Jon Ureña's Blog, page 20

Release of album Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 2

Back in 2021, during a blessed period of unemployment, I wrote the strange tale of amateur songwriter William Griffin, his love interest slash next-door neighbor Claire Javernick, and their pal Lorenzo, who is inexplicably a sentient triceratops. They spent their growing years in a nowhere-town that William can’t imagine ever leaving. Through this project of producing the songs contained in that story by exploiting the revolutionary AI service Udio, I had to rewrite plenty of songs or even ditch them altogether, but I felt that at the core was a poignant tale of a passionate if misguided young man too raw for this broken world.

In this volume of the four that will contain his story, the trio have left behind their tween years, and are now full-blown hormonal teenagers. Expect rage, rebellion, sexual urges, weird cravings, and a twist toward the end that will constitute the turning point of William’s story.

A 34-song, two hours-long wild ride of an album, one of my favorite creations. I know some of you have downloaded individual songs belonging to this album before (it appears in the stats), but I urge you to download the whole thing anyway, because I’ve tinkered with the sound levels, and fixed minor other stuff.

[follow this link to download the album and listen to three of the included songs]

Life update (05/28/2024)

[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]

I’ve been quite busy this month. Regarding the responsibilities that add money to my bank account, I’m heading a project to replace hundreds of printers in the hospital complex where I work, and that’s on top of my usual tasks as a computer technician. For the first time in my life, I’m in charge of two subordinates. Of course, I don’t want to be involved with any of it, but I haven’t managed to land a better job. Anyway, I like the printer technicians just fine. Most interesting detail for me: the last name of one of them is Lorenzo; one of those coincidences that have happened often with my creative projects. If the name Lorenzo doesn’t mean anything to you, you must not have been listening to my songs. I’ve used and listened to that name an unhealthy amount of times ever since I started producing songs with Udio.

In my spare time, I’m either working on my ongoing novella Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, that unfortunately very few people seem to like, or else producing songs thanks to the aforementioned revolutionary AI service Udio. I’ve loved creating songs through it from the very first beta, that offered you 33 seconds-long chunks of music that you had to either accept or discard; I recall the frustration of loving a part of a segment, only to want to curse at the AI because it blurted out gibberish at some part of it. However, ever since they included the ability to trim and inpaint, I’ve worked with my characteristic obsessiveness at every damn detail of them to ensure that the songs end up 99% like I wanted them. You should see the list of functional tags I’ve collected, including myriad genres and subgenres I didn’t even know existed. I’ve done more research into music this month that I’ve done about any subject in recent memory, even for my stories. I’ve wanted to create songs ever since I was a child, but I only know how to play the guitar. I also dislike dealing with human beings, so involving actual musicians in my musical endeavors was out of the question. AI is a godsend in that regard, and it seems that people are enjoying plenty of my songs as well.

I’m one of those people that can barely spend an hour at work without thinking, “I could be working on my stories or songs, which provide meaning not only for me but for others, but instead I’m wasting my limited lifespan trying to fix computer issues and dealing with annoying users.” It’s such a shame that the stuff I was born to do can’t be monetized (I have the completely wrong background and opinions for any publisher to accept my stuff these days, even if they found my stories palatable to begin with). I also hate networking, as part of my general aversion to humans, so my blog has barely grown in years. It always baffles me when I notice WordPress blogs that post less than me, and usually far less let’s say elaborate material, only for them to have thousands, or even tens of thousands of followers. What gives?

Being busy also distracts me from how horrid the world is. Wars aside, Europe is going down the toilet, the people who could do something significant about it either get fined, jailed, and/or shot, and we’re heading for Plandemic 2.0: Bird Flu Edition, no doubt as manufactured through gain-of-function research as the other one was. That’s what happens when you don’t hang people responsible for killing millions, they’re bound to try it again.

I wrote a whole paragraph about this insanity, but I deleted it, because ultimately who the fuck cares about what I have to say about it. I’m at work right now, handling three things at once, and I should focus on that stuff. Bye until whenever.

Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 16 (Poetry)

Check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better

You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.

---

For days, I slipped in and out of lucidity.
I recall flashes of the waste collection center,
Of standing in the nearby landfills I had located,
Immersed in the stench of rotting organic matter.
I pleaded with employees wearing hard hats
And bright, reflective vests,
Begging them to let me access the collected trash.
I struggled to understand their replies;
My fogged mind registered their words as noise
Mingled with the caws of scavenging birds
And the sporadic rumble and beeps
Of lumbering trucks as they unloaded debris.

I wanted to collapse at the sight of endless trash:
Humanity unmasked as a blight upon nature.
I was tainted, a corrupting force spreading rot
To everything I needed to protect.

Workers denied my requests, citing policy,
But an employee in her fifties must have pitied me,
Because she allowed me to realize for myself
In the volume of compacted refuse
That my mementos of you no longer existed.

I dreamt you were calling me on a psychic link,
Begging me to find you
As a hill of trash slowly crushed you,
Suffocated you.
I heard your ribcage creaking, ready to collapse.

I dreamt of a colossal trash truck
Whose jagged teeth, like a predator's jaws,
Closed around your body, pulverizing you
In a deafening cacophony of screeching metal
And the dull pop of bones breaking.
As you struggled against the mechanical jaws,
Leaking tears, mucus, and blood,
Your wide, terrified eyes met mine.
I heard your anguished voice, accusing,
"You knew how this would end.
Why didn't you save me?"

On the couch where I slept, I awoke in a cold sweat,
Heart hammering, tears streaming down my face.
I thought I had survived the worst of my grief,
But it hadn't immunized me against its return.

I took a medical leave from work that nearly got me fired,
And I spent those days encased in lead.
Among my family, I roamed like a black, silent fire,
So unhinged that my wife didn't dare to chastise me.

At night, as my family slept, I stared into the darkness.
I listened to the whoosh of blood in my veins,
Life churning onward like the filthy waves
Of a sewer canal clogged with decaying memories.

Izar, two decades had passed since you died,
So why did your absence pulsate in my brain
Like the pain of a needle embedded deep?
Why did every hour still remind me
That you were no longer here to hold my hand?
I would never again talk with you,
Lean into you, breathe you in.
A crash against a guardrail had killed you,
The consequence of your choice to live dangerously.
I would never know if you'd have grown bored of me,
If our love would have faded or endured.

Once I clawed my way out of the black pit
And I recognized my wife as a human being again,
Every glance at her made me grimace.
I lived with a criminal that had escaped punishment
On account of our children's well-being,
And we interacted like snakes
Forced to share a cramped vivarium.

I yearned to listen to your voice damn near daily,
And when I thought of those treasured tapes
That had contained our mock radio shows,
I couldn't trust myself to stay in my wife's presence.
But the loss of those recordings, I could have prevented it;
I knew that magnetic tapes degrade,
That oxygen was eating away at our young voices.
Although I had planned to digitize them,
I had kept postponing the task,
Thinking there would be another day.

Whenever I could, for sanity's sake,
I escaped my home
And took long walks along the wooded lane
Where your memorial stone stands.
That narrow, mossy path ran parallel to the road,
Bordered by yellow-green grasses and leaves.
The sunlight streamed through skeletal branches
Stark against the background of rolling hills.
The breeze tickled my nose with the scents
Of moist soil, decaying vegetation, and pastures,
And the silence was interrupted only
By birdsong,
The breeze rustling leaves,
The bleating of grazing sheep,
And the sporadic whoosh of a passing vehicle.
In my mind, I spoke to you,
Recounting everyday moments from my kids' lives,
Seeking your opinion on how to parent them
So they wouldn't grow up bitter and miserable.

I had gone to check on our toddler,
And found my wife kneeling in the living room
In front of the coffee table and a cup,
As she wrote on a pocket notebook.
Beside her, our daughter babbled to a doll.
Standing still, I observed them
As if through an exhibit glass.
Our daughter approached the table
To mess around with the cup of coffee.
By the time my wife noticed,
The drink had already spilled.
"Look what you did!" she snapped.
Once our toddler returned her attention to the doll,
My wife hunched over, her shoulders shaking,
And she covered her face with both hands.

The thought of consoling her crossed my mind.
I should at least have taken our daughter away.
But I didn't want to deal with human beings,
With their demands and expectations I couldn't meet,
With their vindictiveness and their calculated cruelty.
Instead, I crept to the bathroom as quietly as possible,
Where I let the roar of water from the shower drown out
The world's meaningless noise.

During my solitary walks,
I replayed our pretend radio shows in my head,
Recalling our repartee as if it were song lyrics,
But with age and the limitations of my brain,
I encountered gaps in my memory
Where I questioned if I was inventing your lines.

I adopted the habit of sitting on a bench
Opposite a slope tangled with brambles
To transcribe the echoes of our teenage voices,
Haunted by the need to immortalize you
In this universe that insisted on erasing you.

Once I ran out of the words we had shared,
I wrote letters to you,
Elaborating on my impressions and pains.
From those days onward,
My notebooks became like dumpsters
In the grimy alleyway behind a busy restaurant,
Waiting to receive the daily effluvia of my mind.

We took the kids on a family outing
To a destination my wife had picked:
Mount Arburu.
The cool air carried the scent of pine trees.
I found myself staring at a view
That you and I had relished:
The rising, rounded peaks of Aiako Harria,
Rugged and patched with dense forest.
Gray clouds tended a titanic shadow
Over my sprawling hometown of Irún,
Extending to Hondarribia and the Txingudi Bay.

Two decades ago, I sat pillion on your Suzuki RM125,
My arms wrapped tightly around your waist,
The bike rumbling through my bones,
As you slalomed between the thorny shrubs
Scattered across this slope,
And flung joyful laughs to the wind.
Unhindered, nature cares little for two decades;
Here, only the unbreachable wall of time
Separated me from riding with you again.

I dreamt you and I held a funeral
For your wrecked Aprilia Red Rose.
We laid the mechanical beast to rest
Wrapped in bandages and duct tape,
On a bed of dead grass and dried leaves.
With our hands clutched in grief,
You wearing your motorcycle helmet,
We knelt and prayed before the bike,
Murmuring the kind of heartfelt goodbye
Reserved for lost loved ones.

At the front door of our apartment,
I was shrugging into my coat
When I felt a gaze on my face.
My wife, seated on the sofa, was leaning forward,
Wearing a loose blouse that exposed her breasts
To the hungry tug of gravity.
From the cigarette pinched between two fingers,
A thin ribbon of smoke swirled upward.

How many times had I envisioned confrontations
In which my wife's mouth would spill venom,
Recriminating every aspect of our marriage?
I imagined her calling me a selfish asshole,
And I shot back, labeling her a heartless psychopath
That had enjoyed destroying my mementos of you
While knowing how much they meant to me.

But my wife's gaze was tender,
Her eyebrows raised in the middle.
"The dead, they no longer love us,
And they certainly don't suffer.
They don't regret the lost opportunity
To spend more time together.
From what you shared about her,
She would have been horrified
By how much she ruined your life."

I fumbled for words to refute her,
But my throat had constricted.
My eyes welled up.
In a daze, I swung open the door
And hurried down the stairs.

---

Author's note: the songs for today are "Should Have Known Better" and "The Only Thing," both by Sufjan Stevens, and "Like a Stone" by Audioslave.

Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 15 (Poetry)

Check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better

You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.

---

In the chiaroscuro of the ultrasound image,
The thick, dark uterine wall encircled life within:
An oval head attached to a bean-shaped torso.
The fetus rocked softly, suspended in space-time,
Untouched by the chaos of the outside world.

In the shadowed profile of its face,
Gentle rises hinted at the forming eyes,
A nose, a budding mouth.
Trailing from the head, a line of vertebrae
Resembled a delicate string of pearls.
Under the insistent thump-thumping
That pulsed through the amniotic fluid,
A certainty branded itself on my mind:
This is my daughter.

I hovered near the ceiling of a delivery room,
Watching like a detached stranger
My wife's sweat-sheened face,
Hair plastered to her clammy forehead,
Her chapped lips bared in a grimace.
From between the former lawyer's thighs,
A midwife coaxed out our bloody offspring,
The seed that had germinated
From a lump of cells into a human
Destined one day to venture beyond my reach.

I paced our postnatal room
While I supported my daughter's head.
A pink blanket swaddled her snugly.
Her skin, fresh off the factory,
Blazed with a rosy tint.
She smelled powdery and pure.
This baby resembled you, Izar:
She inherited your caramel-colored hair,
Your chocolate eyes, your carefree smile
That lightened the weight of the world.
Life still contained wondrous surprises.

In the master bedroom, while our baby slumbered,
I was drinking the sight of her flawless skin
When my aging brain craved the drug of pain.
I needed to stray out of this mundane refuge
Into the infinite darkness,
So I could resume speaking with the dead.
I slid the wardrobe door open,
Its rollers grinding against the track,
But the garments whose hems once draped
Over the moving box holding your remains
Now hung unimpeded.

I shifted aside T-shirts, shirts, and sweaters,
And found myself staring at an empty corner.

Could I have heaved the box out
Only to forget to put it back?
No, not once in all these years.
Frantically, I rummaged through the items
That could hide a moving box:
Unused bags, backpacks, travel suitcases.
I emptied the upper shelves,
Tossing aside old blankets and extra pillows.

I found my wife on the balcony,
Seated on a bistro-style chair,
Scrolling through her smartphone,
And taking a drag from her cigarette.
"Where is she?" I demanded to know.
Instead of chewing me out for my tone,
She kept her gaze glued to the screen.
The dying sun tinted her smoke blood-orange.
"Where's who?" she asked dryly.
"You know well what I mean."
"I don't."
My heartbeat rammed my ribcage.
"The box."
"Box, what box."
"The box containing what's left of Izar.
The box you kept complaining about,
Arguing that it took up too much space.
The box you clearly hated.
Where the fuck is it?"

After my wife confessed,
The Earth halted its spin.
The distorted echoes of her voice
Resonated through my mind's cavern:
"I dumped it all in the trash."

Panic burrowed into my brain and bones.
I rushed out of the apartment,
Down the stairs onto the street,
And straight to the array of recycling bins.
No traces of you among the discarded:
A worn-out stool, a broken microwave,
And disassembled furniture.
The stench of rotting organic waste mingled
With the scents of hot dust and cardboard,
And the bins' heavy lids clanked loud,
As I peered again and again into the gloom,
Desperatedly searching for a tape or a photograph.

"It's useless," my wife said.
She stood with her arms crossed,
But when our gazes met, hers flinched.
She spoke again, her voice wavering.
"I did it two days ago."

Sharp pangs struck my racing heart,
And spread along my veins and arteries.
I staggered away from the recycling bins
As I struggled to breathe.

My wife's caustic tone poured on my wounds.
"You're not bringing that girl back to life.
You should have gotten rid of her stuff years ago
And allowed yourself to move on,
But it seems you derive sick pleasure
From self-flagellation.
It's time to stop living in the past.
Focus on what truly matters, what's real:
Your wife, your son, and your baby daughter.
I won't stand by and watch you neglect us."

My last vestiges of you, my Izar,
Still carrying the scent of a fallen star:
Figurines, comic strips I drew for you,
Handwritten letters, your motorcycle gloves,
Photographs, cassette tapes with our shows,
A T-shirt stained dark with your blood,
Teeth, bone shards, scraps of flesh,
Your foot severed at the ankle.

I would never hear your laughter again.

A silent bomb had exploded inside me,
Hollowing out a vast space in my core.
My knees hit the grimy pavement.
I clawed at my scalp as spasms rocked me.
"You're gone," my mind repeated again and again,
An alarm blaring against the bruised gray matter
Of a broken brain.

I don't know how long it took
For me to hoist myself up,
Soaked through with cold sweat,
But now, a riot raged in my skull,
A cacophony of furious voices.
At the doorway of the nearby estate agent,
Next to its window flaunting dreams of elsewhere,
A young woman's brow furrowed with concern.
Other stares pierced the back of my head;
In front of the mechanic shop,
Beside a car with its hood raised,
Two grease-stained men gawked at me,
The stranger unraveling in public.

If I abandoned my wife like she deserved,
I wouldn't just break my son's heart,
But also rob my baby daughter of a father.

Tears traced paths down my wife's cheeks,
Leaving shimmering trails.
She controlled her outburst of genuine emotion
Behind the taut muscles of her face.
That glare alone was a silent rebuke
For managing to wring tears from her,
But I didn't give a shit;
Whatever goodwill I had accumulated
Over years of a weary coexistence
Had switched off in an instant.
I wished I had never met her.

Despite my wife's cracking voice,
Her words tore through the air like daggers.
"You've grieved for her longer than she even lived.
From the moment you first told me about that girl,
I knew I wasn't the one you truly loved,
But I stupidly hoped I would be enough.
After all, I'm the one who stuck around,
Who gave birth to your children.
No matter how hard I tried to make you happy,
Nothing ever pleased you.
It's always been about Izar, Izar, Izar,
That immature, reckless brat
With no care for the future,
Driven only by selfish whims.
You know it was the bitch's own fault,
Speeding through the rain.
If she hadn't gotten on that bike,
She'd still be alive,
Bumming off some poor sap,
And you'd have forgotten her by now."

My body had flash-cooled
As if dunked in a tank of liquid nitrogen.
I struggled to process my wife's words,
To believe she had uttered them.
I saw myself grabbing the abandoned stool,
And swinging it down on her forehead.
I pictured the shock in her eyes,
But before she could defend herself,
Before any onlooker could intervene,
Her skull would have cracked open,
Spraying splatters of blood and cerebral tissue.
Then I would have run, run, run away,
Fleeing from this rotten city to the nearest highway,
Where some truck wouldn't slow down in time.

But no remnant of you existed anymore
Except in the molecules of my brain.

---

Author's note: today's song is "Shine a Light" by Spiritualized.

Life update (04/27/2024)

Check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better

---

As of today, I'm thirty-nine years old. Most people out there seem to want to celebrate their birthdays, but I don't: every passing year, I feel increasingly worse regarding my age. In a very real way, mainly due to my neurological handicaps, I doubt I have aged much mentally and emotionally beyond eighteen years old. I didn't expect to live past that age either. But I find myself as a middle-aged person who others have unironically referred to as a "gentleman."

I have felt sick for the last two or three days, as if I've been beaten up, but I can't tell if I have caught something or it's just the mounting stress. Apart from issues at work that refuse to get permanently solved and that keep me dreading the next time some issue will pop up, one I will have to figure out how to solve, I have been put in charge of the maddening task of having to replace about 960 printers in the whole hospital complex. This happens every four years or so due to the contract that our health organization has with the company that supplied the printers. The last time one of our technicians was put in charge of it, he looked miserable every single day, and by the end he refused to continue working as a technician for the hospital, choosing instead to do administrative work somewhere else. I don't even have that choice, as I can't speak Basque.

A few days ago, my boss and I received the delivery driver who was supposed to bring the first batch of printers. The company, instead of hiring a regular van dude, sent a truck driver. He barely filled one-fourth of his trailer with our hundred printers, and his gigantic vehicle struggled to maneuver through the inner roads of the hospital complex. We ended up blocking traffic for a while as we hurried to unload the pallets of printers and guide them through the corridors and elevators to the second story of a nearby building, to put them in storage. Turns out that the stacks of printers didn't fit through some doors, so we found ourselves having to dismantle the stacks and remove the printers one by one. As someone with a heart condition, this isn't something I should be involved in, but someone had to do it.

So, starting from this Monday, I'll find myself, an autistic man who can barely tolerate interacting with human beings, in charge of two younger technicians to coordinate going from department to department convincing the users to let us replace their printers. And because human beings are exasperating like that, I'll have to deal, as I've had to already, with the usual, "If you're changing the printer, why don't you put a color printer instead?" and "Now that you're here, you should solve this other issue I have as well." Some users engage you in conversation because that's what they'd rather do other than work. The more I deal with human beings, the more I'd rather live in the middle of nowhere, growing and raising my own food.

I daydream often about vanishing from the memories of everyone who has ever known me, and for situations in which I've been involved to get magically reorganized so that I wasn't present. It would be such a relief if nobody knew I exist, if I could just drift from place to place anonymously. Nobody would demand from me more than I can give. In such daydreams, however, I tend to end up shacking up with some wealthy mommy type who'd take care of everything in exchange of regular intimacy. As a thirty-nine-year-old man, such a woman would be a bit younger than me, but in my daydreams I'm younger as well.

What else can I say? I may be depressed at the moment. I've been begging the spider goddess to let me die already, but I suppose I have stuff left to create. Other than being left alone, losing myself in creative endeavours has been my main need in this stupid life. I can't produce songs for a while, because I hit the monthly output limit, but I have progressed a bit more on my novella about a long-dead aspiring motocross rider, a story that apparently nobody likes.

Anyway, I'll have to keep my head up and force my aging body to perform what's required of me.

Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 14 (Poetry)

Check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better

If you haven’t read all the previous parts or you don’t remember them well, I urge you to read this novella from the beginning (link here).

---

My wife unclasped her bra and peeled it off.
Her twin globes of fatty tissue
Draped, swayed, and settled.
My mouth watered and my crotch tingled
With the beastly urge to grab that flesh,
Making it spill through my parted fingers.
I needed to feel those nipples hardening
Under the swirling tip of my tongue.

My intense gaze met my wife's,
That narrowed in anticipation
Of another verbal brawl.
Her guarded posture loosened.
"See, you can still lust.
You're not a zombie after all."
As she tugged down her panties,
Her silken curls flashed a glimpse
Of her slit's pink promise.

Although we resented each other,
We both needed to escape
From our exhausting existence.
Naked save for our wedding rings,
We immersed ourselves in carnal delights
To drown our frustrations,
Exploiting the mechanisms crafted by nature
To convince its slaves wordlessly,
From humans to the most cretinous creatures,
That their lives should revolve around sex,
Sex, and more sex, lest the species perish.

Instead of making love,
We tangled, grappled, and clawed
Like starved dogs devouring a meal,
Both reduced to incoherent strings
Of grunts, gasps, and cusswords.
Flesh smacking against flesh,
Neck biting, hair pulling,
Nails raking across my back,
A hand tightening around her throat.

Once we achieved our release,
We lay on fevered, rumpled sheets
Coated in the sour smell of sweat.
My mind was bleached blank.
As my wife drew deeply on a cigarette,
I surrendered to the afterglow,
Letting it slide me into sleep.

My wife suggested a family outing
To a self-serve Chinese buffet in Oiartzun,
On a whim, I thought, without ulterior motives.
The chilled air around the food counters
Smelled of herbs and spices from meat marinades,
Complemented by the briny scent of fresh seafood.

Amidst the din of hungry patrons' conversations
And a pop tune piping through speakers,
I fished my meal out of gastronorm containers:
Skewered meats coated with a paprika marinade,
Slices of pink chicken, fatty cuts of beef,
Squid with their tentacles entwined.

Life itself dished out pain like a relentless rain,
So we drugged ourselves with our bodies' rewards
For stuffing nutrients into our gullets,
And yielding to the innate urge to procreate.

As my son poured soy sauce over his sushi,
My wife rested her elbows on the table.
"Haven't you two wondered why we're here?"
My son and I, both chewing, glanced at each other.
She smiled, and pointed at him with chopsticks.
"Little man, you're gonna become a big brother."

I choked on a bolus of beef,
And gulped water until I stopped coughing.
While my eyes had teared up,
Hers, hard chunks of obsidian,
Drilled into me expectantly.

I always made sure to wrap it up,
Leaving the slim chance of an accident,
Or the prick of a needle.
Regardless, my wife's aging womb held within
A new life destined for this ruined world.

"I-Is it a boy or a girl?" my son asked.
"Too early to tell."
"So, like, I'll have to share my room?"
"We'll see. Dad, any thoughts?
Are you going to congratulate us?"
I stared back in stunned disbelief
As cold panic bubbled in my bowels.
She pinched a rice ball with her chopsticks.
"I'm keeping the baby.
You can either stick around or leave."

---

Author's note: today's song is "Angel" by Massive Attack.

In case you have missed this story (although I doubt many are reading it), you may have noticed that I've been busy making songs. As an obsessive, single-minded maniac, once I sink my claws into something, it's very hard for me to focus on anything else, even my own survival. However, I've made sure to progress daily on the story, and I fully intend to finish it. Besides, the AI service that allows me to produce studio-quality songs has a monthly limit that I'm about to hit, so I'll have no choice but to return to writing fulltime something other than silly songs.

Song "Afraid of His Dick" from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 2

In case you don’t know, I recently released an album (of actual songs) named Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 1, based on the nowhere-town adventures of amateur songwriter William Griffin, his blind love interest Claire Javernick, and his best friend the sentient triceratops Lorenzo (no last name), back when they were 12-14 years old. You can download that album here.

The following song, aptly named “Afraid of His Dick,” is currently the twelfth song on the second album, and it captures the growing anxieties between the trio of youngsters, who are a bit off their rocker. Perhaps the most chaotic song I’ve done so far.

[you can listen to the song on my site]

Song "I'm Cactus" from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 1

In case you don’t know, I recently released an album (of actual songs) named Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 1, based on the nowhere-town adventures of amateur songwriter William Griffin, his blind love interest Claire Javernick, and his best friend the sentient triceratops Lorenzo (no last name), back when they were 12-14 years old. You can download that album here.

The following song, that will be included in the next release of the first album, delves into young William’s private struggles.

[visit my site if you want to listen to the song]

Song "Tricera Girl" from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 1

In case you don’t know, I recently released an album (of actual songs) named Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 1, based on the nowhere-town adventures of amateur songwriter William Griffin, his blind love interest Claire Javernick, and his best friend the sentient triceratops Lorenzo (no last name), back when they were 12-14 years old. You can download that album here.

These last few days, I’ve been relistening to my AI-generated songs almost exclusively, in the album’s order (both the first and the unreleased second one). In the first album, I noticed myself skipping certain songs. No reason to include in an album songs that I’d want to skip over, so I’m considering redoing some songs and moving others to a B-sides album thingy. In addition, I’ve written a couple of new songs for the first album, that I will include in a future re-release (one of a few, I’m guessing).

Anyway, here’s the sole song I’ve managed to produce today, titled “Tricera Girl.” It renders William’s infatuation with his next-door neighbor shortly after meeting her. I think it came out very well.

[link to my site's post where you can listen to the song]

Song "Odd Paradox" from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 2

In case you don’t know, I recently released an album (of actual songs) named Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 1, based on the nowhere-town adventures of amateur songwriter William Griffin, his blind love interest Claire Javernick, and his best friend the sentient triceratops Lorenzo (no last name), back when they were 12-14 years old. You can download that album here.

Here’s one of the three songs I produced this afternoon. This one depicts the growing distance between William and his childhood triceratops pal. They find themselves wanting incompatible things out of life as they grow up in their small, nowhere town.

[check out the song on my site]