File "faint music.it"

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Loading modland.com/pub/modules/Impulsetracker/RS3/faint music.it (1 of 1)
Module name : faint music
Module type : Impulse Tracker 2.14v5 IT 2.16
Module length: 76 patterns
Patterns : 60
Instruments : 34
Samples : 25
Channels : 30 [ 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 ]
Duration : 5min33s
Instruments:
Instrument name Vl Fade Env Ns Sub Gv Vl Fine Xpo Pan Sm
01 40 0e00 --- 01 [01] 2d 40 -017 -14 Pff 00
02 faint music 05.33 40 0000 --- 01 [01] 12 40 +100 +28 Pff 01
03 RS3 40 0000 --- 01 [01] 19 40 +100 +28 Pff 02
04 Hellven 40 0480 -FP 01 [01] 20 40 +024 +29 Pff 03
05 40 0000 --P 01 [01] 23 40 +100 +23 Pff 04
06 shift f9, page down 40 0000 --P 01 [01] 23 40 +100 +23 Pff 05
07 40 0000 --P 01 [01] 23 40 +100 +23 Pff 06
08 40 0e00 A-- 01 [01] 20 40 +100 +28 Pff 07
09 this is a song i've 40 0000 --- 01 [01] 16 40 +100 +28 Pff 08
0a wanted to write for 40 0280 --P 01 [01] 13 40 +100 +40 Pff 09
0b over a year now. i 40 02c0 AF- 01 [01] 09 40 +100 +28 Pff 0a
0c have only recently 40 0000 --- 01 [01] 1d 40 +100 +28 Pff 0b
0d acquired the necessary 40 02c0 --- 01 [01] 20 40 +100 +28 Pff 0c
0e inspiration to convey 40 0000 --P 01 [01] 19 40 +100 +28 Pff 0d
0f what this poem means 40 0000 --P 01 [01] 19 40 +100 +28 Pff 0e
10 to me, and i hope you 40 0000 --P 01 [01] 18 40 +100 +28 Pff 0f
11 enjoy the result. 40 0000 --P 01 [01] 18 40 +100 +28 Pff 10
12 40 0000 --P 01 [01] 17 40 +100 +28 Pff 11
13 please, write me. 40 0000 --P 01 [01] 17 40 +100 +28 Pff 12
14 40 0000 --P 01 [01] 16 40 +100 +28 Pff 13
15 40 0000 --P 01 [01] 15 40 +100 +28 Pff 14
16 40 0000 --- 01 [01] 28 40 +100 +28 Pff 15
17 40 0000 --- 01 [01] 2d 40 +100 +28 Pff 16
18 40 0400 AF- 01 [01] 20 40 +079 +48 Pff 17
19 40 0000 --- 01 [01] 40 40 -030 -29 Pff 18
22 triad@darkscape.net 40 0000 --- 00 [ ] -- -- ---- --- --- --

>
> faint music
> RS3 / Hellven
> near the end of june, two-thousand
>
> mailto:triad@darkscape.net
> http://triad.darkscape.net [will be updated soon hopefully]
>
>
>
> inspiration gathered from
>
> sandalwood
> night fog
> daylight
> prof. wagner
> and hass
>
>
>
>
> respects to hellven and sstrax patrons.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> v [pgdn]
>
>
> Maybe you need to write a poem about grace.
>
> When everything broken is broken,
> and everything dead is dead,
> and the hero has looked into the mirror with complete contempt,
> and the heroine has studied her face and its defects
> remorselessly, and the pain that they thought might,
> as a token of their earnestness, release them from themselves
> has lost its novelty and not released them,
> and they have begun to think, kindly and distantly,
> watching the others go about their days--
> likes and dislikes, reasons, habits, fears--
> that self-love is the one weedy stalk
> of every human blossoming, and understood,
> therefore, why they had been, all their lives,
> in such a fury to defend it, and that no one--
> except some almost inconceivable saint in his pool
> of poverty and silence--can escape this violent, automatic
> life's companion ever, maybe then, ordinary light,
> faint music under things, a hovering like grace appears.
>
> As in the story a friend told once about the time
> he tried to kill himself. His girl had left him.
>
> Bees in the heart, then scorpions, maggots, and then ash.
> He climbed onto the jumping girder of the bridge,
> the bay side, a blue, lucid afternoon.
> And in the salt air he thought about the word "seafood,"
> that there was something faintly ridiculous about it.
> No one said "landfood." He thought it was degrading to the
> rainbow perch
> he'd reeled in gleaming from the cliffs, the black rockbass,
> scales like polished carbon, in beds of kelp
>
>
> along the coast--and he realized that the reason for the word
> was crabs, or mussels, clams. Otherwise
> the restaurants could just put "fish" up on their signs,
> and when he woke--he'd slept for hours, curled up
> on the girder like a child--the sun was going down
> and he felt a little better, and afraid. He put on the jacket
> he'd used for a pillow, climbed over the railing
> carefully, and drove home to an empty house.
>
> There was a pair of her lemon yellow panties
> hanging on the doorknob. He studied them. Much-washed.
> A faint russet in the crotch that made him sick
> with rage and grief. He knew more or less
> where she was. A flat somewhere on Russian Hill.
> They'd have just finished making love. She'd have tears
> in her eyes and touch his jawbone gratefully. "God,"
> she'd say, "you are so good for me." Winking lights,
> a foggy view downhill toward the harbor and the bay.
> "You're sad," he'd say. "Yes." "Thinking about Nick?"
> "Yes," she'd say and cry. "I tried so hard," sobbing now,
> "I really tried so hard." And then he'd hold her for a while--
> Guatemalan weavings from his fieldwork on the wall--
> and then they'd fuck again, and she would cry some more,
> and go to sleep.
> And he, he'd play that scene
> once only, once and a half, and tell himself
> that he was going to carry it for a very long time
> and there was nothing he could do
> but carry it. He went out onto the porch, and listened
> to the forest in the summer dark, madrone bark
> cracking and curling as the cold came up.
>
> It's not the story though, not the friend
>
>
> leaning toward you, saying "And then I realized--,"
> which is the part of stories one never quite believes.
> I had the idea that the world's so full of pain
> it must sometimes make a kind of singing.
> And that the sequence helps, as much as the order helps--
> First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing. [1996]
>
> - Robert Hass, /Faint Music/
> Extracted from Sun Under Wood.

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