Jon Ureña's Blog, page 17
July 28, 2024
Song “Knife-Beard Dreams (psychedelia version)” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 4
In case you don’t know, I’ve been obsessed with producing songs lately by exploiting the amazing AI service Udio. I’ve already made and released two full albums based on a strange story I wrote back in 2021, named Odes to My Triceratops. It follows the adventures and misadventures of a trio of friends who live in a town lost in the map. The main dude is a songwriter named William Griffin, who’s passionate and sensitive, if a bit unhinged. Another character is William’s next-door neighbor Claire Javernick, a blind redhead. Then we have Lorenzo, who’s a sentient triceratops for no justifiable reason. You can download the first two albums of this story through this link.
Here’s the second version of “Knife-Beard Dreams,” this time a mix of psychedelia and indie folk. I’m very impressed with how this one turned out. While the other three songs I’ve produced for the fourth album are unnerving to some extent (which sometimes the subject matter and/or vibe require), this one is so pleasant-sounding and groovy that I see myself listening to it over and over. Add to it Udio’s improved sound quality and my growing mastering skills, and even the MP3 version of this song sounds fantastic.
[check out the post on my site to listen to the song]
Lyrics below, same as the other version:
The words on the page,
They’re too plain.
I can’t read.
I have no clue what anything means.
The man in the heavens had a plan
To prove I’m insane.
He sent the sky crashing down,
And it crushed me into dust.
Deep down, the darkness whispers;
It calls and calls, and I must heed.
I can’t take my life,
But I can’t live the one I have.
Why the hell am I singing?
Nobody’s around to listen.
I should just shut up
And go back to sleep.
Maybe I’ll dream about a giant worm
With a beard made of knives.
Maybe I’ll dream of homicide,
And wake up with a big smile.
Here’s the second version of “Knife-Beard Dreams,” this time a mix of psychedelia and indie folk. I’m very impressed with how this one turned out. While the other three songs I’ve produced for the fourth album are unnerving to some extent (which sometimes the subject matter and/or vibe require), this one is so pleasant-sounding and groovy that I see myself listening to it over and over. Add to it Udio’s improved sound quality and my growing mastering skills, and even the MP3 version of this song sounds fantastic.
[check out the post on my site to listen to the song]
Lyrics below, same as the other version:
The words on the page,
They’re too plain.
I can’t read.
I have no clue what anything means.
The man in the heavens had a plan
To prove I’m insane.
He sent the sky crashing down,
And it crushed me into dust.
Deep down, the darkness whispers;
It calls and calls, and I must heed.
I can’t take my life,
But I can’t live the one I have.
Why the hell am I singing?
Nobody’s around to listen.
I should just shut up
And go back to sleep.
Maybe I’ll dream about a giant worm
With a beard made of knives.
Maybe I’ll dream of homicide,
And wake up with a big smile.
July 27, 2024
Song “Knife-Beard Dreams (progressive metal version)” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 4
In case you don’t know, I’ve been obsessed with producing songs lately by exploiting the amazing AI service Udio. I’ve already made and released two full albums based on a strange story I wrote back in 2021, named Odes to My Triceratops. It follows the adventures and misadventures of a trio of friends who live in a town lost in the map. The main dude is a songwriter named William Griffin, who’s passionate and sensitive, if a bit unhinged. Another character is William’s next-door neighbor Claire Javernick, a blind redhead. Then we have Lorenzo, who’s a sentient triceratops for no justifiable reason. You can download the first two albums of this story through this link.
I’ve made this weird little song about having to keep living when you don’t know how. Part progressive metal, part motown soul. It exploits Udio’s improved audio quality, that joint with the ability to download the song in stems, has resulted in my highest quality song yet.
[check out this post on my personal site to listen to the song]
The singer’s voice right at the end sounds almost exactly like Tim Cameron, leader of late 1999’s, early 2000’s amateur British band Colours Run. That’s one hell of an obscure reference, particularly because the guy disappeared about seventeen to twenty years ago, and I haven’t come across anything new of his since. Hey Tim, I’m a middle-aged dude now, but I still remember how eagerly I clicked on the songs you posted on that forum ages ago. Your music was among my favorites.
Anyway, lyrics below:
The words on the page,
They’re too plain.
I can’t read.
I have no clue what anything means.
The man in the heavens had a plan
To prove I’m insane.
He sent the sky crashing down,
And it crushed me into dust.
Deep down, the darkness whispers;
It calls and calls, and I must heed.
I can’t take my life,
But I can’t live the one I have.
Why the hell am I singing?
Nobody’s around to listen.
I should just shut up
And go back to sleep.
Maybe I’ll dream about a giant worm
With a beard made of knives.
Maybe I’ll dream of homicide,
And wake up with a big smile.
I’ve made this weird little song about having to keep living when you don’t know how. Part progressive metal, part motown soul. It exploits Udio’s improved audio quality, that joint with the ability to download the song in stems, has resulted in my highest quality song yet.
[check out this post on my personal site to listen to the song]
The singer’s voice right at the end sounds almost exactly like Tim Cameron, leader of late 1999’s, early 2000’s amateur British band Colours Run. That’s one hell of an obscure reference, particularly because the guy disappeared about seventeen to twenty years ago, and I haven’t come across anything new of his since. Hey Tim, I’m a middle-aged dude now, but I still remember how eagerly I clicked on the songs you posted on that forum ages ago. Your music was among my favorites.
Anyway, lyrics below:
The words on the page,
They’re too plain.
I can’t read.
I have no clue what anything means.
The man in the heavens had a plan
To prove I’m insane.
He sent the sky crashing down,
And it crushed me into dust.
Deep down, the darkness whispers;
It calls and calls, and I must heed.
I can’t take my life,
But I can’t live the one I have.
Why the hell am I singing?
Nobody’s around to listen.
I should just shut up
And go back to sleep.
Maybe I’ll dream about a giant worm
With a beard made of knives.
Maybe I’ll dream of homicide,
And wake up with a big smile.
July 26, 2024
Life update (07/26/2024)
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
I’ve come to the conclusion that, once again, I’m at the mercy of another cycle of depression. It took me a while to recognize it this time, maybe because I’ve been so busy, but today I’m characteristically sluggish, disoriented, irritable, hopeless, etc. Merely enduring the bus ride that gets me to the train (that gets me to the bus that gets me to work) was a struggle due to the black hole pulsing inside my brain. Later, I sat at my workstation only to find out I had five tickets and eight requests waiting for me to solve them, and I wanted to break down in tears. Such urges don’t translate into actions, though; it would be unsightly.
Throughout this week, my mind was filled with the usual thoughts: given that my job makes me miserable, why not quit, even though I would hardly find a better one? Better yet, why not just give up and not have to deal with this world anymore? I assume this cycle of depression will be spent like all the others: dragging myself through my responsibilities while brute-forcing through my brain’s suggestions that it would probably be better for me not to continue existing. I suspect that some future cycle will find me too exhausted and destitute to muster up the resolve to resist. Not that I care particularly about that, because my life has been shit on average.
Fallout: London finally came out. Although I really don’t have time to spend on video games, I figured that I might as well give myself a break. But the game crashed at a certain point, and looking online, it seems that many people are struggling with the same issue. I found out that the mod team suggested installing ten or so mods to improve the experience, and that might fix the crashes, but I can’t be arsed. I’ll wait for a Wabbajack modlist or something. Too bad; I had gone through the trouble of opening my computer case and installing the M.2 drive that I bought months ago, because I was running out of M.2 space on my main. Oh well, at least I transferred my original files for the Odes to My Triceratops albums to a sturdier location.
I’m supposed to return to my ongoing novel We’re Fucked. Maybe due to the depression, I’m having a really tough time. I haven’t even finished working through my notes for the current scene. Unfortunately, I went on hiatus right at a moment that would require me to do some research and come up with reference images, which is one of the most annoying parts of writing (the fact that, in most cases, you’ll likely win the lottery before managing to monetize your writing may be the most annoying part).
What else, what else. I’m finishing the first version of a new song, titled Knife-Beard Dreams. Quite the cool tune. Udio, the AI-service I use to produce my songs, recently improved its sound quality, and figured out a way to divide every song into stems (bass, drums, other instruments, and vocals), which has made me slide further down the spiral of song mastering. It satisfies my OCD, but I suspect in a similar way that pulling the lever on a slot machine satisfies some other people’s neurological configurations.
I’ve been reading book after book of the Mushoku Tensei series. I wonder what makes it so compelling for me. Is it the notion of exploring a fantasy world? Of meeting intriguing, exotic individuals? Of possessing undeserved power that dwarfs most other people’s? Of amassing a harem and impregnating your wives one after the other? Maybe a combination of those and other reasons, along with the fact that I vibe with the author’s humor and general pervertedness. There’s also a solid feeling of progression, of accompanying these people as they travel the world, enroll in college, deal with a growing household, find their place in a troublesome world, etc. It’s also light reading that distracts me from my woes.
I think that’s all for today. Why did I bother writing this post? I wanted to fill some time at work in this Friday afternoon, as a form of procrastination. Why did you bother reading, though? Don’t you have better things to do?
I’ve come to the conclusion that, once again, I’m at the mercy of another cycle of depression. It took me a while to recognize it this time, maybe because I’ve been so busy, but today I’m characteristically sluggish, disoriented, irritable, hopeless, etc. Merely enduring the bus ride that gets me to the train (that gets me to the bus that gets me to work) was a struggle due to the black hole pulsing inside my brain. Later, I sat at my workstation only to find out I had five tickets and eight requests waiting for me to solve them, and I wanted to break down in tears. Such urges don’t translate into actions, though; it would be unsightly.
Throughout this week, my mind was filled with the usual thoughts: given that my job makes me miserable, why not quit, even though I would hardly find a better one? Better yet, why not just give up and not have to deal with this world anymore? I assume this cycle of depression will be spent like all the others: dragging myself through my responsibilities while brute-forcing through my brain’s suggestions that it would probably be better for me not to continue existing. I suspect that some future cycle will find me too exhausted and destitute to muster up the resolve to resist. Not that I care particularly about that, because my life has been shit on average.
Fallout: London finally came out. Although I really don’t have time to spend on video games, I figured that I might as well give myself a break. But the game crashed at a certain point, and looking online, it seems that many people are struggling with the same issue. I found out that the mod team suggested installing ten or so mods to improve the experience, and that might fix the crashes, but I can’t be arsed. I’ll wait for a Wabbajack modlist or something. Too bad; I had gone through the trouble of opening my computer case and installing the M.2 drive that I bought months ago, because I was running out of M.2 space on my main. Oh well, at least I transferred my original files for the Odes to My Triceratops albums to a sturdier location.
I’m supposed to return to my ongoing novel We’re Fucked. Maybe due to the depression, I’m having a really tough time. I haven’t even finished working through my notes for the current scene. Unfortunately, I went on hiatus right at a moment that would require me to do some research and come up with reference images, which is one of the most annoying parts of writing (the fact that, in most cases, you’ll likely win the lottery before managing to monetize your writing may be the most annoying part).
What else, what else. I’m finishing the first version of a new song, titled Knife-Beard Dreams. Quite the cool tune. Udio, the AI-service I use to produce my songs, recently improved its sound quality, and figured out a way to divide every song into stems (bass, drums, other instruments, and vocals), which has made me slide further down the spiral of song mastering. It satisfies my OCD, but I suspect in a similar way that pulling the lever on a slot machine satisfies some other people’s neurological configurations.
I’ve been reading book after book of the Mushoku Tensei series. I wonder what makes it so compelling for me. Is it the notion of exploring a fantasy world? Of meeting intriguing, exotic individuals? Of possessing undeserved power that dwarfs most other people’s? Of amassing a harem and impregnating your wives one after the other? Maybe a combination of those and other reasons, along with the fact that I vibe with the author’s humor and general pervertedness. There’s also a solid feeling of progression, of accompanying these people as they travel the world, enroll in college, deal with a growing household, find their place in a troublesome world, etc. It’s also light reading that distracts me from my woes.
I think that’s all for today. Why did I bother writing this post? I wanted to fill some time at work in this Friday afternoon, as a form of procrastination. Why did you bother reading, though? Don’t you have better things to do?
July 21, 2024
Song "A Tribute a True a Work of a Art (bitpunk version)" from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 4
In case you don’t know, I’ve been obsessed with producing songs lately by exploiting the amazing AI service Udio. I’ve already made and released two full albums based on a strange story I wrote back in 2021, named Odes to My Triceratops. It follows the adventures and misadventures of a trio of friends who live in a town lost in the map. The main dude is a songwriter named William Griffin, who’s passionate and sensitive, if a bit unhinged. Another character is William’s next-door neighbor Claire Javernick, a blind redhead. Then we have Lorenzo, who’s a sentient triceratops for no justifiable reason. You can download the first two albums of this story through this link.
I’m still remastering the third album of Odes to My Triceratops, but I had already planned to make alternate versions of the fourth album’s opener. In the past, I thought that producing different versions of the same lyrics and structure was a bad thing, I suppose because regular albums don’t do that, but I don’t know why I would be subjected to the same rules. So I present to you the fuzzy, unnerving bitpunk version of “A Tribute a True a Work of a Art.”
Lyrics below, same as the original version:
Are you truly acquainted with William Griffin?
I know the prick, yeah.
What’s your impression of him?
He’s the biggest dickhead I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.
If he were a salad, he’d be a crap salad.
That’s a very strong opinion, sir.
I don’t think he even has friends, or is loved by anyone.
Can you believe he goes around calling himself a songwriter?
He did write many songs for the band Sexican Dinosaw, including “Raptorial Bliss,” and “I Have a Tail Like a Sword.”
Yeah, utter shit-piles of stupidity and impropriety!
So you wouldn’t consider him an artistic individual?
You might say that he’s artistic in his depravity!
Listen, his lyrics are depressing as fuck.
They’re like what a seagull would crap out after eating a depressed philosopher.
Can he be blamed, though, for his descent into madness?
Word on the street is that he’s afflicted with PTSD.
Post-triceratops stress disorder?
If I had to summarize William Griffin
Into into a meaning meaning-devoid action it it
It it would would be would be would be would be be would be by by writing
Writing this this song this song this song this song song.
These lyrics are bullshit,
So I’m skipping to the point.
Ladies and gents, gather round!
To the far reaches of the land, let it be known,
That the songwriter-slash-murderer William Griffin
Is the biggest coward in the world!
Do you have some unfinished business?
Does a part of you still cling to hope?
Please make sure to tell me, boy.
I gotta know.
[check out the post on my site if you want to listen to the song]
I’m still remastering the third album of Odes to My Triceratops, but I had already planned to make alternate versions of the fourth album’s opener. In the past, I thought that producing different versions of the same lyrics and structure was a bad thing, I suppose because regular albums don’t do that, but I don’t know why I would be subjected to the same rules. So I present to you the fuzzy, unnerving bitpunk version of “A Tribute a True a Work of a Art.”
Lyrics below, same as the original version:
Are you truly acquainted with William Griffin?
I know the prick, yeah.
What’s your impression of him?
He’s the biggest dickhead I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.
If he were a salad, he’d be a crap salad.
That’s a very strong opinion, sir.
I don’t think he even has friends, or is loved by anyone.
Can you believe he goes around calling himself a songwriter?
He did write many songs for the band Sexican Dinosaw, including “Raptorial Bliss,” and “I Have a Tail Like a Sword.”
Yeah, utter shit-piles of stupidity and impropriety!
So you wouldn’t consider him an artistic individual?
You might say that he’s artistic in his depravity!
Listen, his lyrics are depressing as fuck.
They’re like what a seagull would crap out after eating a depressed philosopher.
Can he be blamed, though, for his descent into madness?
Word on the street is that he’s afflicted with PTSD.
Post-triceratops stress disorder?
If I had to summarize William Griffin
Into into a meaning meaning-devoid action it it
It it would would be would be would be would be be would be by by writing
Writing this this song this song this song this song song.
These lyrics are bullshit,
So I’m skipping to the point.
Ladies and gents, gather round!
To the far reaches of the land, let it be known,
That the songwriter-slash-murderer William Griffin
Is the biggest coward in the world!
Do you have some unfinished business?
Does a part of you still cling to hope?
Please make sure to tell me, boy.
I gotta know.
[check out the post on my site if you want to listen to the song]
July 20, 2024
Life update (07/20/2024)
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
I work IT at a hospital, so as you might imagine, I’m living a nightmare. Yesterday morning at about seven in the morning, some dickhead working for CrowdStrike decided to push an update incompatible with certain builds of Windows (not sure about the specifics), causing dozens, potentially hundreds of PCs on my hospital to be unable to load into Windows. The only way to fix it is to walk over to the computer (which may be located in any of the numerous buildings of the hospital complex), claim a working computer to access remotely my office workstation, and perform the following steps on the inoperative PC:
1. Reset it until, instead of constant blue screens of death, you get the chance to restart it in Safe Mode.
2. Enter the base admin’s credentials, which regularly change, so I need to access my office computer remotely to retrieve them.
3. Remove every instance of the file C-00000291*.sys located in C:\Windows\System32\drivers\CrowdStrike.
4. Restart the PC and hope that everything is solved.
That might not sound like much, but given how slow the computers around here are, solving each case might take about thirty minutes, and that’s not counting the process of locating them then heading over there and back.
It’s not just the users’ computers, though: both local and remote servers have gotten screwed as well. These last few months I’ve been tasked with coordinating three technicians to replace about 930 printers. Yesterday, the print server was down, meaning that only those PCs physically connected to a printer could print. Some obscure servers in unknown locations have also died.
An hour ago, the engineer on call has informed me that all user permissions have gotten wiped, meaning that thousands of employees can’t access some basic applications. I can only hope that the relation of permissions still exists somewhere, or else I’m talking months of work returning everybody to normal.
On top of that, which is the worst issue I’ve come across so far, some odd stuff has stopped working: the card readers installed on some warehouses don’t read cards all of a sudden, and we don’t know why; Some obscure apps related to medical specialties don’t work properly, maybe because they’ve lost connection to wherever they usually reached, etc.
Until yesterday morning, I already considered my regular life a nightmare, due to the constant pressure upon my mental health and poor heart caused by managing three technicians and dealing with about a couple dozen random users (nurses, admins, doctors) every day, so they would allow us to change their printers. Even years from now, I bet I’ll still have nightmares about users whining, “You’re changing my printer? Whyyyyy? It works well right now! Can’t you change it for one in color? I don’t like the new printer, I can’t cancel the printing process fast enough when it’s printing something I don’t want to print. The new printer is too noisy, can’t you make it quieter?” I already disliked human beings to begin with, but this process has cemented the notion that most people will annoy or make things more difficult for you if they can, even if all they get in exchange is to feel slightly superior for a moment.
One a less despairing note, I’m surprised by how many people greet me by my name. I come up to some random medical department and face some person (usually a woman) whom I rarely recall ever seeing (due to this face blindness of mine), and sometimes that person smiles at me and calls me by my name. I don’t retain people’s names, partly, I suppose, due to my lack of interest in humans. But I can only assume that most people genuinely do enjoy interacting with others in person and that brightens their day somewhat, even if the person they’re interacting with is a computer technician that an employee recently described as “big and bearded” (he didn’t know he was talking to me on the phone).
Anyway, I want this contract to end so I can return to blessed unemployment, which I’ll spend writing, producing songs, reading, watching shows, walking in the woods, and jerking off to pure filth. But I must earn money monthly, money that each year is worth less, hundreds of which the government steals from my paycheck to fundamentally change my society into something hostile for my kind. How grand!
Whoever is reading these whining words, I hope you’re living it up not having to work for a living, relying on someone else to pay your bills, hopefully a beautiful, big-breasted mommy type who calls you a good boy or girl in bed. Just know that I’d strangle you to take your place.
I work IT at a hospital, so as you might imagine, I’m living a nightmare. Yesterday morning at about seven in the morning, some dickhead working for CrowdStrike decided to push an update incompatible with certain builds of Windows (not sure about the specifics), causing dozens, potentially hundreds of PCs on my hospital to be unable to load into Windows. The only way to fix it is to walk over to the computer (which may be located in any of the numerous buildings of the hospital complex), claim a working computer to access remotely my office workstation, and perform the following steps on the inoperative PC:
1. Reset it until, instead of constant blue screens of death, you get the chance to restart it in Safe Mode.
2. Enter the base admin’s credentials, which regularly change, so I need to access my office computer remotely to retrieve them.
3. Remove every instance of the file C-00000291*.sys located in C:\Windows\System32\drivers\CrowdStrike.
4. Restart the PC and hope that everything is solved.
That might not sound like much, but given how slow the computers around here are, solving each case might take about thirty minutes, and that’s not counting the process of locating them then heading over there and back.
It’s not just the users’ computers, though: both local and remote servers have gotten screwed as well. These last few months I’ve been tasked with coordinating three technicians to replace about 930 printers. Yesterday, the print server was down, meaning that only those PCs physically connected to a printer could print. Some obscure servers in unknown locations have also died.
An hour ago, the engineer on call has informed me that all user permissions have gotten wiped, meaning that thousands of employees can’t access some basic applications. I can only hope that the relation of permissions still exists somewhere, or else I’m talking months of work returning everybody to normal.
On top of that, which is the worst issue I’ve come across so far, some odd stuff has stopped working: the card readers installed on some warehouses don’t read cards all of a sudden, and we don’t know why; Some obscure apps related to medical specialties don’t work properly, maybe because they’ve lost connection to wherever they usually reached, etc.
Until yesterday morning, I already considered my regular life a nightmare, due to the constant pressure upon my mental health and poor heart caused by managing three technicians and dealing with about a couple dozen random users (nurses, admins, doctors) every day, so they would allow us to change their printers. Even years from now, I bet I’ll still have nightmares about users whining, “You’re changing my printer? Whyyyyy? It works well right now! Can’t you change it for one in color? I don’t like the new printer, I can’t cancel the printing process fast enough when it’s printing something I don’t want to print. The new printer is too noisy, can’t you make it quieter?” I already disliked human beings to begin with, but this process has cemented the notion that most people will annoy or make things more difficult for you if they can, even if all they get in exchange is to feel slightly superior for a moment.
One a less despairing note, I’m surprised by how many people greet me by my name. I come up to some random medical department and face some person (usually a woman) whom I rarely recall ever seeing (due to this face blindness of mine), and sometimes that person smiles at me and calls me by my name. I don’t retain people’s names, partly, I suppose, due to my lack of interest in humans. But I can only assume that most people genuinely do enjoy interacting with others in person and that brightens their day somewhat, even if the person they’re interacting with is a computer technician that an employee recently described as “big and bearded” (he didn’t know he was talking to me on the phone).
Anyway, I want this contract to end so I can return to blessed unemployment, which I’ll spend writing, producing songs, reading, watching shows, walking in the woods, and jerking off to pure filth. But I must earn money monthly, money that each year is worth less, hundreds of which the government steals from my paycheck to fundamentally change my society into something hostile for my kind. How grand!
Whoever is reading these whining words, I hope you’re living it up not having to work for a living, relying on someone else to pay your bills, hopefully a beautiful, big-breasted mommy type who calls you a good boy or girl in bed. Just know that I’d strangle you to take your place.
July 19, 2024
Song “A Tribute a True a Work of a Art (post-punk version)” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 4
In case you don’t know, I’ve been obsessed with producing songs lately by exploiting the amazing AI service Udio. I’ve already made and released two full albums based on a strange story I wrote back in 2021, named Odes to My Triceratops. It follows the adventures and misadventures of a trio of friends who live in a town lost in the map. The main dude is a songwriter named William Griffin, who’s passionate and sensitive, if a bit unhinged. Another character is William’s next-door neighbor Claire Javernick, a blind redhead. Then we have Lorenzo, who’s a sentient triceratops for no justifiable reason. You can download the first two albums of this story through this link.
I’m still remastering the songs from the third album, but I couldn’t help myself, and produced the first song, current opener, of the fourth album of Odes to My Triceratops. This is a tribute to those who have found themselves staring down into the abyss, only for a faint voice deep inside them to whisper, “Not yet.”
Lyrics below:
Are you truly acquainted with William Griffin?
I know the prick, yeah.
What’s your impression of him?
He’s the biggest dickhead I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.
If he were a salad, he’d be a crap salad.
That’s a very strong opinion, sir.
I don’t think he even has friends, or is loved by anyone.
Can you believe he goes around calling himself a songwriter?
He did write many songs for the band Sexican Dinosaw, including “Raptorial Bliss,” and “I Have a Tail Like a Sword.”
Yeah, utter shit-piles of stupidity and impropriety!
So you wouldn’t consider him an artistic individual?
You might say that he’s artistic in his depravity!
Listen, his lyrics are depressing as fuck.
They’re like what a seagull would crap out after eating a depressed philosopher.
Can he be blamed, though, for his descent into madness?
Word on the street is that he’s afflicted with PTSD.
Post-triceratops stress disorder?
If I had to summarize William Griffin
Into into a meaning meaning-devoid action it it
It it would would be would be would be would be be would be by by writing
Writing this this song this song this song this song song.
These lyrics are bullshit,
So I’m skipping to the point.
Ladies and gents, gather round!
To the far reaches of the land, let it be known,
That the songwriter-slash-murderer William Griffin
Is the biggest coward in the world!
Do you have some unfinished business?
Does a part of you still cling to hope?
Please make sure to tell me, boy.
I gotta know.
[you can listen to the song on my site]
I’m still remastering the songs from the third album, but I couldn’t help myself, and produced the first song, current opener, of the fourth album of Odes to My Triceratops. This is a tribute to those who have found themselves staring down into the abyss, only for a faint voice deep inside them to whisper, “Not yet.”
Lyrics below:
Are you truly acquainted with William Griffin?
I know the prick, yeah.
What’s your impression of him?
He’s the biggest dickhead I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.
If he were a salad, he’d be a crap salad.
That’s a very strong opinion, sir.
I don’t think he even has friends, or is loved by anyone.
Can you believe he goes around calling himself a songwriter?
He did write many songs for the band Sexican Dinosaw, including “Raptorial Bliss,” and “I Have a Tail Like a Sword.”
Yeah, utter shit-piles of stupidity and impropriety!
So you wouldn’t consider him an artistic individual?
You might say that he’s artistic in his depravity!
Listen, his lyrics are depressing as fuck.
They’re like what a seagull would crap out after eating a depressed philosopher.
Can he be blamed, though, for his descent into madness?
Word on the street is that he’s afflicted with PTSD.
Post-triceratops stress disorder?
If I had to summarize William Griffin
Into into a meaning meaning-devoid action it it
It it would would be would be would be would be be would be by by writing
Writing this this song this song this song this song song.
These lyrics are bullshit,
So I’m skipping to the point.
Ladies and gents, gather round!
To the far reaches of the land, let it be known,
That the songwriter-slash-murderer William Griffin
Is the biggest coward in the world!
Do you have some unfinished business?
Does a part of you still cling to hope?
Please make sure to tell me, boy.
I gotta know.
[you can listen to the song on my site]
July 15, 2024
Post-mortem for Motocross Legend, Love of My Life
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
You probably shouldn’t read this post unless you’ve gone through my novella Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, that you can start reading here.
Back in January of this year (2024), I was happily writing away at the last stretch of my hella-long novel We’re Fucked, when, for no discernible reason, I chose to rummage through my rarely-touched drawers and came across an external hard drive. Hoping that it contained albums I hadn’t heard in years, I checked its contents. I discovered the album Sweet Heart Sweet Light by Spiritualized. I had recently used one of their songs for We’re Fucked, and I didn’t recall ever listening to this other album, so I put it on. As the second song, titled “Hey Jane,” played, my subconscious stirred. Vivid images kept bubbling up, far stronger than usual daydreams. One image in particular lodged itself in my brain: a brown-eyed teenage girl leaning on her motorbike’s handlebars at night, smiling warmly at the person who was approaching her. I immediately recognized the strength of this feeling. My subconscious had gifted me such epiphany-level impressions only a few times throughout my life. If I’m lucky, it will do so a few more times in the future. I had been granted a story seed.
The rest of that day, and the following few, were taken over by the obscure workings of my subconscious as it wove together, almost entirely by itself, the tale of this stranger: who she was, why she seemed so comfortable on a bike, who was she smiling at so warmly, etc. I don’t recall how the narrative evolved into one about an aspiring motocross rider with a recklessness streak bordering on tragic flaw. However, it soon became clear that this tale wouldn’t be about love, but grief.
I suppose I have to mention, as I often do, that I’m quite fucked in the head. Was born with so-called high-functioning autism, and either developed after, or got as a side-effect of the abnormal neurological development, some level of OCD that fucks me up with intrusive thoughts, obsessions on top of autism’s own obsessions, and such. Like many on the fringes of typical human behavior, I’m fascinated by outsiders and edge experiences: UFOs, hidden history, weird artifacts, long-extinct animals… Regarding humans, which I rarely care about, I was drawn to the serial-killing kind. While some people, mainly certain types of women, obsess over such monsters and view them as heroes, even attempt to date them, I obsessed over their victims. I wanted to learn everything about who they were before they crossed paths with the man who ended up murdering them. I dreamed about the killings, and imagined myself intervening in those troublesome encounters to save the victims. Even when I didn’t dream about such events, I daydreamed about them. I wrote a couple of stories, of the ones I remember clearly now, of a jaded time-traveler that returned solely to prevent such killings.
With the widespread use of the internet, I came across blogs belonging to relatives of murdered people. One of them that impacted me significantly belonged to the mother of a poor teenager who was killed returning from a concert back in 2008 or so. She got in the car of the wrong person, who raped and murdered her. The mother never got over it (I certainly wouldn’t be able to), and her posts were a window into unending grief, the kind that shoves the person away from the mass of humanity into the fringes.
I know quite a bit about standing in the fringes of humanity. I’m 52% disabled according to the Spanish goverment. During my twenties, that were mainly wasted in long stints as a hikikomori (the pee-in-bottles, befriend-spiders kind), I visited centers for extremely disabled people, and got to interact with the types of human beings you simply do not come across in your daily life: otherwise normal-looking women who were unable to string a sentence together, very intellectually challenged people who casually walked over to groups and ripped loud farts nonchalantly, people so hideous it hurt to look at them, the twitching-and-shouting-insults kinds, the dangerously deluded, some who most weeks presented fresh tales about shitting themselves while “straight-jacketed,” etc. Parents of low-functioning children would often look on with horror at institutionalized low-functioning autistic adults as they were herded around while they twitched and groaned. “It this all I can hope for?” Many human wrecks out there are kept out of view from the public at large lest they disturb the delusion of a just and ordered world.
Whatever neurological configuration drives people to seek out face-to-face interactions has never quite worked for me: human beings in general feel like wild animals, and not the cuddly kind. I’m always wary of people and keep them at arm’s length, partly due to the anxiety I feel in social situations, partly because I lack the innate ability to read their intentions. Over the years, I’ve been tricked and manipulated. I’ve had people tell me, “Why do you keep talking so casually with those individuals? They clearly hate you,” and I didn’t have a clue. In general, people bring more trouble than they’re worth, and my experience with intimate relationships convinced me that such connections lead to mutual pain. Therefore, I’m bound to a life of solitude.
Anyway, what I meant to convey is that my subconscious compelled me to create a tale about someone dealing with unending grief, the kind that isolates him from the rest of humanity. Had I loved someone like Izar Lizarraga, I would have ended up like the narrator, if I hadn’t killed myself to begin with. This is the extent of my justification for why I write what I do. In truth, I simply write to fulfill the demands of my subconscious, hoping to satisfy it. Rational thought plays no part. In fact, I’m extremely suspicious of what’s generally considered intelligence.
I didn’t choose consciously the details of Izar as a character, as well as her relationship with the narrator, but my subconscious was clearly inspired in many cases by my past relationships. The closest in spirit to Izar was a sixteen-year-old basketball player named Leire whom I met online (she was a friend of a dude I used to hang out with), and who later on pursued me romantically. She was reckless, perhaps a bit touched in the head, given that she was interested in a lanky, pimply, clearly deranged teenage me. Anyway, we lay under the stars and had a romantic conversation full of idealism, the details of which I have completely forgotten. Some other day, she invited me to her home, where we made out. We ended up cutting that date short because her parents returned from a trip early.
After that day, I ghosted her. Why would I abandon such a sweet girl without a word? Because right then I understood something: that relationship would end in ruins, like they all would, and liking her as much as I did, like I never had before and never have since, meant that the end of that relationship would obliterate me. Even now, as a thirty-nine-year-old man, I consider that ending it before it truly began was the right choice, given my inability to sustain intimate relationships. However, I regret ghosting her. I regret having lost the opportunity to know her better. Due to my prosopagnosia (an autism-related inability to retain and process people’s faces), I don’t know if I ever saw her again. I can’t even stalk her online, because I forgot her last name. She didn’t deserve to be treated that way. Wherever life took you, Leire, I hope you’re happy.
Fellow autist and writer Patricia Highsmith famously told of a woman she briefly met while working as a toy saleswoman: a sophisticated, mommy-type blond to whom Patricia sold a doll, and with whom Patricia fell in love at first sight. They never saw each other again, but Pat, in her usual manner (she’s the author of Strangers on a Train, The Talented Mr. Ripley series, etc.), proceeded to stalk the woman’s home to get some modicum of understanding of who she was. In later years, Patricia referred to that woman as the love of her life. In a similar sense, Leire is very much the love of my life: the most fascinating girl I have ever met, with whom I would have enjoyed lovely adventures if I weren’t such a piece of rotten shit.
Deeper than that, and I suspect this revelation may disappoint some, Izar Lizarraga of this story’s fame is partly my subconscious itself. Maybe other people can identify with their subconscious as if it were an integrated part of themselves, but for me it’s this mysterious, intelligent being who presents me strange visions, who urges me to work on stuff that pleases her, and to whom I can show some part of a work of art I’m working on, from writing to music, and get a wordless response of the kind “this sucks” or “I love it.”
This subconscious of mine, a creature that feels female, is someone I’d rather interact with instead of any flesh-and-bone person, and who has guided me along in many adventures that I wouldn’t have experienced otherwise. I have never felt truly alone because my subconscious has always been there to bring me interesting dreams (I wouldn’t say beautiful, because plenty of them were horrifying). Back when I thought I could sustain normal human relationships, I regularly ached to return to my subconscious’ side, a more interesting and reliable person than pretty much anybody. I adore you, subconscious. I wish I could make love to you. If you had a butt, I’m sure it would be real nice.
I think that’s all the context I wanted to add to this story. Barely anybody read it, but those of you who followed the tale of Izar Lizarraga and the man she ruined, I hope you got something valuable out of it. And if you didn’t, hey, the one I intended to satisfy is pleased.
You probably shouldn’t read this post unless you’ve gone through my novella Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, that you can start reading here.
Back in January of this year (2024), I was happily writing away at the last stretch of my hella-long novel We’re Fucked, when, for no discernible reason, I chose to rummage through my rarely-touched drawers and came across an external hard drive. Hoping that it contained albums I hadn’t heard in years, I checked its contents. I discovered the album Sweet Heart Sweet Light by Spiritualized. I had recently used one of their songs for We’re Fucked, and I didn’t recall ever listening to this other album, so I put it on. As the second song, titled “Hey Jane,” played, my subconscious stirred. Vivid images kept bubbling up, far stronger than usual daydreams. One image in particular lodged itself in my brain: a brown-eyed teenage girl leaning on her motorbike’s handlebars at night, smiling warmly at the person who was approaching her. I immediately recognized the strength of this feeling. My subconscious had gifted me such epiphany-level impressions only a few times throughout my life. If I’m lucky, it will do so a few more times in the future. I had been granted a story seed.
The rest of that day, and the following few, were taken over by the obscure workings of my subconscious as it wove together, almost entirely by itself, the tale of this stranger: who she was, why she seemed so comfortable on a bike, who was she smiling at so warmly, etc. I don’t recall how the narrative evolved into one about an aspiring motocross rider with a recklessness streak bordering on tragic flaw. However, it soon became clear that this tale wouldn’t be about love, but grief.
I suppose I have to mention, as I often do, that I’m quite fucked in the head. Was born with so-called high-functioning autism, and either developed after, or got as a side-effect of the abnormal neurological development, some level of OCD that fucks me up with intrusive thoughts, obsessions on top of autism’s own obsessions, and such. Like many on the fringes of typical human behavior, I’m fascinated by outsiders and edge experiences: UFOs, hidden history, weird artifacts, long-extinct animals… Regarding humans, which I rarely care about, I was drawn to the serial-killing kind. While some people, mainly certain types of women, obsess over such monsters and view them as heroes, even attempt to date them, I obsessed over their victims. I wanted to learn everything about who they were before they crossed paths with the man who ended up murdering them. I dreamed about the killings, and imagined myself intervening in those troublesome encounters to save the victims. Even when I didn’t dream about such events, I daydreamed about them. I wrote a couple of stories, of the ones I remember clearly now, of a jaded time-traveler that returned solely to prevent such killings.
With the widespread use of the internet, I came across blogs belonging to relatives of murdered people. One of them that impacted me significantly belonged to the mother of a poor teenager who was killed returning from a concert back in 2008 or so. She got in the car of the wrong person, who raped and murdered her. The mother never got over it (I certainly wouldn’t be able to), and her posts were a window into unending grief, the kind that shoves the person away from the mass of humanity into the fringes.
I know quite a bit about standing in the fringes of humanity. I’m 52% disabled according to the Spanish goverment. During my twenties, that were mainly wasted in long stints as a hikikomori (the pee-in-bottles, befriend-spiders kind), I visited centers for extremely disabled people, and got to interact with the types of human beings you simply do not come across in your daily life: otherwise normal-looking women who were unable to string a sentence together, very intellectually challenged people who casually walked over to groups and ripped loud farts nonchalantly, people so hideous it hurt to look at them, the twitching-and-shouting-insults kinds, the dangerously deluded, some who most weeks presented fresh tales about shitting themselves while “straight-jacketed,” etc. Parents of low-functioning children would often look on with horror at institutionalized low-functioning autistic adults as they were herded around while they twitched and groaned. “It this all I can hope for?” Many human wrecks out there are kept out of view from the public at large lest they disturb the delusion of a just and ordered world.
Whatever neurological configuration drives people to seek out face-to-face interactions has never quite worked for me: human beings in general feel like wild animals, and not the cuddly kind. I’m always wary of people and keep them at arm’s length, partly due to the anxiety I feel in social situations, partly because I lack the innate ability to read their intentions. Over the years, I’ve been tricked and manipulated. I’ve had people tell me, “Why do you keep talking so casually with those individuals? They clearly hate you,” and I didn’t have a clue. In general, people bring more trouble than they’re worth, and my experience with intimate relationships convinced me that such connections lead to mutual pain. Therefore, I’m bound to a life of solitude.
Anyway, what I meant to convey is that my subconscious compelled me to create a tale about someone dealing with unending grief, the kind that isolates him from the rest of humanity. Had I loved someone like Izar Lizarraga, I would have ended up like the narrator, if I hadn’t killed myself to begin with. This is the extent of my justification for why I write what I do. In truth, I simply write to fulfill the demands of my subconscious, hoping to satisfy it. Rational thought plays no part. In fact, I’m extremely suspicious of what’s generally considered intelligence.
I didn’t choose consciously the details of Izar as a character, as well as her relationship with the narrator, but my subconscious was clearly inspired in many cases by my past relationships. The closest in spirit to Izar was a sixteen-year-old basketball player named Leire whom I met online (she was a friend of a dude I used to hang out with), and who later on pursued me romantically. She was reckless, perhaps a bit touched in the head, given that she was interested in a lanky, pimply, clearly deranged teenage me. Anyway, we lay under the stars and had a romantic conversation full of idealism, the details of which I have completely forgotten. Some other day, she invited me to her home, where we made out. We ended up cutting that date short because her parents returned from a trip early.
After that day, I ghosted her. Why would I abandon such a sweet girl without a word? Because right then I understood something: that relationship would end in ruins, like they all would, and liking her as much as I did, like I never had before and never have since, meant that the end of that relationship would obliterate me. Even now, as a thirty-nine-year-old man, I consider that ending it before it truly began was the right choice, given my inability to sustain intimate relationships. However, I regret ghosting her. I regret having lost the opportunity to know her better. Due to my prosopagnosia (an autism-related inability to retain and process people’s faces), I don’t know if I ever saw her again. I can’t even stalk her online, because I forgot her last name. She didn’t deserve to be treated that way. Wherever life took you, Leire, I hope you’re happy.
Fellow autist and writer Patricia Highsmith famously told of a woman she briefly met while working as a toy saleswoman: a sophisticated, mommy-type blond to whom Patricia sold a doll, and with whom Patricia fell in love at first sight. They never saw each other again, but Pat, in her usual manner (she’s the author of Strangers on a Train, The Talented Mr. Ripley series, etc.), proceeded to stalk the woman’s home to get some modicum of understanding of who she was. In later years, Patricia referred to that woman as the love of her life. In a similar sense, Leire is very much the love of my life: the most fascinating girl I have ever met, with whom I would have enjoyed lovely adventures if I weren’t such a piece of rotten shit.
Deeper than that, and I suspect this revelation may disappoint some, Izar Lizarraga of this story’s fame is partly my subconscious itself. Maybe other people can identify with their subconscious as if it were an integrated part of themselves, but for me it’s this mysterious, intelligent being who presents me strange visions, who urges me to work on stuff that pleases her, and to whom I can show some part of a work of art I’m working on, from writing to music, and get a wordless response of the kind “this sucks” or “I love it.”
This subconscious of mine, a creature that feels female, is someone I’d rather interact with instead of any flesh-and-bone person, and who has guided me along in many adventures that I wouldn’t have experienced otherwise. I have never felt truly alone because my subconscious has always been there to bring me interesting dreams (I wouldn’t say beautiful, because plenty of them were horrifying). Back when I thought I could sustain normal human relationships, I regularly ached to return to my subconscious’ side, a more interesting and reliable person than pretty much anybody. I adore you, subconscious. I wish I could make love to you. If you had a butt, I’m sure it would be real nice.
I think that’s all the context I wanted to add to this story. Barely anybody read it, but those of you who followed the tale of Izar Lizarraga and the man she ruined, I hope you got something valuable out of it. And if you didn’t, hey, the one I intended to satisfy is pleased.
July 14, 2024
Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 20 (Poetry)
Check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better
You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.
---
On the afternoon of your death anniversary,
Hand in hand with my daughter,
My other hand holding a bouquet of red roses,
We arrived at the spot on the wooded lane
Where a grooved-bark, mature oak
Watched over your memorial stone,
Nestled in moss, twigs, and clover.
Mottled, watery sunlight bathed the stone
As if illuminating a sacred site.
The limestone or sandstone looked rough,
And had weathered over all these years.
Beneath the relief of a motocross rider,
A marble plaque bore the inscription,
"Izar Lizarraga Oyarbide (1981-1999).
She lived fast and died young,
But her light will shine forever."
My childhood sweetheart,
My restless wildfire.
I crouched in front of the stone
To deposit the bouquet at its base.
I pulled out a pack of wet wipes
And wiped away the dust and grime.
I scrubbed off a white splatter of bird droppings.
The murmur of families filtered through the trees.
A flock of sheep baahed from the nearby hill.
In the stone's relief, your helmeted figure
Clutched the bike's handlebars,
Head tilted forward in intense focus.
Every time I laid my eyes on this figure,
My breath caught, my throat clenched,
And I struggled to loosen the knot
Twisted inside my chest.
"How long ago was nineteen ninety-nine?"
My daughter's innocent voice asked.
After a pause, I said, "A long time ago."
"Was she a friend of yours?"
"Yes, the best one."
My daughter shifted her weight from foot to foot
As her attention drifted further down the lane.
I held her little hand tightly in mine,
And we stepped onto the sun-dappled sidewalk.
A familiar warmth built up behind my eyes:
Tears burning their way out.
The vision of a bumblebee weaving its waltz
Across clumps of yellow and white wildflowers
Became a watercolor blur.
Grief had ambushed me once again:
A monstrous hand reaching out of the deep
To grab me by the chest and drag me down.
I know it will remain my constant companion
For the rest of my days.
That week, I pondered why
I had brought my daughter to visit you.
I was terrified that, after my death,
Nobody who came across your name
Or gazed upon the memorial stone
Would understand what had been lost,
What you still mean to me.
I needed my child to be haunted by you,
To carry your spirit in her heart,
But I feared no amount of talk
Could transmit the depths of pain and love.
So, the memories of you would disappear,
Forgotten even by the spiders
That had built their webs within me.
One day, maybe not long from now,
After the kids we dragged into this world
Have freed themselves from their miserable parents
And claimed a home of their own,
I will lie in my deathbed alone,
Connected to beeping machines.
By then, you will feel like a sunken ship
Deep at the bottom of the sea.
Suddenly, I will breathe in a pungent odor of rust,
And from the center of my consciousness,
A sinkhole will open, a growing black hole.
As the edges of my self crumble and collapse,
Into that darkness, I will reach for your hand.
I doubt the value of words:
Pictures and music capture emotions better.
Yet, this old boy can only play with words,
And I've engaged in the game of pretending
That they can bridge the chasms between us.
For decades, a barbed pain has grown its tendrils
From the core of my heart throughout my body,
Creeping into every tissue and organ,
Embedding hooks deep in my bones,
As the pain reached the farthest ends of me.
My wish: that the right combination of words
Could sever a scion of this piercing truth
And graft it onto someone else's heart.
So thank you, stranger,
For reading thousands of words
Of the only tale I care to tell,
My elegy for Izar Lizarraga,
Motocross legend,
Love of my life,
Who blazed through this world,
And burned away.
***
The night of April 27, 1999,
You parked in front of the candy shop.
Drenched under the torrential barrage,
We clambered off and removed our helmets.
The taste of rain mingled with your saliva
While the Aprilia's idling engine rattled
Like a hiker hopping from foot to foot,
Eager to move on.
We wished each other good night.
Thunder growled as you straddled
Your gleaming yellow-and-white bike.
You pulled on your helmet,
Gripped the handlebars,
And lifted the side stand with a kick,
When I shouted, burning my throat,
"Wait!"
Startled, you straightened up,
One foot planted on the sidewalk,
And turned the reflective visor toward me.
I ran to you and hugged you,
Pressing my cheek against the cold helmet.
"You don't intend to return home, do you?
Who would be so stupid to believe
That you'd go back to your father so soon?
I can't let you leave, Izar;
If I do, I'll regret it for the rest of my life.
Stay with me tonight."
I held your gloved hand
As you stumbled off the Aprilia.
You lifted the visor of your helmet,
Revealing large chocolate eyes
That reflected a shimmer of amber light.
Your brows were furrowed in concern.
From one nostril hung a bead of watery mucus.
"I'd much rather do that," you said,
"But your mother forbade me from coming back."
"I've taken enough shit from her.
She can suck it up."
You shook with silent laughter.
I opened the front door to the sight of my parents.
My mother scowled, deepening the lines of her face.
Beside the woman, two steps back, stood my father,
A bald, stooped, hesitant non-entity.
Upon noticing Izar, my mother's eyes widened.
She opened her mouth to scold me,
But I cut her off.
"Look at what her father has done."
I brushed away the damp strands of caramel hair
Clinging to the cheek that sported a bruise,
The mottled imprint of your father's hand.
"Izar can't go home tonight. It's not safe.
She'll stay with me, no matter what you say."
A glance at the bruise loosened my mother's brow.
You bowed your head.
"Sorry for bothering you.
I didn't intend to cause trouble."
My mother narrowed her eyes.
"You rode here through this downpour?
Girl, you don't have any common sense!"
"Sorry."
She tsked, then threw her hands up.
"You pair of idiots. Go take a warm shower.
No, take off your jackets and shoes first.
You're going to leave puddles all over the house.
My goodness, look at how soaked you are!
Do you want to catch pneumonia?"
As you and I padded hand in hand to the bathroom,
My mother turned to my father, seeking support,
But he shrugged and said,
"Let them be. They're in love."
Locked inside the bathroom,
We peeled each other's soaked clothes,
Then chucked them on the ceramic tiles,
Where they lay like beached jellyfish.
When you untied your ponytail,
The cascading hair stuck to your shoulders.
You rubbed your pruney fingertips.
"We might get sick for real," you said,
Then sniffled some leaking mucus back in.
I embraced you firmly,
Pressing your stiff nipples against my chest.
You shuddered once, then continued to tremble.
I whispered in your ear,
"My love, in case you have any doubts,
I'll run away with you."
You sighed, your breath warm on my neck,
And slid your hands down my back.
"Thank you."
As we melted into each other,
I caressed the contours of your skin,
The myriad details unique to you
That before you were born,
Hadn't existed in the universe,
And after you died, never would again.
Yes, Izar, I would accompany you,
Riding pillion, clinging to your waist,
Through the rush of wind and rain,
To witness the sights you longed to see,
To experience what it meant to live.
We would create a shared language,
Speak words that others would find insane,
And build our own space far away.
Nobody could compete with you,
The sole real person in the world.
As long as you were with me,
I was home.
THE END
---
Author's note: the last song is "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure.
You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.
---
On the afternoon of your death anniversary,
Hand in hand with my daughter,
My other hand holding a bouquet of red roses,
We arrived at the spot on the wooded lane
Where a grooved-bark, mature oak
Watched over your memorial stone,
Nestled in moss, twigs, and clover.
Mottled, watery sunlight bathed the stone
As if illuminating a sacred site.
The limestone or sandstone looked rough,
And had weathered over all these years.
Beneath the relief of a motocross rider,
A marble plaque bore the inscription,
"Izar Lizarraga Oyarbide (1981-1999).
She lived fast and died young,
But her light will shine forever."
My childhood sweetheart,
My restless wildfire.
I crouched in front of the stone
To deposit the bouquet at its base.
I pulled out a pack of wet wipes
And wiped away the dust and grime.
I scrubbed off a white splatter of bird droppings.
The murmur of families filtered through the trees.
A flock of sheep baahed from the nearby hill.
In the stone's relief, your helmeted figure
Clutched the bike's handlebars,
Head tilted forward in intense focus.
Every time I laid my eyes on this figure,
My breath caught, my throat clenched,
And I struggled to loosen the knot
Twisted inside my chest.
"How long ago was nineteen ninety-nine?"
My daughter's innocent voice asked.
After a pause, I said, "A long time ago."
"Was she a friend of yours?"
"Yes, the best one."
My daughter shifted her weight from foot to foot
As her attention drifted further down the lane.
I held her little hand tightly in mine,
And we stepped onto the sun-dappled sidewalk.
A familiar warmth built up behind my eyes:
Tears burning their way out.
The vision of a bumblebee weaving its waltz
Across clumps of yellow and white wildflowers
Became a watercolor blur.
Grief had ambushed me once again:
A monstrous hand reaching out of the deep
To grab me by the chest and drag me down.
I know it will remain my constant companion
For the rest of my days.
That week, I pondered why
I had brought my daughter to visit you.
I was terrified that, after my death,
Nobody who came across your name
Or gazed upon the memorial stone
Would understand what had been lost,
What you still mean to me.
I needed my child to be haunted by you,
To carry your spirit in her heart,
But I feared no amount of talk
Could transmit the depths of pain and love.
So, the memories of you would disappear,
Forgotten even by the spiders
That had built their webs within me.
One day, maybe not long from now,
After the kids we dragged into this world
Have freed themselves from their miserable parents
And claimed a home of their own,
I will lie in my deathbed alone,
Connected to beeping machines.
By then, you will feel like a sunken ship
Deep at the bottom of the sea.
Suddenly, I will breathe in a pungent odor of rust,
And from the center of my consciousness,
A sinkhole will open, a growing black hole.
As the edges of my self crumble and collapse,
Into that darkness, I will reach for your hand.
I doubt the value of words:
Pictures and music capture emotions better.
Yet, this old boy can only play with words,
And I've engaged in the game of pretending
That they can bridge the chasms between us.
For decades, a barbed pain has grown its tendrils
From the core of my heart throughout my body,
Creeping into every tissue and organ,
Embedding hooks deep in my bones,
As the pain reached the farthest ends of me.
My wish: that the right combination of words
Could sever a scion of this piercing truth
And graft it onto someone else's heart.
So thank you, stranger,
For reading thousands of words
Of the only tale I care to tell,
My elegy for Izar Lizarraga,
Motocross legend,
Love of my life,
Who blazed through this world,
And burned away.
***
The night of April 27, 1999,
You parked in front of the candy shop.
Drenched under the torrential barrage,
We clambered off and removed our helmets.
The taste of rain mingled with your saliva
While the Aprilia's idling engine rattled
Like a hiker hopping from foot to foot,
Eager to move on.
We wished each other good night.
Thunder growled as you straddled
Your gleaming yellow-and-white bike.
You pulled on your helmet,
Gripped the handlebars,
And lifted the side stand with a kick,
When I shouted, burning my throat,
"Wait!"
Startled, you straightened up,
One foot planted on the sidewalk,
And turned the reflective visor toward me.
I ran to you and hugged you,
Pressing my cheek against the cold helmet.
"You don't intend to return home, do you?
Who would be so stupid to believe
That you'd go back to your father so soon?
I can't let you leave, Izar;
If I do, I'll regret it for the rest of my life.
Stay with me tonight."
I held your gloved hand
As you stumbled off the Aprilia.
You lifted the visor of your helmet,
Revealing large chocolate eyes
That reflected a shimmer of amber light.
Your brows were furrowed in concern.
From one nostril hung a bead of watery mucus.
"I'd much rather do that," you said,
"But your mother forbade me from coming back."
"I've taken enough shit from her.
She can suck it up."
You shook with silent laughter.
I opened the front door to the sight of my parents.
My mother scowled, deepening the lines of her face.
Beside the woman, two steps back, stood my father,
A bald, stooped, hesitant non-entity.
Upon noticing Izar, my mother's eyes widened.
She opened her mouth to scold me,
But I cut her off.
"Look at what her father has done."
I brushed away the damp strands of caramel hair
Clinging to the cheek that sported a bruise,
The mottled imprint of your father's hand.
"Izar can't go home tonight. It's not safe.
She'll stay with me, no matter what you say."
A glance at the bruise loosened my mother's brow.
You bowed your head.
"Sorry for bothering you.
I didn't intend to cause trouble."
My mother narrowed her eyes.
"You rode here through this downpour?
Girl, you don't have any common sense!"
"Sorry."
She tsked, then threw her hands up.
"You pair of idiots. Go take a warm shower.
No, take off your jackets and shoes first.
You're going to leave puddles all over the house.
My goodness, look at how soaked you are!
Do you want to catch pneumonia?"
As you and I padded hand in hand to the bathroom,
My mother turned to my father, seeking support,
But he shrugged and said,
"Let them be. They're in love."
Locked inside the bathroom,
We peeled each other's soaked clothes,
Then chucked them on the ceramic tiles,
Where they lay like beached jellyfish.
When you untied your ponytail,
The cascading hair stuck to your shoulders.
You rubbed your pruney fingertips.
"We might get sick for real," you said,
Then sniffled some leaking mucus back in.
I embraced you firmly,
Pressing your stiff nipples against my chest.
You shuddered once, then continued to tremble.
I whispered in your ear,
"My love, in case you have any doubts,
I'll run away with you."
You sighed, your breath warm on my neck,
And slid your hands down my back.
"Thank you."
As we melted into each other,
I caressed the contours of your skin,
The myriad details unique to you
That before you were born,
Hadn't existed in the universe,
And after you died, never would again.
Yes, Izar, I would accompany you,
Riding pillion, clinging to your waist,
Through the rush of wind and rain,
To witness the sights you longed to see,
To experience what it meant to live.
We would create a shared language,
Speak words that others would find insane,
And build our own space far away.
Nobody could compete with you,
The sole real person in the world.
As long as you were with me,
I was home.
THE END
---
Author's note: the last song is "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure.
July 6, 2024
Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 19 (Poetry)
[check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better]
You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.
---
The eve of your death anniversary
Resurrected the old nightmare once more:
I was riding pillion, clinging to your waist,
While your Aprilia Red Rose growled
As it devoured the highway under its tires.
The rainfall hammering upon car roofs,
Drumming on our helmets,
Splashing against our drenched clothes,
Overwhelmed the steady roar of the engines.
The wind drove icy raindrops into my face.
The beam of your bike's headlamp
Sliced through the rain sheets,
Lighting the rear wheels of the truck in front,
That spat up trails of rainwater.
In the oncoming lane, twin beams appeared
And quickly expanded toward us,
Cutting luminous swaths across the blackness.
On my right, traffic signs, trees, buildings,
They all blurred into smudges,
And the sparse streetlamps revealed themselves
Like floating, shimmering haloes.
Lights glinted off the gleaming, mirrorlike tarmac
In ripples of red and blue-tinged white.
Above, lightning leaped from cloud to cloud,
Followed by grumbling thunderclaps.
In my embrace, your body trembled;
You were crying, or at least on the verge,
And you channeled that anguish
Igniting your steel beast's roar
With a wrench of the throttle.
My heart thrummed with dread.
The acceleration pressed against my bones,
Tightening my chest and freezing my breath.
Along with the golden tracers of streetlamps,
Oncoming vehicles whooshed past us.
Lighting the way ahead, we were falling headlong,
Whipping through the darkness like an arrow.
Teary-eyed from the sting of rain,
I raised my voice over the rushing wind,
Over the rumbling engines.
I shouted, I yelled, I gripped your sides tighter,
Imploring you to slow down.
As if you couldn't hear me, as if I wasn't there,
You revved the throttle further,
Making the speedometer needle climb sharply.
Your bike's chassis shuddered under the strain.
The raindrops felt like dozens of fingers
Poking my numb face to wake me up,
But you kept racing through the storm,
Maybe wishing to outrun yourself,
Outrun all the voices telling you to stop.
As we approached a curve, your Aprilia wobbled,
Its front wheel skidded on the rain-slick tarmac,
And the bike lurched sideways,
Flinging us off.
The color spectrum gleaming through the downpour
From headlights, tail lights, streetlamps, and lightning
Spun into a blur of light and dark
While my body flailed, limbs striking out,
Scraping against the road as I slid
With rainwater gushing over me.
The friction ripped through my clothing,
Seared my skin, and tore the flesh off my bones.
Screams lodged in my throat.
Your Aprilia Red Rose was flipping end-over-end,
Scattering pieces of its decimated bodywork.
My frantic gaze glimpsed flashes,
Illuminated by the headlights of passing cars,
Of your body cartwheeling uncontrollably.
A murky shape, the guardrail,
Rushed out of the rain-haze toward us
Like a reef thrusting from a savage ocean.
You smashed against the metal barrier,
Which launched you into the darkness.
I clenched my eyes shut, bracing for impact,
And awaited the final, wet crunch.
When I slammed into that guardrail,
A loud snap reverberated through my spine
In a starburst of pain.
The impact had squeezed my lungs,
Knocking the air out.
As I gasped, mouth agape,
A thunderous crash against the guardrail
Sent a shockwave through the cold steel,
Making me, slumped against it, shudder violently.
Fragments of the bike ricocheted off the barrier
And stung my arms and face like shrapnel.
The metallic clang lingered as a discordant ringing.
Your Aprilia lay on its side close by,
Gleaming darkly in muddy rainwater,
Its windscreen shattered,
Frame bent, chassis mangled,
Front wheel still spinning.
A rearview mirror dangled from its stem,
And reflected the electric clouds.
Fuel leaked out of the dented tank.
The headlamp's white beam,
Shining through the cracks in the lens,
Faltered, flickered, then faded away.
The ozone scent of the storm mingled
With the chemical smell of gasoline,
The burnt stench of grinding metal,
And the bitterness on my tongue.
A tingling white noise had spread
To the farthest reaches of my body,
And in the places that hadn't gone numb,
My shredded flesh screamed
In a fiery, knifelike pain.
Instead of writhing in the gutter
Like a crushed insect,
I would return to your side,
But when I tried to stand,
My limp legs refused to move.
I grabbed the cold, wet guardrail,
Then heaved myself over it.
I hit the grassy, upward slope chest-first,
And mud splattered on my face.
I crawled onward, clawing at the grass and soil,
Coating my hands with squelchy mud.
The relentless pounding of heavy rain
Along with the deep rumble of distant thunder
Isolated me in a cocoon of noise.
Every creep up the slope ripped me open with hurt.
In jagged gasps, I breathed razors.
Where are you, Izar? Where are you?
The blades of grass glistened
With a fresh spray of blood.
Silvery light from turning headlights
Swam in waves over a body splayed face up
Like a doll tossed in a tantrum.
Your drenched, ripped red jacket gleamed.
Gashes oozed through the torn jeans.
The crushed helmet still clung to your head.
Beside you, I pushed myself up onto my knees,
And lifted the cracked visor of your helmet.
Raindrops splattered in concentric circles
On the blood pooling within the face aperture.
I attempted to take your helmet off,
But your neck strained, its muscles taut,
As if your head might snap off.
You couldn't breathe.
"Stay with me, Izar. Don't leave me, please."
When I scooped blood out of the hole,
My fingers didn't graze your face.
I sank my hand up to my wrist, to the elbow,
But I couldn't reach you.
I woke up with a start, drenched in sweat,
Gasping for breath, clutching at my throat.
My fingers are calloused
From decades of clawing
At the dark soil of this world
To drag myself back to you.
---
Author's note: the song for today is "I Lost You" by The Walkmen.
The next part will conclude this story.
You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.
---
The eve of your death anniversary
Resurrected the old nightmare once more:
I was riding pillion, clinging to your waist,
While your Aprilia Red Rose growled
As it devoured the highway under its tires.
The rainfall hammering upon car roofs,
Drumming on our helmets,
Splashing against our drenched clothes,
Overwhelmed the steady roar of the engines.
The wind drove icy raindrops into my face.
The beam of your bike's headlamp
Sliced through the rain sheets,
Lighting the rear wheels of the truck in front,
That spat up trails of rainwater.
In the oncoming lane, twin beams appeared
And quickly expanded toward us,
Cutting luminous swaths across the blackness.
On my right, traffic signs, trees, buildings,
They all blurred into smudges,
And the sparse streetlamps revealed themselves
Like floating, shimmering haloes.
Lights glinted off the gleaming, mirrorlike tarmac
In ripples of red and blue-tinged white.
Above, lightning leaped from cloud to cloud,
Followed by grumbling thunderclaps.
In my embrace, your body trembled;
You were crying, or at least on the verge,
And you channeled that anguish
Igniting your steel beast's roar
With a wrench of the throttle.
My heart thrummed with dread.
The acceleration pressed against my bones,
Tightening my chest and freezing my breath.
Along with the golden tracers of streetlamps,
Oncoming vehicles whooshed past us.
Lighting the way ahead, we were falling headlong,
Whipping through the darkness like an arrow.
Teary-eyed from the sting of rain,
I raised my voice over the rushing wind,
Over the rumbling engines.
I shouted, I yelled, I gripped your sides tighter,
Imploring you to slow down.
As if you couldn't hear me, as if I wasn't there,
You revved the throttle further,
Making the speedometer needle climb sharply.
Your bike's chassis shuddered under the strain.
The raindrops felt like dozens of fingers
Poking my numb face to wake me up,
But you kept racing through the storm,
Maybe wishing to outrun yourself,
Outrun all the voices telling you to stop.
As we approached a curve, your Aprilia wobbled,
Its front wheel skidded on the rain-slick tarmac,
And the bike lurched sideways,
Flinging us off.
The color spectrum gleaming through the downpour
From headlights, tail lights, streetlamps, and lightning
Spun into a blur of light and dark
While my body flailed, limbs striking out,
Scraping against the road as I slid
With rainwater gushing over me.
The friction ripped through my clothing,
Seared my skin, and tore the flesh off my bones.
Screams lodged in my throat.
Your Aprilia Red Rose was flipping end-over-end,
Scattering pieces of its decimated bodywork.
My frantic gaze glimpsed flashes,
Illuminated by the headlights of passing cars,
Of your body cartwheeling uncontrollably.
A murky shape, the guardrail,
Rushed out of the rain-haze toward us
Like a reef thrusting from a savage ocean.
You smashed against the metal barrier,
Which launched you into the darkness.
I clenched my eyes shut, bracing for impact,
And awaited the final, wet crunch.
When I slammed into that guardrail,
A loud snap reverberated through my spine
In a starburst of pain.
The impact had squeezed my lungs,
Knocking the air out.
As I gasped, mouth agape,
A thunderous crash against the guardrail
Sent a shockwave through the cold steel,
Making me, slumped against it, shudder violently.
Fragments of the bike ricocheted off the barrier
And stung my arms and face like shrapnel.
The metallic clang lingered as a discordant ringing.
Your Aprilia lay on its side close by,
Gleaming darkly in muddy rainwater,
Its windscreen shattered,
Frame bent, chassis mangled,
Front wheel still spinning.
A rearview mirror dangled from its stem,
And reflected the electric clouds.
Fuel leaked out of the dented tank.
The headlamp's white beam,
Shining through the cracks in the lens,
Faltered, flickered, then faded away.
The ozone scent of the storm mingled
With the chemical smell of gasoline,
The burnt stench of grinding metal,
And the bitterness on my tongue.
A tingling white noise had spread
To the farthest reaches of my body,
And in the places that hadn't gone numb,
My shredded flesh screamed
In a fiery, knifelike pain.
Instead of writhing in the gutter
Like a crushed insect,
I would return to your side,
But when I tried to stand,
My limp legs refused to move.
I grabbed the cold, wet guardrail,
Then heaved myself over it.
I hit the grassy, upward slope chest-first,
And mud splattered on my face.
I crawled onward, clawing at the grass and soil,
Coating my hands with squelchy mud.
The relentless pounding of heavy rain
Along with the deep rumble of distant thunder
Isolated me in a cocoon of noise.
Every creep up the slope ripped me open with hurt.
In jagged gasps, I breathed razors.
Where are you, Izar? Where are you?
The blades of grass glistened
With a fresh spray of blood.
Silvery light from turning headlights
Swam in waves over a body splayed face up
Like a doll tossed in a tantrum.
Your drenched, ripped red jacket gleamed.
Gashes oozed through the torn jeans.
The crushed helmet still clung to your head.
Beside you, I pushed myself up onto my knees,
And lifted the cracked visor of your helmet.
Raindrops splattered in concentric circles
On the blood pooling within the face aperture.
I attempted to take your helmet off,
But your neck strained, its muscles taut,
As if your head might snap off.
You couldn't breathe.
"Stay with me, Izar. Don't leave me, please."
When I scooped blood out of the hole,
My fingers didn't graze your face.
I sank my hand up to my wrist, to the elbow,
But I couldn't reach you.
I woke up with a start, drenched in sweat,
Gasping for breath, clutching at my throat.
My fingers are calloused
From decades of clawing
At the dark soil of this world
To drag myself back to you.
---
Author's note: the song for today is "I Lost You" by The Walkmen.
The next part will conclude this story.
July 5, 2024
On audio mastering #2
Last month I wrote a post about the art of mastering a song by adjusting its frequency bands through carefully analyzing the spectrogram, something I had never bothered to figure out before. Here’s that post.
Although I haven’t produced any new songs with Udio, because I’m trying to finish a novella I’ve been working on for seven goddamn months, I’m halfway through remastering the third volume of Odes to My Triceratops, which are a bunch of concept albums about a triceratops. I’ve changed how I master audio in subtle but powerful ways, so read on if you give a shit about this stuff.
[check out the rest of this lengthy post on my personal page, where it looks better. This also helps bring traffic to my site so I will feel slightly better for a moment when I check out my stats]
Although I haven’t produced any new songs with Udio, because I’m trying to finish a novella I’ve been working on for seven goddamn months, I’m halfway through remastering the third volume of Odes to My Triceratops, which are a bunch of concept albums about a triceratops. I’ve changed how I master audio in subtle but powerful ways, so read on if you give a shit about this stuff.
[check out the rest of this lengthy post on my personal page, where it looks better. This also helps bring traffic to my site so I will feel slightly better for a moment when I check out my stats]
