wipe the slate, steal my visions

Is that a friendly sleep that wipes out all the ideas i had in the night .I could’nt get up and write them down after a luscious evening of friends and food.The taste of the blood of a tender lamb still in my mouth ,my head full of minor chords played on a guitar,an instrument that has not been prominent in my life until about ten years ago.My affinity was with the violin.David Oistrach the great russian violinist telling me he always tried to imitate the long songlines of a vocalist and playing for me , as a child, so that later in life i could imitate his way of singing on his violin,light and dark ,straight lines a perfect control of the vibrato.Being Master of your Breathing felt like being master of your body as an instrument.It gave you the kind of innocent power to imagine that if you could control and produce the sound you wanted and in such a way serve any composer to the core of his work ,you could be in power of everything that happened in your life as well.Had to wipe the slate filled with all these ideas numerous times.That started feeling good too.The blank,the desert ,like this writing in an empty space i am now doing.Sleep, wiped out my thoughts my ideas,unworthy of space no doubt.I talked to my cat Cassius for a while ,he can’t sing ,he can’t even purr and his idea of affection is a short moment of dumb purring followed by a sharp attack of biting.Can only see the contour of the dublin mountains today .Ah yes ,the guitar.My collegue that i sang numerous concerts with used to share her life with a guitarist.He was a good talker as well as a sublime musician ,so i started listening to him in concert .We all used to share hotels and houses all over the place until they split up and i was left with his recordings and never heard him play live again beause death caught up with him,just about when my collegue had decided that he was-after all- the love of her life and she wanted him back.The night he died ,she stood on stage and cried .Then came the electric guitar for me in the shape of rockmusicians playing and a getting in touch with what my adored and venered father Maurits Mok used to call"subculture".The twangg and unbending tone the electric guitar produces can losen me up ,make me feel lighter,wanting to move to the basic instinctive rythm with my body .But it also makes me feel helpless : there seems to be no room for my voice to blend into this block of sound, my years of subtle musical training are useless and my ears go deaf and well...i go dumb.I am searching in the labytinth of sounds for a mix .A cool mix!What the hell.Still sleepy. his head feels so smooth and round under my hand.Cassius,good thing he can’t read my blubrbblogbrrr.recently i sat in a dark dirty cavement,ok i know its called basement,with boring people with flat faces around me listening to flat music.It seemed like the ideal reproduction of the kind of grey desert full of gravelly sand that humans can get stranded in at a young stage of their lives .Their ears cut off to what i sense as the pulse of life of music, actually not listening at all,just sitting there without a smile on their gobs,pouring liquids and smoke down their throats not in order to grow wild and live but to enjoy less or so it seemed.But then again i was sitting there as well .Why ?Living in hope to hear a flicker of sumpin interesting underground before i dissapear up my own classical umpf and turn into a pillar.