The Golden Egg

You know how many times you think it’s supposed to happen for you.
Everyone says that it should, just hang on, it will come, but it doesn’t.

Being a believer in instincts and wheels turning for a reason, when something, no matter what you do or what you try, seems to fall apart, you start to get worried.

This is happening to me right now and I’m worried.
What I’m doing appears to be moving, but on the other hand, the Golden Egg seems to be turning into a rotting 1000 year old turkey egg.

Maybe I’m wrong, but since I’m here trying to survive, the thought of still trying to survive on peanuts while waiting for the Golden Egg , I just can’t accept.
Time is very precious and since I’m sat here, unable to send out demo CD’s to film makers, even when unemployed in England I was able to do that, you wonder if I am really wasting my time.

My instincts in this case are hard to read, wishful thinking gets in the way, and it’s hard to shut out. My instincts tell me to hang on, but that’s what I think, and thinking isn’t what instincts are supposed to be about.

But I am writing for a short film, The Mannequin, in orchestral style, and as promised you will hear the results of that soon. It’s coming out sounding good, even though getting used to using Finale ( and on Windows “the program has stopped responding” XP) is painful.

I thought pro tools was bad, but this is the most unintuitive software I have ever seen.
Everything has a weird set routine that you wouldn’t really know, unless you have learnt it.
Change one parameter and it’s screwed, editing Midi, is made more complex and tedious than it has been for about 15 years. Cubase on an Atari has better midi editing.

Let’s hope I can get some cash for Live 6 which has video support (now that is a good move), but it will still have to be PC, as my mac can’t take the pressure of Garritan or full blown no 6.

Keep watching, posts to my podcast, and on the website will be coming soon.
Stay strong and don’t give up what you really want to do…

Paul Bishop
The Ghost That Walks