Notes on Canvas

Eight thirty.

It’s very foggy out there; the treetops are lost in the mist. It helped me yesterday to play my bass guitar in the afternoon. This took my mind off of other worries, like being in musical limbo for a while. Music does give a reprieve from everyday life, as Schopenhauer observed in his philosophy long ago. I don’t play as well as I used to; it often sounds like a person with schizophrenia tossing notes out there, paint thrown on a canvas. Random and dissonant but still cathartic for me. The amplifier I bought almost a year ago for $300 sounds like, well, $300. You get what you pay for. When I was in a band last summer I couldn’t understand why the other guys didn’t invest more in their music gear. It was their code of ethics as working class people not to show off with their instruments. I broke this rule with them several times; not showing off, but just trying to be professional. Anyway, the new amp isn’t so great, and I could’ve saved my money for something else.

Quarter after nine. Everything passes, and nothing is ever permanent. I’ve heard good things about Ursula Le Guin but I don’t know which novel to start with. Doubtless her feminist perspective will be different from the male authors I’m used to, even from the Christian tradition and everything plunked down by men over the ages. I don’t remember when I read The Farthest Shore; if it was last spring or the year before. I thought it was good, the way it treated death as a natural part of life, and the greed for more than this was a kind of evil. She was an Oregonian, living in Portland, I think. 

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