Memoirs of a Damned (29)

The composer years (22)

A poem made music: Poemario de fonética musical 1.0  ( Musical phonetics poem 1.0) 2021

Continuing with the experimentation, I published this curious collection of poems.

I had acquired Dexed, the software for the legendary Yamaha DX7. I had never owned a synthesizer as iconic as this one. Also, as I mentioned, my parents were reluctant to buy me anything better than a mini Casio.

Dexed, a digital version for Yamaha DX7

Now I had the opportunity, but I wanted to give you a different use. The crazy idea occurred to me

to create a synthesis based on Spanish phonetics, keeping in mind the challenge and the daring

project. Using the frequencies of vowels and consonants and all their combinations. Editing all of that took me longer than the composition itself. Hundreds of cards searching for the right oscillators and frequencies. I immersed myself in applied phonetics through more detailed work in the teaching guide for this album.

Now I had to select poems in varied meters and mask their authors, because the poem was a vehicle, not the end.

The result was disastrous and lacked any artistic value. Then I had to resort to sound libraries and characterize each poem, remember, without knowing its title and author, since they were retitled in this album.

The result was salvageable, but the secondary aspects predominated over the purely original.

It was also the year Wikipedia refused to allow it to be included in its catalog. I remember the

unsuccessful efforts of an Argentine freelancer.

I think it was this year when, foolishly, I moved to Navalperal de Pinares, in Ávila. I thought being close to the only brother I kept in touch with would ease my loneliness. Furthermore, I was wrong.

When I arrived in that town in the harsh winter of February 2021, I felt like I had finally found my place after so many years of moving. In fact, Pepe Andrades, the delivery driver I'd been a friend of since my time with the Lima Orchestra, said: this is your place. I still wonder if he was making fun of me. If I ever reach the Olympic podium, even two or three steps lower, they won't be able to say: berekekê lived here. As my friend Rut says: that ass is restless.

At first, everything seemed beautiful: the birds singing, the silence of the night, until, as has always happened to me, the devil discovers where I am and sends one of his parishioners to explain it to me. On the other hand, there's the dryness of the Spanish language and the loneliness with nothing to do all day.

But an unpleasant event comes to overwhelm all that: the death of my younger brother. A difficult blow to overcome in the midst of a pandemic and with mobility restrictions. Despite everything said, my brother Pedro proved once again that he was where he should be, and I don't knowhow to repay that.

Family disagreements began to recur once more. A few coins from a poor, lonely diabetic with an amputated leg put everyone in their place. I counted on the admirable help of the only friend I had, who was worth hundreds or thousands of shares on any social network.

I returned from Puerto Real devastated, with a terrible and threatening depression that lasted almost the year I lived in those distant, harsh lands of Navalperal de Pinares.