Lay Low Play Slow Quotes

The Dying Gladiator I see before me the Gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand - his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low - And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him - he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not - his eyes Were with his heart and that was far away; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young-barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother - he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday - All this rushed with his blood - Shall he expire And unavenged? - Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

Whitehouse Road" Early in the morning when the sun does rise Layin' in the bed with bloodshot eyes Late in the evenin' when the sun sinks low Well that's about time my rooster crows I got women up and down this creek And they keep me going and my engine clean Run me ragged but I don't fret Cause there ain't been one slow me down none yet Get me drinking' that moonshine Get me higher than the grocery bill Take my troubles to the highwall Throw 'em in the river and get your fill We been sniffing that cocaine Ain't nothin' better when the wind cuts cold Lord it's a mighty hard livin' But a damn good feelin' to run these roads I got people try to tell me, Red Keep this livin' and you'll wind up dead Cast your troubles on the Lord of Lord's Or wind up laying on a coolin' board But I got buddies up White House Road And they keep me strutting when my feet hang low Rotgut whiskey gonna ease my pain 'N all this runnin's gonna keep me sane Get me drinking' that moonshine Get me higher than the grocery bill Take my troubles to the highwall Throw 'em in the river and get your fill We been sniffing that cocaine Ain't nothin' better when the wind cuts cold Lord it's a mighty hard livin' But a damn good feelin' to run these roads It's a damn good feelin' to run these roads When they lay me in the cold hard clay Won't ya sing them hymns while the banjo plays You can tell them ladies that they ought not frown Cause there ain't been nothing ever held me down Lawmen, women or a shallow grave Same ol' blues just a different day Get me drinking' that moonshine Get me higher than the grocery bill Take my troubles to the highwall Throw 'em in the river and get your fill We been sniffing that cocaine Ain't nothin' better when the wind cuts cold Lord it's a mighty hard livin' But a damn good feelin' to run these roads It's a damn good feelin' to run these roads It's a damn good feelin' to run these roads Tyler Childers, Purgatory (2017)

In his book Be Different: Adventures of a Free-Range Aspergian, John Elder Robison described this progression of creativity—one that led to his career creating sound effects and musical instruments and designing laser shows and video games. He wrote that he first became interested in music as an adolescent, because he was fascinated with the patterns that music waves made on an oscilloscope, a device that displays electric signs and lines and shapes on a small screen. “Each signal had its own unique shape,” he wrote. These signals were the bottom-up details. He spent eight to ten hours a day “absorbing music and unraveling how the waves looked, and how electrical signals worked,” he wrote. “I watched and listened and watched some more until my eyes and ears became interchangeable.” In other words, he was storing up memories. “By then, I could look at a pattern on the scope and know what it sounded like, and I could look at a sound and know what it looked like.” Based on those memories of details, he had taught himself how to make the necessary associations. Then he was ready for the creative leap: If I set the scope to sweep slowly, the rhythm of the music dominated the screen. Loud passages would appear as broad streaks, while quiet passages thinned down to a single tiny squiggle. A slightly higher sweep speed showed me the big, heavy, slow waves of the bass line and the kick drum as wide squiggles. Most of the energy was contained in those low notes. Up higher, with a faster scope setting, I found the vocals. At the top of it all lay the jagged fast waves from the cymbals. Every instrument had a distinct pattern, even when they were all playing the same melody. With practice, I learned how to distinguish a passage played on an organ from the same music played on a guitar. But I didn’t stop there. As I listened to the instruments, I realized each one had its own voice. “You’re nuts,” my friends said, but I was right. The musicians all had their own ways of playing, but their instruments were unique, too. The emphasis is mine. The neurotypical response to his insight was to dismiss it. But Robison could hear what other people missed. Actually, he could see it: “I saw the whole thing as a great mental puzzle—adding the waves from different instruments in my head, and figuring out what the result would look like.” He was, he learned, working in a kind of waveform mathematics, even though he didn’t think of his work as math.