Thursday, August 23, 2012

The Fly

Here's a feel-good poem by Blake set to music. I made ample use of effects.

The Fly
Little Fly
Thy summers play,
My thoughtless hand
has brush'd away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink & sing;
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength & breath;
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

Sunday, August 19, 2012


I was thinking about mining today.  I used to be quite interested in finding neat rocks.  I remember smashing certain rocks with a sledgehammer to harvest the sweet, sweet garnets inside.  Then covetously storing said garnets in a secret box.  I often want to ask people what they would be doing at this point in the summer at age 8-10.  For me, it's smashing rocks to harvest garnets.

I went to the mountain to try and mine gold
But lost my pickaxe on the way
And do you know how much pickaxes cost?
I don't, but I've nothing to pay
So I took a deep breath and I entered the mine,
Hoping to find me a jewel,
But busted up roots were all I could find,
I foolishly felt like a fool
Since things were all wrong,
I hummed by best song,
There's a silver lining
To all this ma-lining
I felt something crawling its way up my arm
A beautiful beetle vermillion
I dropped him off lightly, and picked up a stone
Older than me by the billions
Twas then that I realized the sum of my parts
And this is the point of my story
Down in the depths of a dusty old mine
I silently struck a satori.
And I left without gold and I left without jewels
My mining sack sad and berefted
But on my way home I found my pickaxe
Right in the spot I had left it. 

Thursday, August 16, 2012


They're a kind of bird, I think.  I don't know if black spotted ones are real.  I guess probably not.  Or maybe there's One.

My voice is so high and untuneful in this.  Here's lyrics so it's perhaps not so cringeworthy.

Don't say nothing, Francis,
Don't you even breathe,
Cause the last Black spotted plover
Is perched among the reeds
The rarest thing you'll ever see
Is right before our eyes
And it'll fly away
It'll fly away
It'll fly away
In time
Don't say nothing, Francis
Ain't this moment grand
The last Black spotted plover
roosting in the sand
The only one we'll ever see
In our entire lives
And it'll fly away
It'll fly away
It'll fly away
In time
Oh darling
Why do you feel bad
Oh darling
How are you so sad
Oh darling
Why can't you just see
 The last black spotted plover
With me

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

I know about Pathfinder

I just think this one is way cooler, and way worthier of a song.

I remember when Pathfinder went to Mars; I was beyond psyched.  This is much, much more neat.  I also saw a really neat bug yesterday(?); perhaps it will be the image for my next song (about cool bugs???).

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Where are you supposed to look

When recording a video song?  I think I tried all the places.