This morning, I awoke and could not speak. My throat does not hurt, but my voice is afflicted nonetheless. This condition is most probably derived from my excess in singing recently. Especially yesterday. When I am home alone in the morning, I usually spend my time of solitude playing guitar and singing unrestricted. It's one of my favorite pastimes. I used to be a really shy singer, but recently I've begun to sing in front of friends and feel comfortable with it. I still do not sing around my family, though.

Now to my main topic of cogitation: Speech, or the lack thereof. It is a very useful tool of communication, and undoubtedly one of the most significant factors in the intelligent progress of the human race. Recently, however, I have come to question speech in relation to more subtle forms of communication. Eye contact, for example, is very indicative of context when paired with speech; on its own, its effects seem amplified. Sharing silent eye contact with someone seems to enable the individuals to read thoughts and reveal emotions.

Returning to music, the human voice on its own can be seen as an instrument. Of course, most people are used to hearing lyrics sung, but is this really necessary? Sigur Rós, an Icelandic band, developed the idea of pure vocals without lyrics. The Sigur Rós website explains it like this:

on the first three albums (von, von brigði, ágætis byrjun), jónsi sang most songs in icelandic but two of them (von and olsen olsen) were sung in 'hopelandic'. all of the vocals [on] ( ) are however in hopelandic. hopelandic (vonlenska in icelandic) is the 'invented language' in which jónsi sings before lyrics are written to the vocals. it's of course not an actual language by definition (no vocabulary, grammar, etc.), it's rather a form of gibberish vocals that fits to the music and acts as another instrument. jónsi likens it with what singers sometimes do when they've decided on the melody but haven't written the lyrics yet. many languages were considered to be used on ( ), including english, but they decided on hopelandic. hopelandic (vonlenska) got its name from first song which jónsi sang it on, hope (von).

Here is a sample: Untitled #4
(Not that you could tell the difference between Hopelandic and Icelandic anyway).

Having no lyrics on the entire album is a true experiment with how we perceive language and emotions through words. Although there is no written context in the songs, one can still pick up a conveyed feeling. Hopefully this will broaden the horizons of those who are too used to lyrical content in music and are not concerned enough with the raw emotion of music itself.

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Be it extremely emotional, controversial, messed up, or whatever, this entry has been password protected.

If you know it, enter it; or, ask me for it.

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I love the way clear water rappels slowly down the side of an orange. Falling slightly, but stopping. Caught in a wrinkle, then gathering up the nerve to continue on. And once at the base, what awaits the water? Defeat, agony, inevitable sloth. Lazy water! Though you caress yourself like a cat along its legs, you will never steal the zest of an orange. It is not your fate. Move on. Help heat the day, you wicked humidity.

No matter how so the air constrains me, no matter how so the heat chokes me, no matter how so the sun crushes me, none can prevail. Avec mon Jus d'Orange, I am invincible. One swig, and I can begin my day. But my love for Orange Juice goes much further than that, comrade. Orange Juice is my one true compatriot. She will never betray me, nor I her. Many morrows have seen my undying lust for her; I drink her by her gallons.

At a time in days of old, I once held her sister Lemonade in my view as the supreme beverage. Her sweet and sour gustatory allure took my buds for a trip. But soon I saw through her facade and discovered the true visage of Lemonade. You sugary temptress! To Hell with you! To Hell! Orange Juice was there to comfort me in my time of crisis. In my time of dying. In my time of rebirth. So mellow and delicate. I love her, truly.

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All of those People below You
And beneath Me, only Dirt
But the Clouds still crowd Our View
Sometimes it is hard to catch sarcasm through text. Given this, is it more efficient to take everything literally, or to assume all is sarcastic? There is always the risk of one not understanding the context of sarcasm, but then there is always the risk of one not being intellectual enough to understand. Some may work to prevent misconstrusion, but I do not. For example, if 75% of the people who read this entry do not understand the word "misconstrusion" just because it doesn't appear in a dictionary, then I can determine that my target audience is the remaining 25%. I, like a colleague of mine, don't care about pleasing people. This brings me to the complex subject of ego and narcissism that I will address at a later date.

I am thinking.
Who were the Angels?

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I stabbed a man. Stabbed him straight between his knuckles. We were fooling around, you know. I jabbed at him with the knife jokingly, and he returned the favor by jabbing at me with his lighter. Then came the fateful jab that we shared; of course, a sharp blade is much more fast-acting than a flame, and I heard it tear through his flesh.

The first thing I said was "Oh my God; sorry!" followed by "Are you okay?" But you know, I wasn't really concerned about him. I didn't honestly care if he was okay. I was willing to accept that I had cut an artery in his hand and that he'd bleed to death.

The reason I had the immediate impulse to act surprised, apologetic, and concerned was to cover myself. It is just my nature, and probably the nature of most human beings to instantly think of one's own well-being before thinking of another's, no matter how quickly it takes to switch between modes. I didn't want to be blamed. I recognized from the start that although we both were being asses to the same degree, I'd take more of the blame just because luck was with me. Had any of the fuel that was splattered all around the campsite from starting a fire been on my sleeve, I would have gone up in flames and he would have been to blame for igniting me.

Blame and shame are closely related. It's rightly so that they rhyme.

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