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Double-Dog Dares to Be Repeated has become a bit feisty to manage, so here's to starting album number three, whoo hoo! *clink* 


To say it like I said (twice) before: Inspired by a soundtrack compilation that cerebis set up, I am going to rustle up an ongoing collection of some of "the embarrassment of riches" of music that I find on hitRECord that I listen to when driving, dancing, cooking, and (especially while) writing. 


 I am very much a "write the scene of the music that I hear" type of person. The mood I'm already in, coupled by the interpreted mood of the music, can produce all sorts of stuff-- I call it the movie projector inside of my head. Sometimes all I do is loop music, so that a particular mood might stay in place.


 


This is the music that dares to be repeated  :-)

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by briwil
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A piano melody that was stuck in my head that I wrote a cello part for. Cello is courtesy of Lindsay Wilson. Maybe can be used in an animation or something?

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I wrote this very early this morning before the sun began to rise 11/14/11. The sound effects I added were for visual purposes. It made me imagine alien ships taking off, and going back home after a visit.

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by djcjb
109 Hits
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Here is something a bit different from what I usually upload on HR. This track was co-produced, mixed, and mastered by the good friend Jean-Gabrielle Hajjar http://soundcloud.com/thesilex/ - check out his work.

by PASIV
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Just learned how to make a wobble bass today 11/25/11

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Edited 10/17/2010 because "I Can." 10/22/10-- I'm re-adding the dream, because it was/is important to me. I'm feeling uppity: Freud can go suck his cigar.


A. Who are you and what do you do? I won't disclose my birth name-- I've legally changed it three times already, anyhow :o) Note: second change was d/t marriage, the 3rd d/t becoming de-married & adding my middle name. My middle name, GoldMoon, came to a friend in a dream, in which she was told that the name was the missing part of me. ;-) I have every intention of changing the entirety of my name once more, when I turn 83 or so. I am a slave to the bowels of retail, and have been for over 20 years. Holy Hannah in a snapped garter, I think I feel slightly old & depressed when I re-read that. Just for a second, though.


B. What's the origin of your artist name? Elspeth because I like it, Koktavi to honor my Irish ancestors.


C. What has been your biggest challenge with your art so far? Plain & simple: to forgive my lengthy lapse in judgement & trust that I will have joy (if not success) getting back into it. I have learned that I am apparently one of the few artists who cannot produce anything when suffering profound & prolonged disturbances, such as grief... I also work about 28 days/month, and I suck at off-work time management, so that puts a damper on it. I can make an effort to fix that, though!


D. Who or what is your biggest influence? Spider Robinson. Mozart. Bach. Douglas Adams. Shakespeare. My brother. My mum. Izabella. Grandma H. Renoir. Waterhouse. Rembrandt. Oxford Dictionary. My fellow hitRECorders.


E. What is your wildest story? Oh dear. There are many. They are ridiculous & frequently unbelievable, but that is what kind of life that I have led, up to now. The least conceivably smart story I have is this: When I was dating my ex, in late summer I drove to see him & spend the weekend (2 1/2 hrs away), and it was late & rather sultry & my A/C has never worked in my car... I had brought wine to drink over the weekend. You know it's coming; please forgive me. I was irresponsible & inconceivably stupid-- I could have killed myself, or someone else-- I drank an entire bottle on my way down. I was singing in my normally joyous but horribly off-key voice to Edith Piaf & Luciano Pavarotti, and I had the windows down. I was so fricking happy to be driving, and to be singing. I remember that the air was rich & heavy with end-of-season ditchside flowers & heavy dew, and I could see the stars while I was driving. For reasons unknown to me or apparently to anyone else, I also decided that a shirt & bra were entirely unnecessary. I removed them & threw both out of my window. I remember the entirely satisfactory slap & rustle of my peasant shirt catching air like a kite, before sailing off to wherever it eventually fell. I called him & told him what was going on, he yelled at me for drinking, then dared me to arrive wearing only my skirt & bloomers. When I pulled up to his house, I merely hiked my mid-length skirt up to my bosom and jauntily walked as though my frilly knickers were meant to be seen. When he saw me, he laughed so hard that he fell down his steps. Triumphant, but stupid. I have never done such a thing since.


F. What is the last book you read? I am working on "The Book of Stones" by Robert Simmons & "Writing the Divine" by Sara Wiseman. Before these, "Deep Water Passage" by Ann Linnea.


G. If you could be any character in fiction, who would you be? What, only one? *squawk of dismay* Fine. Tallis Keeton of Robert Holdstock's "Lavondyss."


H. What couldn’t you live without? Functioning organs are rather essential. I do not want to live without as many forms as art as I can possibly go to or gather to me, ever again. Love. Acceptance. Water. Fire. As much as I hate to admit it, electricity. A reason.


I. What is your secret talent? Now the secret is out: I make a mean pot of chili like nobody's business. I can blend a perfect perfume oil for (almost) anyone. I listen to trees & stones. I dream music. I dream in color, sound, odor, & infrequently taste & touch.


J. Tell me about the last dream you remember having? JGL, me, my brother, Dan & Peter Steele were gathered around the fire Pit that my brother & I used to warm our bones at, back in a day... everybody had comfy chairs. Peter had an enormous overstuffed recliner, my brother had a gliding rocker, Joe had a wicker chair with symbols woven into it, Dan had a folding chair, but he was sitting on the ground on top of a red & blue blanket. I had a brown & caramel suede loveseat. The fire was deliciously warm & smelled like oak & ash firewood. I looked a couple of years younger, but not by much. My brother said to Peter, "Well, shit, this is no good. She's going to beat the everlasting shit out of all of us, aint she?" Joe smiled, shook his head & said "No, I'm going to beat the everlasting shit out of HIM!" and pointed to Dan. Dan split open a wide grin & folded his arms behind his neck, tilting his seat back (he's in his chair now?). "Can't beat me, I'm immune," he said loftily. Peter chuckled softly in the background, and I shook my head in mock disgust. "But seriously, why is he here?" I point to Joe. I feel panic. "Wait, you didn't die too, did you?!" "No," he said, in what I thought was a bit of a sad tone. "I just dropped by. I gotta be heading back. Fuck." He stood up. Dan stood up, stretched like a cat and gave Joe a monster bear hug. Dan remarked to my brother, "Remember-- she'll forget it. He will, too. They always do, that's what you said." "What's that?" asked Joe, rubbing his eyes some. Peter answers from somewhere in the back again, his baritone Brooklyn accent booming: "'Some injuries leave permanent places of the heart on your hands. Be careful," before half-singing a line to a Jimi Hendrix song. "Somebody once told me about not worrying how to drive in reverse, too," I retorted. My brother busted out laughing, and I smiled in response to hearing it. The dream faded out, & I woke up feeling sad but hopeful.


K. What are you craving right now? On a self-serving level: Pho, jade & Russian art. A spiritual partner would be lovely, but it looks like I need to fix some personal baggage, first. I would also deeply appreciate being given a culture shock. I think I'm getting too used to my corner of the Universe.


L. What was the last song you fell in love with? "La fan de sa vie" by Zazie. Why it took me 9 years to find her, I'll never know.


M. Can you hula hoop? Depends on the day, but usually not for very long.


N. What do you like? *blinks rapidly* I could fill pages. Pages, I tell you. I like that I am whole of body, mostly sound of mind, and that all my senses are mostly intact. I love to laugh. I love being able to bring others even a small measure of joy. I love to dream. I like music, film, stone, wood, water, fire, homes with many nooks & crannies, travel abroad, the syntax of languages. People.


O. What do you dislike? I dislike the generally shitty availability of handicapped accessible anything, anywhere. I dislike that we know nothing, & trust that we will be told everything. I dislike that I am such a conspiracy theorist, but I can't help it-- I love stories, no matter what. I dislike people who hurt their pets/farm animals. I dislike that I speak & write in long tangents, but do it anyway. I am a storyteller who may or may not ever come to their point. I dislike a lot of things, but the "like" outweighs all.


P. What’s the best piece of advice you’ve been given? "Well, you still got brakes, and you still got reverse. If you don't got brakes OR reverse, get the fcuk out & run like Hell!" ~ Nicholas~ (he was talking about a little Honda beater that we fixed up, then jumped/raced until it died, but it's great advice for me, in general)


Q. How and why did you start RECording? After I initially found hitRECord after some digging (I watched "Inception" & was trying to place JGL, then realized I had seen him in "Mysterious Skin" and a number of other films, but had failed to put 2+2 together, dur), I was greatly humored & intrigued with the goings-on. At the time, I didn't feel that I was ready to contribute, so I just lurked about, finding joy in every little turn. About a week later, I had a very powerful dream with my brother in it-- he told me to find shelter under Joseph's coat. I didn't think that he meant the Technicolor one.


My first post was an older poem that I had written, previous to my broken head, then a new poem for my brother, then... I think a photo I took while I was in Paris.


 


Ahhh, that felt good. :0) Damn, that was long. Grawr. P.S. I love cooking & baking & really have no one to do it for. SUCK.

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Photo taken from my front yard, May '10.
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honeycomb molecules


you fancied me for my atoms


mistaken for another

a lifetime too late


 


I don't remember anything


I left my star suit behind


my briefcase filled with maps of the Universe was lost long ago


 


we are like subway trains


crossing lines at the end of time


the platform folds in


and I step into Nothingness


 


if it was only lunar


I would build myself a Boardwalk and survive


we, as the center of the storm


left speechless and broken


with no more Once Upon a Time


 


I asked for you, a handful of stardust,


and I swallowed you whole


a bellyache of bliss


a junkie riddled with needles of truth



the Faerie Tale has ended


and I have discovered the contents of my soul


 


 


 


Fecking beautiful music! Written while listening to the REsourced tune once through, then de-constructed, re-constructed, and tweaked a little more while listening to the song again later on, on loop :)


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


for Kevin.

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He had never known a "normal" life. He didn't bother to define normal. "Normal" was a word that could be found in an out-of-date dictionary, that was all.  


 He remembered that as a young boy, he had loved how good it felt to be part of the elements.


 For him to be lulled to sleep by the crackle of a fire & to be cradled by the soft touch of wind was a common thing, in the summer and autumn months.  There was a comfortable "feel" of the earth singing, the slight physical tingles in response to water, metal, people. They were like musical notes. Some he recognized. Some he didn't. It was a glorious song, nonetheless.  


 He also remembered the day that his Mum had pulled him aside, her bony fingers digging into his flesh, while her overworked cigarette dangled precariously from her mouth. Her rasping vodka breath was telling him that his real father was dead, and that they hadn't wanted a child. Then, when even the damned dog had looked crestfallen, she managed to tack on: "Well, mistakes do happen..." He remembered the tightening, the anger, the grief. But mostly the rage. He wasn't a mistake. He was fucking special. She would see that someday. 


 What he knew now was that he had long felt as though his purpose was to somehow keep certain people & things safe. He couldn't explain how he connected with those people or things. Sometimes he immediately knew who needed his help; it was a physical/mental "pull" that would catch his attention. The methods of how he responded frequently sounded Jungian at best, fraudulently esoteric at worst.  Whether by thought, uttered prayer, physical presence, or a combination of all--   he felt less edgy when he was doing his "job."


 Perhaps oddly, he didn't think that he was alone with this task. He felt that it was more like being utterly isolated, unable to communicate with others who might have the same peculiar/familiar gift. It was a gift, for the most part, he thought. What kind of things did he do, exactly? Well...


  You know that asshole on a single-lane highway who just can't manage to hit the speed limit?  It might have been someone like him. Just as you are finally allowed to pass, you approach an intersection. The traffic controller turns amber & the asshole driver stops. Damn it. A split second later, a semi truck fast approaching from the opposite direction blows through the still-red light. The semi takes out two cars. But not yours. Some people call that luck, fate, angels or being under the watchful eye of their higher being.  


 By now, he had even jokingly given it a name: "The Third Party Intervention Program." All of the gods had wandered off and their bewildered, woefully undertrained Representative was left to field the calls: "Hello, my name is István, and I'll be saving you today. Could you please hold?"  


 Except that today was fucked. Fucked in ways that he absolutely couldn't comprehend. He had failed. He never failed.


  István stood in the middle of the empty intersection, his bright yellow parka a secondary relief of colour against a backdrop of autumnal dusk and drizzling rain.


 flick. flick. flick. A trembling message from the singularly unbroken, remaining red light. Too late. Too late. Too late.


She had come out of nowhere, the survivors said. The cars had swerved to avoid her, spinning about like derby cars & crashing into poles & then each other, as they hydroplaned. Three drivers and four passengers had died at the scene, and he hadn't given a shit. It was one of the worst accidents that the responding EMT's and police had seen, and he hadn't given a good goddamn.


 She was still here in his mind's eye, her blood pooling & mixing with the window glass, busted-out tail lights and pieces of metal. "I can still feel you," she had whispered. She had tried to motion with her hand, just where she felt him, but her arms were pinned by automotive wreckage. She had smiled and then went still.


 The rain was falling heavier, now. István hung his head low. The water sluiced down the dark hairs that stuck out from under his hood, and dripped onto his cheeks. He made a lonely figure of a man-- tall & slim, with wide shoulders and long arms. An attractive Ichabod Crane, of sorts. The rain tasted salty. Maybe that was tears, he thought.


  He felt like an instrument that had been held together with precisely-tuned strings... only the strings had suddenly snapped, and he had fallen apart. 


 


 


 


 


 


to be continued.... maybe. someday. over the rainbow. ;)


 


written to a loop of assorted Johnnyclyde (REsourced)& Can't Fake Nature songs 


 


 



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