Well, the music seems to be the only thing I'm still bitterly in love with and so I hide it away in the corner, someplace damp so as not to remember our poor relationship. Bernard once told me, back in 2004, to record an album. I still haven't. He told me again in 2006. Once I murmured around these tight little isles at a small little gormet store. the only thing holding in place the cans of Heinz baked beans and chocolates were thin, almost transparent, pieces of wire, wrapped around these metal shelves. I plucked them once... for about three minutes, until I was told to stop. I worked there at the time.

During college i placed a microphone outside my window to record the sounds of my neighbors and activities. They saw what I had done and came to my door and asked. They thought I was recording their foreplay. I wasn't. I was actually recording the livid and intense argument that came before. I just like sounds, I think.

I can't play the piano but occasionally I claim that I can and even less often I fool a few. I understand theory, a bit of harmony and proper fingering techniques but when i place my fingers on the keys I always feel uncomfortable playing what I know will sound okay — what will sound right. I feel as though I'm acting as a technician demonstrating rules and methods. It's not what I'm interested in doing. Somehow I find a place in between... sometimes. When I ever I do anything that sounds "right" its often intentional with a layer of reservation. But sometimes I sound like I have no idea what I'm doing.

So once I had this idea for a book — a tiny one with a set of instructions on how to perform a very, very specific task. Directions on constructing music through rules based on serialism and on a "flower". I don't know what i mean by that. I suppose it's left ambiguous. It would meander and wander I felt.

It seems as though it would allude to something beautiful but it seems the music could be heard as difficult.

We might allude to delusions but I know what I'm doing.