Oh Joy!
2002-12-13 || the gay, pretentious composer wants me dead
soundtrack � wayne shorter - the all seeing eye

it�s icy out in Boston today, be careful.

So last night I decided to pick up this book I had checked out a little here and there, it�s a diary by a man named Ned Rorem, a classical composer. What a great book this is. He has a bunch of volumes of these diaries out, this one takes place as his long time lover is dying of AIDS. I was sold by this quote I had read after doing a little research on him: �My music is a diary no less compromising than my prose. A diary nevertheless differs from a musical composition in that it depicts the moment, the writer's present mood which, were it inscribed an hour later, could emerge quite otherwise. I don't believe that composers notate their moods, they don't tell the music where to go - it leads them...Why do I write music? Because I want to hear it - it's simple as that. Others may have more talent, more sense of duty. But I compose just from necessity, and no one else is making what I need." I browsed through the book last night when I got in for and hour or so before I went to bed and found myself hating this man and loving him at the same time. Getting into the mind of someone who is on the complete opposite side of the world as me figuratively was a bit enticing. Some of his quotes about rock music are pretty amazing, and a letter he writes to the New York Times is in here as well regarding noise regulations for rock concerts in Central Park is bitter, but well written obviously, making me feel guilty for some of the horrendous noise I like to make with my guitar. With that said, I read this thing with fascination in a way, this guy would probably hate me. The concept of reading another persons diary has always sort of fascinated me, at the same time filled me with a fair amount of uncomfortable emotions. Reading someone say they want to kill themselves, or how they had sex the night before is intrusive beyond belief, especially for strangers to be reading! I can�t imagine I have anything interesting to say when I am writing about how much life sucks or when I write over here about girls and relationships and failed experiments. Reading people on this diaryland thing, especially of people I know, or have met is a little uneasy when you think about it. One thing it makes everyone is a fucking liar. You know you�re not going to give the whole truth and nothing but if you know your friends and family are watching. Even the most honest assholes in the world are going to hide a little something. I try to hide everything, but I do that in real life too. I�ve had girlfriends for months before friends knew about them, I�ve gone out of state for a few days and not told anyone, I�ve done things I don�t tell anyone about as everything, and I sincerely mean everything should be on a �need to know� basis. Why does Breaux need to know I went to New Jersey last July for 3 days? Why does anyone in my office need to know what I did over the weekend? Don�t ask, don�t tell. It works for me anyway. At the beginning of this I was writing a lot of what was ACTUALLY going on, and it sort of generated into this place to release whatever was in my head at that time. If I wanted to say �I want to fuck Sandy from the toy store in the ass� I wrote it in here. If I thought that people being killed was funny, then I wrote it, whatever. I have no one to impress here, and I still don�t. At this point, this thing has become somewhat of a �last thing on my mind� outlet for emotions and feelings. I have 100�s of pages on my hard drive and on disks and in notebooks that show a completely different person that has never showed up here to visit. That person would be more than likely to show up over here actually, but even that abode has been vacated as of recently. I guess I have no desire to let anyone in right now, at least until the end of the year. I�ve made a pact with me myself, and I to return here after the new year as me again. For now, back to where we were�

before & after