theimpressionistsblog

[theimpressionistsblog]

field of dreams.

[theimpressionistsblog]

Getty Villa (Self taken shot - 7/27/2017)

Picking back up where I left off. I’m going to try and cut it up into sections based on organized this ramble goes.

A day before this shot, I was just leaving mid-day the 25th for Los Angeles from near Boulder, going onward from Grand Junction in the Colorado wilderness, to Las Vegas, Nevada in the desert. Then from there, we went high up into the mountains and hot, desert regions of Arizona. We passed through Death Valley with zero air conditioning whatsoever. We had a battery powered fan getting its used in the driver’s seat, as we paced ourselves down the last leg of the first half of our trip, from all the way in Kentucky to the very end of the road - the Pacific Ocean. Past all the obstacles and potential dangers, we made it to the stateline marker, the atypical ‘Welcome to our State!’ signs with current governors and catchy slogans by the public tourism department become the focus of your road vision. You are finally going to California for the first time....Finally.

Once you start to get your bearings the closer and closer you get to your destination, the more unfamiliar you become with the terrain, roadsystems, and areas. It’s almost as if from a dream, or the map of a popular RPG videogame. The golden sunshine the background of every silhouette in every direction you turn or gaze at each mile you circumnavigate. Finally you make it to your rental, and even as you step on the curb with your camera, even the candid shots of the power lines in the rustic neighborhood against the peaking sunset as the evening starts to gather, you can’t help but be amazed at every shot becoming a memorable photograph, like so.

(7/26/2017 - Los Angeles - Self Taken).  Rock n Roll was in the air here, where people before us have written song after song, hit after hit. Playing each day bit by bit. And here we were, finally finding ourselves there. 

And today, four years later, we find ourselves in that same state of mind, just in a different place, and a different pair of shoes.

You’ve been thinking more to yourself lately, about how we want to go back to this, and go forward with this too. In the days to come, we will figure out w=our best course of action, even if it’s a year from now. Hang your head and rest for the night. There is more to come once we rise.

More tomorrow on the next leg of our trip highlights.

[theimpressionistsblog]

What on earth....did I just read? “I GOT BLISSSSTERRRZZZZ ON MAA FINGERRRZZZZZ!”

prompt -> everyone cowers in front of ringo's supreme power

There’s a reason why Ringo never played drum solos. If you thought it was because he simply didn’t like them, then I’m sorry, but you got fooled by a famous Beatles lie. No, Ringo didn’t play drum solos because he had stage fright, or he thought that they were too ostentatious - he refused to play them because he knew it would give him too much power. So much power, in fact, that he could cause the end of the world.

Sounds dramatic, I know, but don’t believe me? Back in the Hamburg days, after being heckled by a rambunctious crowd for over 2 hours straight to play something that could put Buddy Rich to shame, Ringo finally cracked. He ran 64th notes down his drum kit in such a rapid succession that he started to glow bright orange, as if he were on fire. Rory and the rest of the band didn’t know what to do with their glowing orb of a drummer, but they didn’t have much time to fret on it anyways because the walls of the Kaiserkeller started to rattle and crack, which made the German audience, still recovering from WW2, duck for cover with a collective yelp.

“Ringo!” Rory tried to yell over the ear-splitting noise that was coming from Ringo as his orange glow got progressively brighter. Ringo couldn’t hear him because he was in the zone. The Auto Zone. “Quit it!!”

Ringo moved from his 64th notes to smacking away at his cymbals like he was releasing the rage of a thousand years. The middle of the dance floor started to cave in, swallowing those who couldn’t move away fast enough. If you listened closely, you could hear a deep, Liverpudlian laugh coming from the pit. The only reason Ringo didn’t cause the end of the world on this occasion was because, as he was about to start balancing his twirling drumsticks on his nose, his allergies (the thing that humbles us all) got the better of him, causing him to let out a loud sneeze that rocketed him away from his set. With his senses knocked back into him, Ringo gaped at the chaos in front of him and turned to Rory, who was gaping back at him with a look on his face that could only mean Ringo was out of the band.

This is the history of The Beatles that you don’t know about. Ringo was a freelancer for a brief moment in Hamburg before John, Paul, and George found him. There had been a rumor circulating that there was something wrong with Ringo, but when the three lads saw him standing outside of a club one cold evening, lighting a cigarette in his own solitude, they just assumed that everyone else was being mean and hinting at how big his nose was.

And just like that, Pete was out and Ringo was in, because John, Paul, and George had heard that Ringo could really bring the house down. Ringo had tried to warn his new band members on multiple occasions that he suspected there was something wrong with him, but all of them insisted that he was fine and that his nose really wasn’t that big, so he had nothing to worry about. Ringo wasn’t so sure about that but, following the Incident, he had braved the drums once again and managed to keep a steady beat without causing Armageddon. Needless to say, that didn’t mean he was any less nervous about playing. Luckily, he insisted enough times that he would never do a drum solo, and John, Paul, and George listened, though they did think he was a little bit looney.

And things were alright like this for a while, through the ups and downs of their career, playing across the globe to thousands of screaming fans. Ringo never once let his guard down: there were no solos coming from him, no matter how many people wanted it.

That fateful night in Hamburg felt like another life, so much so that Ringo nearly forgot about the unusual power he contained. It wasn’t until he was pushed to the edge that he remembered he held the fate of the world in the palm of his hand, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

The year was 1969, the holiest year of them all, and Ringo was about ready to thrust his head through some drywall, he was so fed up with his bandmates. The incessant bickering over which songs made the cut on the album and which didn’t were really starting to drive him up the wall. Maxwell’s Silver Hammer was just the icing on the cake.

“We need another take on that one,” Paul announced to the band with an air of authority that Ringo wished he could strangle. They had just finished playing through their forty-seventh take and, although Paul was acting like it wasn’t his fault, it was absolutely his fault that they had to play the damn song again. For someone who acted like he was the leader of the band, Paul sure was having trouble remembering his baloney lyrics.

Without a word, John let his guitar slip out of his hands so it clunked to the ground in an amplified drop, its buzzing filling the room. John left them like that, stomping to the door and letting himself out, back to sanity. George gazed longingly at the door like he wanted to follow behind John, but he knew too well that Paul wasn’t going to let that happen. Completely unbothered by John, Paul turned to face the engineers in the sound booth and motioned in a grand gesture for them to start a new tape.

George looked across at Ringo and Ringo stared blankly back at him. He was really trying to repress everything he was feeling.

“Take 48,” George Martin nervously announced into their headphones, like he knew he was stoking a fire.

“Ringo, I’m gonna need some more umph on that drum part,” Paul turned back to Ringo with a smug look stretched across his face. “If you can handle it.”

That was it. That was freaking it. That was the line. The line’s way back there. Paul crossed that line. He crossed that line so hard it’s not even funny.

Ringo stood from his kit but, unlike John, he didn’t book it for the door. Instead, he rushed around the room, gathering every single percussion instrument he could find.

“I’ll give you umph,” he growled at Paul. In return, Paul smiled back at him because that was exactly what he wanted. In between them, George grabbed at his head. His two mates were really making him question why they were his mates in the first place.

“Take 48!” Paul called up to George Martin, spinning his finger around to motion that they start the tape. Then, he turned back to Ringo, who was staring at him with so much intensity it was a miracle Paul wasn’t sent flying backwards.

“One, two, one two three...”

Paul started to play the opening chords on his dinky little piano but Ringo wasn’t having any of that, oh no. He pounded into his snare drum so hard one of the drumsticks broke through the skin. Instead of pulling it out, Ringo left it there and grabbed a tambourine, which he proceeded to bang against his hi-hat. Paul wasn’t sure what Ringo was doing, but they had experimented enough in the past that he let it slide. George, on the other hand, was silently whispering prayers to himself as he stared at Ringo's glowing figure in horror. Ringo knew exactly what he was doing; if he did a drum solo, he could wreck their studio enough that he wouldn’t have to listen to Maxwell’s frickin Silver Hammer again. The trouble was, Ringo didn’t know when the right time was to stop.

By the time he started using two maracas as drumsticks on a timpani, Ringo began to slowly levitate. George’s whispered prayers were becoming louder from his panic. Up in the booth, it looked like the two remaining Beatles were performing an exorcism on Ringo.

“What the-” George Martin muttered. The boys must have stumbled across some new kind of street drug that really messed you up.

“Maxwell Anderson, majoring in medicine,” Paul cheerfully sang from his piano, his back turned to Ringo. Ringo started to shake in place, now suspended 5 feet above the ground, clicking castanets angrily while glaring down at Paul. George gaped as Ringo's color switched to a fiery, Kool Aid Man-red. It was bad. Paul continued to unknowingly play, but his left hand took a break to wipe some sweat from his brow. Someone must have turned up the heat, he mused to himself.

But no, it was Ringo, on the brink of causing a thermonuclear explosion. George was initially concerned for Ringo’s safety but, after seeing actual waves of heat emitted from his beige suit, George decided that his pal wasn’t worth it. He’d had some great memories with Ringo, but he could remember those later in therapy. For the meantime, he was getting the hell out of dodge, to wherever John had escaped to.

The problem was, Ringo’s power was sucking George so dry that he hardly had any energy left in him to move. It was like the goddamn relativity cadenza all over again. The more Ringo banged out the drum solo of the millenium, the more powerful he became. No one could stop him, he was a god. Ringo, god of the bongos. The most feared of them all.

Something caused Paul to finally turn around (probably Mal missing his cue to play the anvil because he was too distracted by whatever the hell Ringo was up to) and, when he did, his jaw dropped.

“Wot the fuck Ringo?” he shouted. They hadn’t agreed that Ringo could become a celestial being during their recording session. At that moment, John barged back in through the door, ready to give his half-hearted apology to Paul. That was quickly thrown in the trash when John looked up at their drummer, who now resembled a ball of fire, like the sun or something. (Even though it seems appropriate, no, unfortunately George didn’t write Here Comes the Sun about this event - that song had already been recorded at this point). John, as terrified as he was, couldn’t help but let out a loud cackle at the spectacle that was playing out in front of him. He knew that their session for Maxwell’s Silver Hammer had been bad, but he didn’t realize it was this bad, so much so that their drummer was spontaneously combusting.

“Silence, mortal!” Ringo boomed down at John, not even missing a beat on his woodblock solo.

That got John to shut up pretty fast.

“No one dares laugh at the almighty and powerful Ringo!” Ringo continued, his words practically searing through everyone’s skulls. “I can end you with the crash of a cymbal, I can tear this planet apart, piece by piece with only the sheer power of my mind!”

“Good for you, Ringo,” Paul stammered out as he tried to hide behind his piano. Paul was smart to pick up on the fact that, out of all of them, Ringo probably had the biggest score to settle with him. He really sincerely hoped that his charm would be enough to keep Ringo from smiting him but, just to be extra safe, he threw one of his famous winks Ringo’s way. Ringo, in turn, glared at Paul and pulled out a triangle.

“With a single ding on this triangle,” Ringo bellowed out, so loudly that everyone in England could hear him, “our planet will cease to exist.” He floated closer to Paul and Paul in return tried to back up, though he quickly found himself pushed against the wall. “Is that enough umph for you, Paul?” Ringo sneered back at him. Paul tried to respond that Ringo really didn’t have to do that and, actually take 14 had come out pretty good, but he found all of his words trapped in his throat. Ringo’s power was too overwhelming. Ringo seemed satisfied that he had terrified Paul so much that he finally shut his yap and, to really gloat in his glory, his hand slowly crept towards the triangle.

The closer Ringo got to hitting that triangle, the bigger he got. The image was straight out of Alice in Wonderland - in a matter of seconds, Ringo had grown too big to fit in their studio. That didn’t matter much, as the heat coming off of him helped sear away the wooden ceiling so it came crashing around him.

He’s really getting a big head, John mused to himself, though he didn’t dare make his observation out loud, which was a good decision because he would have been a goner otherwise. At this point, Ringo’s feet stretched the entire length of the studio (or, what remained of it) and his head was well above the skyline of London, where everyone could see him and scream with horror before going, “Wait, is that Ringo Starr from the Beatles?”

Ringo was only inches away from the triangle now and London had never been hotter. The ocean was starting to dry up on the coast, fields were bursting in flames at random, and children started asking their parents why they didn’t have more fans in their houses. Alongside the heat, the ground started to quiver before shaking, rattling, and rolling. Cars rocked in the street, smashing into each other, and trees and buildings started to tilt sideways, like wannabe Leaning Towers of Pisa. People were starting to panic, because nothing this exciting had ever happened in England before.

“Ringo!” George tried to call up to his mate, though he knew it was no use, considering how high up Ringo was. “Please, stop it!” John and Paul heard George’s desperate pleas over the commotion and joined in, falling to their knees and clasping their hands together, begging with all the energy they had left.

“We’ll let you have more songs on our album!” John tried.

“I’ll bring you more flowers,” George tried.

“We’ll stop recording Maxwell’s Silver Hammer for once and for all!” Paul tried without really thinking.

Ringo was a millimeter away from making contact with the triangle. But then, he stopped. And, faster than you could say “Maxwell Anderson,” the shaking and heat stopped. Ringo had almost instantly shrunk himself back down to his normal size and was no longer glowing a searing red. He calmly set the triangle down on the stool next to his kit and turned around to look at Paul, John, and George.

“Good,” was all he had to say. And, with that, he turned on his heel and strutted out of the practically demolished studio, whistling a happy tune to himself. Left behind, Paul, John, and George all tried to compose themselves.

“A new rule for the band,” Paul started slowly, “let’s not mess with Ringo.”

“Agreed,” John was quick to respond.

“Agreed,” George repeated.

[theimpressionistsblog]

Wrist Palettes

Maria Che Illustration on Etsy

[theimpressionistsblog]

“ Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be? ”

— Charles Bukowski (The Post Office)

[theimpressionistsblog]

I want to be with you, it is as simple, and as complicated as that.

Charles Bukowski (via amargedom)

[theimpressionistsblog]

- Rocky Mountains. Self-Taken. July 23, 2017.

I don’t know how to really articulate how it felt to do this. And I haven’t in the four years that have followed. I’ve told a handful of people, who I believe still do not get it. But, when you take hundreds of photos of some of the most fantastic views you have ever witnessed with your own eyes, and would love nothing more than to make music based off those sights, perhaps there are other ways of channeling that creative process and opening up of your mind to what you feel.

Four years ago, I made a spur of the moment decision to drive off west from the east coast to the Rockies, and then LA. I was not myself in good spirits those days. I felt peg-holed into a career that would not generally make me happy the further I advanced into it, the more restrictive it became on me everyday. While I played music back then as more of a hobby, with intense fire and passion, the work made it seemingly impossible. Schoolwork took precedent over everything, even healthy living. When you start to suffer from impractical diets, irregular sleep, and ways to cope in engineering, most generally, alcohol, then your mind and soul start to take a toll. Working in a student club, I developed a natural pessimism from the attitudes shared there. It leaked into my everyday life, from road rage driving or just spotting someone in public being weird in a way I didn’t tolerate it or made me uncomfortable. And at the same time, I was exploring more creative avenues and adventures whenever breaks came up during semesters or in the summer; whether it was meeting new people in different cities, discovering new music, and the best of all, music festivals. It gave me this euphoric feeling that you’re attending adult summer camp. But to see the music I was just obsessing over being performed at these temporary stages scattered across a hot, weltering farm in the middle of the Midwest, and experience the love and camaraderie between strangers from different origins, it made me believe I was certain for a different path. But, back then, I was obedient. I was hesitant. I was terrified of doing what felt right for me. And eventually, that hesitation delayed the ever-eventual cracking of my mind. Feeling like a disappointment, just working your summer job, the idea pops in, why not take your summer roadtrip? You had planned it the year before; but, when you tried to get your grandpa to be your emergency call number, he rats you out instead. You thought he’d understand, since he practically did that on his own about 10 years ago and got stuck in Vancouver. Well this time, no half-measures. 

You took off unexpectedly to anyone in your family. On three hours of sleep no-less. Making it as far as Kansas City before stopping. Time and efficiency was really mattered on the road. A fear of rest stops was what kept us weary at all times. Being this isolated on our travels. You still unkept your beard to ward off strangers to your inner-serial killer.  16 hours total and you finally make it to the hostel for our temporary stay in Denver.  You find love for the night and modernized wonder in a city different from any that you’ve been to. The ability to see the buildings in the distance, with their silhouette featuring the Rockies in their background, really stand out as a natural and manmade wonder. Along with the people, buildings, and things to do all around you. Then you take off for the mountains.

There in the Rockies, you feel as if the town is a small ski resort. Further away than you expected from civilization, especially phone reception. But out there, away from it all, away from your home state, away from a place you didn’t want to  call your home anymore, away from the people that think they know. You were out there. With only yourself.

The first day, finally settled on a gameplan of where to stay, what I needed, and where to go, I finally get into the park and in the mid-afternoon, first climb a mountain along a steep sloping trail. Coming down was a group of college-students your age carrying one of their friends down, lacking oxygen due to the air difference and elevation. But, you make it to the top. You enjoy a smoke break, playing Grateful Dead in the background, as you take in the gorgeous site before you, the peak of a mountain where the entire mountain scale of the Rockies glittered before the sun edging out behind clouds in the sky. After lazying it out, the sun started to set as we had to make our descent back to our trailhead. Realizing that darkness was swooping in much sooner than expected in a wooded landscape, with your golf shaft filling in as a hiking pole, you skip down a 100 yards of a steep decline on the edge of the mountain along the countryside with fewer trees to where the base of the trail on flatter terrain lay. The rush from the acceleration from our weight, the weight of our backpack, and gravity rushing us downward exhilarated our senses.

This was where we were meant to be.

Softchild Fairdream,

- theimpressionist

P.S. - I will post an update each day from this story.

And to the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul

John Muir

[theimpressionistsblog]

George Harrison visiting Bob Dylan in Woodstock, 1968, by Jill Krementz, my edit of original via needsomefun.

“I was with Bob and he had gone through his broken neck period and was being very quiet, and he didn’t have much confidence. That’s the feeling I got with him in Woodstock. He hardly said a word for a couple of days. Anyway, we finally got the guitars out and it loosened things up a bit. 

“It was really a nice time with all his kids around, and we were just playing. It was near Thanksgiving. He sang [”I’d Have You Anytime”] and he was very nervous and shy and he said, ‘What do you think about this song?’ And I had felt strongly about Bob when I had been in India years before, the only record I took with me along with all my Indian records was Blonde On Blonde. I somehow got very close to him, you know.” ~George Harrison from I, Me, Mine

[theimpressionistsblog]

THE BEATLES + COLOURS - BLUE (x)

“Don’t pass me by, don’t make me cry, don’t make me blue”

[theimpressionistsblog]

George Harrison during the recording sessions of the Beatles’ album Abbey Road in July 1969 

© Linda McCartney

[theimpressionistsblog]

🎶❤️

[theimpressionistsblog]

I want to be with you, it is as simple, and as complicated as that.

Charles Bukowski (via quotefeeling)

[theimpressionistsblog]

It is only once in a while that you see someone whose electricity and presence matches yours at that moment.

Charles Bukowski (via sunsetquotes)

[theimpressionistsblog]

I’ve had so many knives stuck into me, when they hand me a flower I can’t quite make out what it is. It takes time.

Charles Bukowski (via quotemadness)

[theimpressionistsblog]

#2 Self-Worth

Here again. Almost 5 am. To talk about some things again.

Getty Museum (July 2017); Los Angeles. Self-captured. 

Why is it so hard? Such an existential question for debate for each of ourselves out there today. But another one that stems from that question directly that disturbs yourself.

Why bother? 

Why get mixed up in this music business? When it does not even seem that optimistic anymore? Just a confusing blurred vision of lines crossed into the nether of algorithms and streamed listens by a ‘market demographic’. Sure, that could mean things are at an impasse with your own solo music then. But, then what about producing other musicians’ works?  The same two words start to alter your mind’s thoughts in regards towards non-sequential terms of discouragement.  It’s a competitive market out there, you’re going to need a house to properly reinforce sound design and noise bleed through the thin walls already (Jim would love that), need to be more focused on instrumentation than you’ve ever been, etc. The points, that are increasingly seemingly industry standards and requirements, are starting to transform into legitimate arguing points for excuse-making. Another series of factors I honestly have to consider for everyday living, or just to enjoy music for myself right now. Where is the fun alone in working on other people’s material for yourself? Usually, whenever you’ve been live-recording, you’d use it as an ice breaker to meet local musicians that may be similar in interests and tastes to you. But, rather than foster collaboration or any sort of friendship-making, it almost seems like a monetary exchange instead? Where’s our free recording? When is it going to be ready? You must be slacking. Goodbye. All of this while you’re trying to take on more media responsibilities on your way out of uni. Thanks for the patience, out there. You’ve got a way of making one feel welcome in the local scene.

And speaking of local scene, it’s been like that everywhere I go. Novices never seem to emerge anymore because of the superiority complex. Whenever you try to interact and mingle with the local community of musicians, rather than foster a developing artist through personal life experiences that could be shared, we tend to be taken aback in our fabricated superiority, and through that perceived adversity, try at all costs to make that innocent party to feel uncomfortable and as unwelcome as possible. Maybe they lack social engagement compared to our own unique perspectives? That filtered scope of thinking is only shared by a few that are self-aware of themselves, like knowing how to walk and move in ever-changing surroundings. We, as a regional society, tend to lose that in an ever-expanding metropolis in our rural bluegrass. 

And then it extends further than the music. It goes on to bar crawling. Parties with mutual friends. Family dinners when they come up to visit. Getting personal with coworkers on the clock. Talking to that cute neighbor of yours.  Why bother? If you already know the outcome won’t be pretty. 

I had this coworker up until recently. He had to be in his 50′s. Working in shipping at this age. Still taking care of his mother, who was near it. His brother wasn’t doing so well either. Anyways, he’d come in everyday, and if you timed it just right, in exactly under ten minutes, everyday, he’d already start on about how he was ready to go home already. If someone or something wasn’t working at 100%, he’d go on to gripe about it, either to us, or to higher ups around us. He would also talk about how he used to play in a punk band and how those were the days.

Where in the hell did those days go then?

Aren’t they still going on?

For each of us? 

Everyday? 

Because that’s the point to taking that next step. That point of going forward. Or continuing to anyhow. 

There are gonna be days ahead where we’re uncertain. 

There are gonna be days when we’re 100% absolutely sure of ourselves.

It’s up to us to decide how the day shall unfold in front of us. Like a paper airplane a child launches after that final crease is pressed for good measures of luck. 

Gonna be awkward going out the front door of my building for the next while. 

Gotta imagine it must be the same for her.

Otherwise, my next goal to take on is ‘music class at home’. I’m trying to blockcast a learning time after I get home. It can be watching TV for documentaries, reading the news, reading a book, etc. But when it comes to music practice, just leaving the handheld recorder on next to the speaker and not worrying about the results. Just go with the vibe. Learn from it.

Don’t let it drag you down.

Stay true to yourselves.

Softchild Fairdream,

- theimpressionist

Song of the Day: Mother Nature’s Son - The Beatles - The Beatles/White Album (1968)

[theimpressionistsblog]

Very superstitious Writing’s on the wall Very superstitious Ladders bout’ to fall Thirteen month old baby Broke the lookin’ glass Seven years of bad luck The good things in your past When you believe in things That you don’t understand Then you suffer Superstition aint the way Hey Very superstitious Wash your face and hands Rid me of the problem Do all that you can Keep me in a daydream..

Stevie Wonder, Superstition

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0CFuCYNx-1g