a day in the life of piano monkey

to everyman his little cross. till he dies. and is forgotten (waiting for godot, line 154) an old doodle done in some theory or musicology class. days of spring is here and to top it all off, it is st. patrick's day. irish or not, we can all be a plastic paddy for the day, drink the green things and bang the floor with heels, along with some sort of jig reel coming out from a satellite radio in a bar. the colour of the day is kelly green and we all yell out: happy st. paddy's day. yay. two years ago, i wouldve been spending my first day in glasgow, meeting up with good friends to start a hiking trip up in the scotland. st. paddy's@scotland. it was also green with plastic paddies, some sort of fiddle-related noise and attempts of jig reels. a pint of guiness@ 14'c, the room temperature of the united kingdom, not north america. (this is a funny one, the average house room temperature in north america is actually couple degrees higher, at 20'c, decadent!) a self...

(lac leman/lake geneva: last wk sometime) in terms of musing in public by form of writing, the month of february was a lean one. beginning of march have gone without a sound and here i am, back@yyz, fourth of march, in year twenty-ten. it has been very busy, for an unemployed bum monkey! every time i crossed some border, there was always this look of incomprehension - amusement: 'what do you mean, you are just travelling and nothing working? are you sure you have not been paid for playing?' (what playing? just because i said i have studied music in school?) it is a difficult to explain it to paper pushers i suppose. or even my own self. the answers dont fit neatly into the little divided squares of official forms and the concept that im just floating around is received with a bit of apprehension, if not a hard stare. i say i have studied music (true), but have not been paid of it (no, not at the moment), nor have been playing (not much). it is so weird to think that about ...

everything is hanging in bare thread it feels, that i cannot make anyone truly happy nor keep my own self happy. at this point im hoping to stay inoffensive, cause less trouble and that really isnt adding much to the world is it? it seems as if im committed to waste my life in sense of unfulfilled hope or continuous lament and it is also surprising to me: how did i get here? it's another day of gentle spring rain here. with taste of the winter still lingering over, as the low chimneys of the old houses are breathing out the warm wet humid clouds from their hot innards, breathing, consuming, bearing the winter out, through and through, season after season. in the midst of grey and brown of stones, aged in silence and stories of generations and generations, there are hint of new greens shooting up, ever so hopefully, along the cracks of the stone walls, on the tree barks, on the tips of the fragile, once dead branches. one of the very first signs of spring, or shall i say glimpse o...