pages Undermusic

by Greggory Moore

Published in Issue No. 14 ~ July, 1998

  1. I think it’s too intricate for its own good. But what the hell am I gonna do about it? I mean, no plan that would work would be simple enough to pull off, would it? I don’t know. All I do know is that I’ve got to get the hell out of here. But I can’t even be sure it would work, anyway. I don’t even know if I’ve thought it through properly. Ah, it’s just bullshit, anyway. It’s just talk. It’s not worth mentioning.

  2. A man walks into a bar. He orders a beer or something (he can’t remember later), but he can’t think of anything snappy to say. So he sits down in a booth in the corner and watches the regulars play darts. He can’t think, he can’t think of anything snappy to say. He orders another beer (or something), but he can’t think of anything snappy to say, anything that’s worth mentioning.

  3. So few people play chords on the bass. Not the complex, virtuosic, theoretical chords you might hear in fusion, but the long, slow, drawn out chords, the spatial chords that point to something before the notes, something beneath the actual music. It’s not the skill then, but the ear, the feel. They don’t even paint the picture in full, they don’t fill in the emptiness, but they function on a quiet, subverted level. One, two, three . . . slow, and incomplete (in a way). Simple (on the surface), but reaching into . . . what? I don’t know. I could show you if things were different, I think. But I can’t now. I can’t explain it, really. I was just mentioning.

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Greggory Moore is a struggling artist whose short work has been published in England, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and the United States. He has completed a couple of longer, but unpublished novels. He fancies the work of Nabokov, Stoppard, Borges, and Sterne.