Content: now that the Vespa runs, the initially over looked electrical system is a bloody mess. The "easy" thing to do is check some continuity and wire it up "good enough." The harness has been messed/butchered with sometime in the last 49 years, but could probably be salvaged.
Context: Max is exploring
revising the process, returning to basic techniques, easily dismissed, but always necessary at any skill level. The two of us were talking last week about a body of work (poems/tunes) vs. a collection work. The easy thing to do is mash 70 minutes of sounds/ 50 pages together, and call it an album/book. We couldn't help but agree, dancing around the linear/nonlinear bits of both mediums, that the easy way is lame. Hence crappy books/weak albums.
These things should take time, and the time always seems to yield much more quality. And it's hardly ever done the same way twice. The value of process, etc.
It sounds like more work, but pulling all the old wires out, replacing them with a brand new harness that we're POSITIVE has exactly the connections needed is the right way to do it. All and all, if it takes less than three hours, it's less time and perfect.
A friend told me that her original draft and the Book eventually published has 4 poems in common. FOUR! Max will delete 90% of the music he makes this week. And then again next week, etc.
How many pages can you surrender to progress?
How many new tricks are replacing the old devotion?
from Szymborska
Nothing Twice
Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.
No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with exactly the same kisses.
One day, perhaps, some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.
The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?
Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.
With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.
