This is story music. It has many styles, moods and sources, evolving out of whatever I'm currently obsessing on.

Enjoy the stories.

The story in my notebook...

Note #56

A cave rimmed with fine brick-red dust draws me forward and I find myself floating in a dimly lit cavern. Flickering lights and the wet sounds are made by droplets and glassy creatures...chitinous chimes in the dark.

Note #55

A small line on the surface deepens into a chasm and I fall into it's depths as the sun is blotted out by the glittering metallic edges behind me.

Note #54

My eyes relax into the etchings of amber and silver, each spinning under and back around upon itself. I fall inward and feel myself drifting down into the patterns on the box.

Note #53

I drawn my legs up beneath me and stare into the patterns etched on it's surface. As I watch, the patterns seem to blend with the pattern of inlay along the top of the table. Delineating the box from the table is the shift from amber and silver to wood and dark varnish.

Note #52

Thinking on the music box, the day closes and as the sky darkens to blue-black, I dream.

Note #51

It sits on the side table next to my chair. Warm light from the lamp illuminates the little silver container, tracing it's grooves with amber, as though honey had seeped from within and hardened into etchings.

Note #50

The music box is waiting for me on my workbench. The sun sets as I lounge in a chair, pondering.

Note #49

Coming home involves two bridges, a hack and 318 long strides across the cobblestones, but the house welcomes me as always.

Note #48

At work the artificers have questions...always questions. I hardly have time for my own projects.

Note #47

Awake again in the brisk clear morning air, winter gone to the north and a young man's thoughts turn towards circuit design. To work ho!

Note #46

Such a heavy breakfast combined with the weight of the morning's events, sleep comes and I dream.

Note #45

Thread is a collection of fibers, fabric a collection of threads. The air spaces between the fibers insulate us and keep us warm. It's not the fabric itself, but the empty spaces within it that is useful to us.

Note #44

Easing down into the crevices of my work chair, my mind wanders.

Note #43

I reach out to feel the fabric. Varied textures pull at the tiny ridges of my fingertips. I need to think.

Note #42

"a long way down but the view is grand"

Note #41

"the jester and the general"

Note #40

"a monk steps out of the mirror"

Note #39

"the boots are very black"

Note #38

About a third is complete, showing the first panel of a fabric triptych and within that are four images.

Note #37

Back inside, I glance around the house, noting the loom with the tapestry embedded within it, gestating.

Note #36

Stepping out in my pajamas, I see that my garden is positively awash in trundle bugs.

Note #35

The inspector leaves and I am along with my scattered thoughts.

Note #34

The teacher learns from the student and the student gleans from it's instructor. Perhaps the crow aspires to be a teacher.

Note #33

My closed eyes don't hide the lights as the crow's voice beats against the glass, visions dancing in the vibrating reflections.

Note #32

The King of Crows sits in his feathered bed, looking out into an unworld while dining on small wriggling things retrieved by his subjects.

Note #31

A crow sits on the fence outside my dining room, staring in at me. A large crow. Perhaps their king? I never considered crows creepy till this moment. What kind of music would the King of Crows demand be played?

Note #30

I pick at my napkin. Some of the threads are loose.

Note #29

Pondering the tiny machine over a breakfast of sausage and eggs, toast and cheese, salsa and Tabasco. However, I am not alone. The inspector said: "Sit. Stay." Fine.

Note #28

Slipping the silver box into my pocket I check my mailbox and find some postcards from fellows who enjoyed my work. The men in white to do what they must with the body.

Note #27

When activated it sounded like this.

Note #26

He's dead. The paramedics validate this as the constables ask me questions. On my stoop. In my pajamas. I do not mention the music box.

Note #25

With a 'ting', a tiny music box falls onto the stoop from a clawed hand as a rattle shakes loose from the stranger's throat. I dial for service.

Note #24

Someone is knocking at my door. Who could it be? Why, it's a stranger with a blank face who weighs next to nothing as he falls into my arms.

Note #23

What is the measure for an accomplishment? Duration? Longest single piece ejected: ~1218 seconds. Jokes about length vs girth come to mind.

Note #22

Old tools lead to retro behavior...like hanging out in places I haven't been to since I was a teen. The novelty fades quickly, though the tools are still useful.

Note #21

A paramour once claimed "Tools are fetishes." Indeed.

Note #20

Moving into my study I look at my racks of replica tools. Retro is the word for today.

Note #19

I receive a letter from Helion regarding our lack of communication. Well yes, that was talkMUTE by design.

Note #18

The next morning's paper yields an interesting "article" No compression. Fascinating.

Note #17

Upon arriving home, I note the house wiring needs attention. Is that smoke I smell?

Note #16

My companion Helion meets me for a meal. We spend the afternoon gesticulating. Rough edges but very promising.

Note #15

Looking outside, there is music raining from the clouds.

Note #14

Sitting at my loom, I once again find myself over bundles of thread looking for the right feel. Select, tweak, deliberate upon, reject, rinse & repeat.

Note #13

The newspaper. I read the the weather report. Long live the clouds!

Note #12

What is story-music? Close your eyes and open your ears. Seek an adventure in which ear-cups are your Friar Tuck.

Note #11

I hear strains of an orchestra and cast about, looking for a source. Oh yes...the story.

Note #10

Neither cats, not their guts fear my gnarled fingers these days. But in my youth...har! Tabby-pot-pie!

Note #9

Patterns can be made by hand, but my tools are ones and zeros...or was it eyes and ohs? I forget. The best tools involve wood.

Note #8

When arranging vibrations, I bark out many kinds of noises. Some are bleepy. Some are blatty. Once in a while it goes "ooooooommmmmmmmm."

Note #7

People leave me notes in the strangest places. I spend my time arranging things...numbers, notes, small animals.

Note #6

My notations are billeted at Soundcloud. They have pretty lights and sparkly waveforms. Manducate my fruits and come back if you enjoy the tang.

Note #5

These notes are my entertainment. I confabulate to the me about our noise.

Note #4

Moving down this logbook is traveling backwards in time. You must scan upwards to reach the future. Merlin would be proud.

Note #3

We wrap up our old things and put them away, never to be seen again. This is as it should be. Neat. Tidy.

Note #2

Rewriting the past is humanity's favorite hobby. I'm guilty of this as well but lack the verve that some seem to have.

Note #1

Don't turn your back on things not from around here.

Note #0

Harken now the cries of birds.

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