music in the street
there’s music in the streets.
an older italian man in a suit rolled his upright through the streets.
i don’t know any of the songs.
maybe it’s improvised
or just so much music i haven’t had the honour to hear yet.
a little out of tune.
it has probably seen as much as the player.
he plays the white keys only.
i’ve set up my gear
in a bar next door.
five older german ladies waiting for me to play.
the stage set.
my clothes the dirtiest pieces in here.
but for now
i would rather stay in the heat.
sitting on those overheated cobblestones.
play for strangers.
right now.
right here.
i hear a new song.
39
There is a website that lets you check if your music has been used to train AI.
39 tracks.
39 songs I’ve written, recorded, released.
39 entries in a database.
It’s a strange feeling.
For an AI model, 39 songs are nothing.
A tiny drop in an ocean of training data.
Barely noticeable.
But for me, those 39 tracks feel a little different.
They’re not data.
They’re stories.
39 moments.
39 versions of myself.
Some were written during beautiful times.
Some during difficult ones.
Some took years to finish.
Others arrived all at once.
A song about love.
A song about leaving.
A song written in a tiny apartment.
A song written on the road far from home.
A song that nobody heard.
A song that reached millions.
To a machine, they’re audio files. bits and bytes.
To me, they’re pieces of a life.
Writing songs is still one of the most beautiful things I know.
Sitting down with a guitar.
Staring out a window.
Trying to make sense of something.
Finding a sentence that feels true.
Finding a melody that didn’t exist five minutes ago.
39 tracks.
A tiny drop in an ocean.
An entire life to me.
the lake is still.
no waves.
no people.
a few cows rest in the shade, somewhere in the distance.
it could be peaceful.
it could be heaven.
it could be.
it could.
the train is speeding up.
leaving the station.
you stay there.
some flowers in your hand.
i try to look away.
but i never could.
call me by my full name, please
some lucky bastards are born with the right name. some choose theirs carefully. for some it never aligns. wrong name or wrong personality or wrong time.
I‘ve been called many things.
some almost holy.
some broken.
some whispered.
some just a little more real than the others.
you can call me by our relation.
lover.
friend.
brother.
dad.
closer than any of my names.
To Be Late Is Better Than Not Showing Up
it's one of those nights. a missed train. a missed connection. a thousand reasons to call it a night.
leave. quit. back down. go home. or take another train.
watch the sun set through a moving scenery.
overhear a grandfather telling his grandson about those mountaintops.
how he used to hike up there. back when he was young.
before all the tourists arrived.
my friend played his last song.
i drink a glass of wine. red this time.
and i miss the old cigarette.
shook hands with a girl trying to convince me of some theory about love and lust.
ran into my old friend harrison. glad he's doing better.
life is where you are. probably.