDB's reaction, though she took great measures to refer to her as 'Mistress G' (as 'G', she claimed, was the first letter of her name) afterwards.

A beginning - I

As part of my ongoing and futile battle against entropy in pretty much all forms, I've decided to write and publish a paragraph a day. Of what? I don't know yet. This is a beginning.

P.S: to those who write me, I am trying to work on it; promise.

I

It thus became apparent to me, and indeed to all involved, that something had to be done about Watson's dog. It's not that the small half-breed terrier was noisier than the other dogs in the neighborhood - well, not by much, anyway. Its irksome barks and howls did bother Mrs. Craig, especially in the evenings, when the elderly lady was trying to unwind with her favorite soap opera. To be fair, the show's opening and closing titles - and some of the content as well - did encourage all manner of howling from those unfortunate enough to be exposed to the loud TV set. But it wasn't Mrs. Craig who led our tight little group; it was the Lady Down Below.

Unnamed 0

I don't mind that I can't sing,

Can’t carry a tune;

I don't mind that I can't dance,

I don't mind that I don't smile;

The last I laughed was months ago

Though it seems like years.

I don't mind the falling hair,

My hands more bone than flesh;

I don't mind the headaches,

The bitter nausea in my mouth;

I don't mind the blurry vision,

The fact I can't quite hear;

I don't mind that I don't mind

Or can't remember who I am;

I don't mind the pain when I think of you,

Mistakes I've made so gross they trade their place with me;

I don't mind the job,

I don't mind the wage;

I don't mind the small bedroom

Covered in dust and ruins;

I don't mind the politics,

I don't mind the ban;

I don't mind the music,

I don't mind that I don't write anymore,

I don't mind that I'll never know or find out,

I don't mind the fright,

I don't mind the quiet,

I don't mind the noise,

I don't mind the voices in my head

No, I don't mind at all

They say there is a meaning

They say they call it love

But I don't mind believing

That there never was.

The Lonely Mariner

Another year, another drink,
A little closer to the brink,
I stumble slowly on this ship,
Hesitant to find a grip
,Flapping wild hands with care
Lest accomplish what I dare,
To forsake this dire crew
And step into the sea, askew.

And there I'll walk or maybe swim,
Dipping fully in the dream;
Crossing paths with stars and clowns,
Rubbing nose with those who drowned,
Free to roam the land below,
Mermen, crabs and ghosts in tow;
O, such a cheery entourage we'll be,
Down there, below the sea.

But the air here, it grows thick,
As I pour myself another drink,
The crew rebels and then lays waste
To whatever left, emblazed;
And I remain, all tattered chains,
Linked to rudder and the reins,
To sail this broken ship once more
And to dream of distant shores.

Year One

A year has passed.

A year since I first walked out from under the boughs of Ashenvale, a cybernetic newborn in a strange new world. I've since have gained and lost friends, experienced wonders and horrors, died and lived in countless ways and methods and through it all lost more sleep hours than I'd care to think. I've neglected this blog, my music, my writing, my family and friends. I've traded one world for another, opted for another reality. I've canceled cable TV, gotten even more cranky than ever and had more fun than I ever had late into the night.

I am trapped. Trapped in my day job as much as in my nightly occupations. Held by fear and habit I cannot escape myself. But is escape any longer possible? Into where?

There are those who mark the coming holiday as a celebration of freedom and liberty. I choose to remember the wiser lesson that to be free is to choose that which you serve, that which you are a slave to. There is no escape. There is nothing but escape.

Empty Spaces, Moving On

I was immersed in a funny, almost tranquil feeling last night as I was pacing the company's grounds. The place seemed deserted, familiarly worn and torn; a place I spent most of my waking hours in, but now felt strangely foreign.

I'm trying to leave, the cords are all but completely severed. The only thing remaining is a destination.

But maybe the destination doesn't matter as much as the will to go and breath some life into this existence, to dig up my wanderlust and venture on. A beautiful new Leonard Cohen song, the first in 5 years, apparently, seems to support this. After all: "It's like they tore away my blindfold, and they said 'we're gonna let this man go free'."

Freedom.

Leonard Cohen - New Song {Video), from a live concert in Chicago, October 29th 2009 (thanks for the heads up Guy)

Brace for impact

It seems I'm about to lose my job, again. There will be no semi-divine intervention putting me back this time. In fact, it's likely that I will be joined by most of the rest of the company soon after. Mind numbing as it was in the recent years, this job did provide a shelter through the ongoing recession, almost surviving it. But not quite.

The mood here has an eerily cheerful facade, fueled by a mix of denial, a sense of fatality and the budding realization that C'est la vie, the time to change has come. I will certainly miss my friends and some of my co-workers, but in a way I've been both waiting and dreading it for quite some time. Will this be the push I need to finally get a grip? Or is (my) life merely a series of such moments of realization after which I sink into the usual comfortable routine of the ordinary and boring?

I don't know what tomorrow will bring; I just need to find the exciting part of it, not just the scary one.

To all job seekers, future and present, I dedicate this beautiful and immensely moving song by Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush; don't give up.

Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush - Don't Give Up {Video}, from So

Such Sweet Sorrow

The pain of losing someone, at least for me, is deeply personal; not only in its obvious meaning but in some odd and not completely out of place egotistical way. It is losing, not gaining; it is the end of a potential, not the beginning. Regrets, sometimes overlooked, surface with a violent vengeance and guilt strikes to the core.

It is the end of the world, the inner world, as we know it. But endings and beginnings come and go every day; death is final.

And what do we really know of our loved ones, our feelings towards them and even ourselves? More and more I agree with Joni Mitchell that it is "life's illusions I recall; I really don't know life at all". It is the shattering of those illusions, our conceptions, misguided hopes, that hurts the most.

Goodbye.

Joni Mitchell - Both Sides Now {video}

Ashenvale

I admit, my initial response was shock. Shock and dismay. I mean, how would you respond if the places you left long ago but still look upon fondly in nostalgia were being torn apart, destroyed forever? I was also surprised by the relatively mild opposition to this brutal act. But perhaps I shouldn't really be all that surprised. After all, it's not real.

Oh yeah, I'm still stuck in my virtual world, now facing annihilation brought on by the most dangerous of beasts - its creators. Those who for the sake of the chance of bringing back old players would destroy the "old and familiar". What kind of people would be attracted by the utter destruction promised by the next expansion pack and do we really want such people, whose sole attraction point to the game is death and fire, to be running around in our midst?

Sure, the game needs to undergo changes from time to time, keeping players wanting more and challenged and attracting new ones. But the price of these changes may be too high to pay. If the apocalypse promised by the trailer is of any indication, much of the most beautiful and tranquil areas would be forever gone, all for the momentary thrill of the pouring lava and flight over churning chasms.

It's not good enough, Blizzard. You're not one of the many teenagers playing the game, taking delight in senseless killing for instant gratification. You're supposed to know better than that.

Fancy of A Lost Boy

I don't know any good songs about unicorns (or hippogryphs, for that matter). I do know a lot of great songs of religious and spiritual meaning, of personal and what sometimes seems like collective significance. Why am I writing about that now? Where have I been all this time? These questions are somewhat related.

These past few days I've been reading Richard Dawkin's "The God Delusion", a rather blunt and forceful attack on religion. Already agnostic before I began, I admit the book has carried me over a bit towards atheism. Yet shaking the shackles of the past can take time and I find that even my very way of thought is fraught with the irrational. And a significant part of me doesn't want to abandon it.

But when I say irrational I mean feelings and emotions, not superstitions (which should be left far behind). Religion, like any human creation, has its ups and downs, and while I don't share the belief that the supposed focus of most religions (i.e. god) actually exists as usually described, I can appreciate some of the feelings of wonder, hope and admiration some people of faith seem to share. To believe means to trust completely without question or doubt in something that isn't proven to be so (or perhaps can never be proven), and it's something, though I tried very hard as a child, I could never really accomplish. But to share the ecstasy in Aretha Franklin's rendition of "Amazing Grace", even as a non-Christian, that I can do. Listening to it and similar songs brings me to a point where I feel compelled to get on my knees and start praying (score one for mass media and televangelists), but then I remember there isn't really much of a point (knock out in favor of science and rational thought).

I need my irrational self. I know it's immature, a Peter Pan flying around Outland (Northrend coming soon), living in fancies and dreams. But without his imagination and vision I would be reduced to an empty shell of an automaton. And though there's no outright contradiction between science and the sense of wonder the universe seems to generate, without irrationality, without the presumption, without the fancy of a lost child, there would be no science or wonder as well.

I've found out I'm on a journey; I don't know where I'm going or where I started. The present surrounds and tempts me, the past is foggy almost as the future is murky; the sense of movement itself could be an illusion. And yet, I'm finally beginning to be thrilled about it, to discover between the bouts of storms and thunders, that I am still alive.

I'm sure this song can be interpreted in many ways; mine is taken with a sense of love towards the human race with all its faults, hoping it is on its continuous, never-ending journey in life.

The Highwaymen - Highwayman {Video}

A Battle Cry of Sorts

Sometimes you don't realize a battle has been fought until you feel the fatigue that follows it. Then, after counting the remaining attached limbs and the people around you, you can begin to really appreciate how lucky you are. Of course, not all battles are fraught with blood and gore; some are internal, even imaginary for the casual observer. Some are but skirmishes or minor raids in comparison to total war, locked in eternal conflict.

Sometimes you lose. You may survive, physically, but too important parts of you are gone. And when you look back at yourself crying those battle cries and charging, you may wish only to curl up and weep in a small safe corner.

Some analogies go too far. My battle cry is a whisper; few will ever hear it. But for those who would listen: I will not surrender; bring it on. Come, then.

On that note, just two more things in this post: I will not post ads on this site. I know this blog will never be popular and I'm coming to terms with that. My terms also call for no sell out; if I can't connect or feel the music, I cannot endorse it with good conscience. I wish the artists all the best, but I will be a poor blogger and a poorer man to stand for what I don't believe in. Similarly, I focus on the spirit of the art, as it were, less so on its commercial aspects (a topic my understanding of which is very limited). So - no ads.

The second thing, obviously, is music. This post is dedicated to Gafyn Davies, an artists who despite having a personal site filled with content, remains shrouded with mystery and rhymes. A singer-songwriter who travels with his invisible band, appearing and disappearing between gigs and albums and tells sad tales about you and me.

So many battles, so little time.

Check out Gafyn Davies on his website and last.fm for more tracks and a rather enigmatic bio.

Gafyn Davies - I Didn't Want You To Go {MP3} (from The Invisible Band)
Gafyn Davies - The Rage {MP3} (from The Invisible Band)