Not Dead Yet! − 10 September, 2007
Well, it has finally started to happen.
Two meanings, there:
By that, I mean my musical life has been compressed into the few, narrow hours I can scrounge together at the end of the day. That doesn't leave much time for writing articles on the internet.
Weird thing is, since I got treated for the sleep apnea, the number of "adventures" has increased. I just don't have time to write them down. (Even typing at 200 wpm -- a nice talent I inherited from my Mom.)
Nuts, I need a biographer.
So yesterday, I get a note in French, essentially, asking if I'm dead. A few hours later, I got another, from someone else, this one in English.
I think I'm flattered someone would notice my absence. There are six billion plus people in the world, and the fact someone on the other side of the planet would even care to ask is pretty cool.
Not to worry, though. I've left instructions with my wife in case something happens before I can get that album out. She knows where the latest tracks are stored, and can probably publish them after my (presumed) passing. [Your duty, gentle reader, is to remind her, should she forget.]
A strange sort of afterlife, but hey.
Speaking of which, I'm to be cremated. There are enough of my ancestors who've been dug up and stuck in museums that I don't care to join them.
There are only two memorials I want to leave behind: my music, and the kids whose lives I've had a positive effect on. Who needs a lump of rock with their name on it in the face of that?
Two meanings, there:
- I finally got some good recording time in for my third Jamendo album, La vie sous la mer.
- People have actually started writing me to see if I'm dead.
By that, I mean my musical life has been compressed into the few, narrow hours I can scrounge together at the end of the day. That doesn't leave much time for writing articles on the internet.
Weird thing is, since I got treated for the sleep apnea, the number of "adventures" has increased. I just don't have time to write them down. (Even typing at 200 wpm -- a nice talent I inherited from my Mom.)
Nuts, I need a biographer.
So yesterday, I get a note in French, essentially, asking if I'm dead. A few hours later, I got another, from someone else, this one in English.
I think I'm flattered someone would notice my absence. There are six billion plus people in the world, and the fact someone on the other side of the planet would even care to ask is pretty cool.
Not to worry, though. I've left instructions with my wife in case something happens before I can get that album out. She knows where the latest tracks are stored, and can probably publish them after my (presumed) passing. [Your duty, gentle reader, is to remind her, should she forget.]
A strange sort of afterlife, but hey.
Speaking of which, I'm to be cremated. There are enough of my ancestors who've been dug up and stuck in museums that I don't care to join them.
There are only two memorials I want to leave behind: my music, and the kids whose lives I've had a positive effect on. Who needs a lump of rock with their name on it in the face of that?
