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Re-writing my life & personal narrative. Top Writer in Music. Fiction writer, poet, musician, spoken-word guy, voice-over/audiobook guy.

New Series: Mesmerizing Interactive Music App Reviews #1

Biophilia’s 3D navigable home page; screenshot from my app’s home screen

Disclaimer: This is merely an impassioned review of an app I know, love, and want to share, and is in no way an affiliate link to the said app.

As a relative latecomer to devices, gadgets, and apps — I only acquired my first iThing in 2016 at the age of 40 — I have nonetheless made up for lost time.

As a music-lover and a musician, as soon as I discovered the never-ending plethora of App Store gimmicks for my then-new iPad Air, I went down a rabbit-hole I am not…


Incredible Cover Versions: “War Pigs” by Black Sabbath, covered by The Dresden Dolls

Screenshot from the Youtube video

“The Dresden…Who?

For those of you unacquainted with The Dresden Dolls, welcome: they are a phenomenon in their own league. Before we dive into their cover of Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs,” here’s a bit of history.

As two people who repeatedly hit things — but do so melodiously and in sync — they are a powerhouse of a duo, comprised of songwriter Amanda Palmer on vocals and piano, and a genius drummer, Brian Viglione.

More than just a band, and a very DIY, very fertile breeding ground for radically inclusive artistic communities, the Dresden Dolls were born in Boston from the ashes…


Spoken Word Music: In memory of my father.

Photo: my own; the sunrises you no longer see from down here.

NB: Song I first wrote when my father first fell gravely ill, two years before passing.

Creaking branches &
Limbs, bark of stump coarsed
By rings of time —
Though now dry, you’re still nurtured
By roots bound
To your core, to now, to memory, too.
A fresh cut’s keepsake sap,
Mnemosyne’s tear takes you back.

Quo animo? — earthbound stint on anvil forged.
Subliminal dreams of gold when young
From unshod toddler feet, through corseted Jesuit Nuns
The shores of your island would see you fly.

Past pitch & toss to First-Fiddle
Saville-Sir, ever upping ante,
Leapt in dark hazard…


Book Review

“The Art of Asking,” by Amanda Palmer

Photo: Author’s own

In this day and age — and especially over the last year — the vast majority of us got used to trudging through what may seem like the repetitious flux of days; the relentless rhythm of demands placed on us often making us feel overwhelmed or lost.

Our degrees of autopilot are such that we often forget what makes us human in the first place: compassion to others, compassion to ourselves and a deeply inquisitive nature which leaves no stone unturned.

In the midst of feeling overwhelmed, we also seem to have forgotten how to ask; not just for help…


Essay: When Big Business Refuses to Pay Those Who Help Make It “Big”

Photo by Alexander Shatov on Unsplash

He Did What?

For those of you who do not know the man, Daniel Ek is the CEO and co-founder of streaming platform Spotify. Valued at $4.68 billion, I am tempted to assume that, by his inventive addition to Spotify’s services for creators — called the “Artist Fundraising Pick” — the man wants to come across all philanthropic. Oh, I’m sorry — did that sound sarcastic?

In April, Paul McCartney, Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, Kate Bush, Noel Gallagher, and a host of other established UK artists signed a petition aimed at the UK government demanding that the level of agency wielded by streaming…


Micro-epiphanies: kernels of thought that float your mind

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

The first time I heard the word “dyslexic,” was in conversation with my parents after they returned from a meeting at my school. I think I was about twelve.

It came from my father’s mouth and sounded like an insult, but felt like a compliment — I thought he had said “you’re decalectric.” Well, if electricity was good, then so was my being decalectric, I initially thought. I might have smiled, I can’t recall; but my innocence would soon be yet another bruised fruit.

That “accusation,” and the conversation after it, were the first moments when the notion of being…


Flash fiction; Part II of II

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

NB: Click here to read Part I.

Soundscape composed for reading: listen with headphones for full effect.

Part II

Knowing then that movement in this new realm was a delicate thing, Josh very gently pushed his way through the foundations of the house back into his room.

It had changed, he noticed. In it were strange, unfamiliar objects: heavy oak armoires; beds in different positions. A colonial, rosewood kneehole desk, inlaid with silver and ivory, with a matching chair, were set by the bedroom window. …


Flash fiction; Part I of II

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Soundscape composed for reading: listen with headphones for full effect.

Part I

Josh looked at his alarm clock glowing on the nightstand. 2:00 am. Great. Another night awake inside my brain. Lying in bed, lights off, eyes closed, he felt — not an impression; a physical pulsation — amid the ceaseless din of thought. A clicking sound.

T-k.

Odd. A dry sound. No echo. Then, attention veering again to the vast possibilities of the day gone by, he felt a sudden heaviness, as if depleted of oxygen, and indulged the need to take deep, slow full-body breaths. Each time he inhaled…


Spoken word music

Photo by Zoe Holling on Unsplash; Photo by Christopher Burns on Unsplash; Composite photo art by Pedro B. Gorman
by The Sneaky Cameos: Me: drums & vocals; Lead guitar: Rui Mantero; Rhythm Guitar: Thomas Kahrel; Bass: John Klima

With staccato steps, spent snake-skin shoes
on feet he feels have failed
cotton-linen highways green, now tarmac blues:
blind, walks with callus-palms, probes road-sign braille.

There’s not a soul to lighten load
no roadkill keeps him fed
the trees that flank the road
are the dead he can’t forget.

He can’t remember vise of loss
sees no purpose in his lack. …


Flash fiction: An exercise in setting and characterization

Photo by Bojitha Wimalasiri on Unsplash

The hour before dinner is always the noisiest, most fragrant part of the day in Pembury Council Estate in Hackney. From the quintessential fug of oily, battered fish and vinegar-soaked chips, one can discern whiffs of palm oil and fried plantain; an airborne tang of thyme and braised scallions, right through to the brine of baked codfish, the scent of slow-cooked lentils and spicy berbere sauce; woody, fresh sweet notes of ginger, and a variety of curries and spices, the scents wafting out of kitchen windows are as diverse as the residents’ nationalities. …

Pedro B. Gorman

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