I. i wrote: at night i put things strange because i do not understand all that is so familiar to me. am i now being watched under the lamp in my room by myself standing in my blackened backyard? || but weeks earlier i wrote: still the dark streets and dark front yards and sudden black patches of forest surprise and frighten me. still so slowly the secrets of my own home are revealed to me, secrets that are maybe secretly of my own making, covered hastily with brush and topsoil as if by the paws of the wastemaker himself their origins would be obscured. howls and orphan children and distress and mating and who knows what all terrific things emit the noises that sound from these night places. still i am sometimes stopped dead in my step by alien voices. || well. whichever it is, i am consistent at least in suspecting myself of trying to spook myself.

II. digits and joints are here brought together as music by way of a gallimaufry of attractions and inclinations. in the way that rhyme like a magnet dumbly sorts and culls words by their polarity, so my predilections make an arbitrary order. || III. there is something to be said about intuition. put it here. || IV. aesthetics is not a disaster, but it's certainly unfortunate.

V. this is dangerous stuff. what am i doing here? do my cheap tricks yet unwittingly reveal something of the bitter mechanics of the cosmos? || too much?

VI. onward. VII. i have a problem with the musical processes of my electronic music and its associated acts. i think there is for me a problem in the medium itself to be confronted, that it readily invites aural but not so readily figurative play. i am not an enemy of representation. VIII. so for now let me consider myself rather as a boy of letters and symbols, like a writer or mathematician or bonobo. cage asks what composition has to do with performance has to do with listening. i want to stretch my legs as a manipulator of symbols, as a poet of musical signs. so i'm starting to take up a musical life beyond what's audible.

IX. and besides, let's talk seriously about investing a life in a medium dependent on expensive equipment consisting of metals mined who knows where manufactured in what ungodly conditions and shipped how far, a conditioned room for it all, lugging it around, etc. what will you do after the apocalypse? in your free time that is. short-sighted, i think. seems wiser to stick to paper and pencil.

X. our personal hangups take us very far indeed. go west, young lady. || XI. tristan says nethermead is a weeping song, until it's not.