It was the end of us, I knew. End of the band; start of an 8-5 or 9-5 job under a boss who cared not one lick about music or its benefits to society. Creativity *murdered*. 666. How to avoid?
—–
“That’s really beautiful, Frank. Spongeberg #5, you say?”
“Fresh off the printer and into our home. Middle C middle C middle C,” he chants, a thing that got him through the ultra-complex piece. He had to remember that the composer had a plan, an endpoint. Wasn’t writing down notes by the seat of his pants. I heard recently that creativity without outline is just noise. Planners not Panters, at least for the chromagraphs. Spongeberg had the process down.
Everyone seemed to be enjoying it! Wall to wall fun for the 12, 13, 14 people who attended (pheh).
—–
The manager shows up with his wad of empty Money, choice looming. Keep living day to day, meal to meal, bill to unpaid bill, or escape the threat of abject poverty to enjoy the benefits of health insurance, college ed for the kids, so on? He hands me his card (see top).
Sunklands 