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Letters from Quotidia 2024 Episode 3
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Letters from Quotidia, 2024- Episode 3. You don’t need a visa to enter Quotidia because Quotidia remains that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary.
To mark St Patrick’s Day I wish to refer to three Rocky Roads. The first, a documentary made by Irish journalist, Peter Lennon, in 1968 which reported on his sad, emotionally frozen, culturally isolated homeland. In a Guardian article of 2005 Phillip French states, His thesis was that a revolution launched by poets and socialists had been hijacked by conservative politicians and a repressive church and the country diverted into the nostalgic celebration of old heroes. This argument appealed to the Irish young but was rejected by the Irish establishment and never shown outside Dublin or on TV.
The Ireland of the time was in the grip of an obscurantist, uncultivated church, according to short story writer Sean O’Faolain and Lennon’s friend in Paris, Samuel Beckett, warned him not to bother making the film because they aren't serious people. But he did and the documentary, Rocky Road to Dublin, was re-released to wide acclaim in an Ireland utterly changed in the intervening decades.
The second Rocky Road to which I will briefly but somewhat indulgently refer is a personal one. In September 1968 I moved to Belfast to attend College and in quick order over the next four years, whilst humming with a beer buzz, became involved in student politics, got engaged, became hospitalised with sarcoidosis, married, welcomed my elder daughter into the wildly rioting world, lived up the Whiterock Road during internment, and flew out to Australia with my wife and infant child to start a new life.
But the third Rocky Road is the main subject and my first song. The Rocky Road to Dublin features the common archetype of the young man who leaves home to make his mark on the world, driven by the desire to prove himself, overcoming obstacles to achieve greatness. Bilbo and Frodo Baggins from The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings come to mind. As do Harry Potter from the popular series by R K Rowling. For those more addicted to film than the written word, Luke Skywalker from the Star Wars franchise will be a shining example of the type. Let’s now follow the more comically mundane adventures of a young man as he makes his way from Galway to Dublin and then to Liverpool. [insert song]
But for every male adventurer who makes it large, there are a legion of those who miss the mark and end up like the ageing “Sport” described, with deep pathos, by African American poet, Langston Hughes, Life/For him/Must be/The shivering of/A great drum/Beaten with swift sticks/Then at the closing hour/The lights go out/And there is no music at all/ And death becomes/An empty cabaret/And eternity an unblown saxophone/And yesterday a glass of gin/Drunk long/Ago. Oh Lord, such succinctness is the mark of a great poet, don’t you think?
And that sad segue leads me to the second song of this post, If Wishes Were Fishes, by Eric Bogle. I first heard of him fifty years ago when I was attending a folk night in a farmhouse near the Hawkesbury River north-west of Sydney.Someone sang And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda, a song about the ANZACSin the disastrous Gallipoli campaign, Its music and lyrical scope stood head and shoulders above the other offerings on the night and when, later, I heard his song, No Man’s Land a.k.a. The Green Fields of France, I had goosebumps, such was the physical impact of that song on me.
And over the years, alone and with others, I have covered songs such as, Shelter, which celebrates Australia’s welcoming of migrants to its shores- but this was before the inhuman policies of the 2000s and later where refugees were turned back or incarcerated indefinitely in off-shore tropical island hellholes. Now I’m Easy a.k.a. The Cocky Farmer traces a farmer’s life and stoicism in the face of tragedies. My Youngest Son Came Home Today delineates the horrors of the troubles in Northern Ireland. But it’s with If Wishes Were Fishes that I choose to close this letter.
I identify with so many elements of the song that if I didn’t know for certain that Bogle wrote the thing, I would imagine that I had done so myself! And because I am tracking the advance of A. I.- and advancing it certainly is- I requested a poem about wishes from my Bing Co-pilot. This is what it came up with: I wish I could fly in the sky/And touch the clouds with my hands/I wish I could swim in the sea/And explore the depths with my eyes/I wish I could run in the fields/And feel the breeze on my face/I wish I could climb the mountains/And see the world from above/But most of all, I wish I could be/The person that you love//
You know, that’s not a bad effort for less than five seconds composition! I remain confident, but increasingly less so, that we still have a while to rule the roost as writers and musicians before we have to be content to compete among our lesser selves as, say, the Special Olympics competitors do in their own contests quarantined off from more able-bodied athletes. [insert song]
The next post drops on 14 April on which day the RMS Titanic struck an iceberg just before midnight; President Lincoln was assassinated and, on a more personal and joyous note, my younger daughter was born. Until then, keep safe, be happy, and perform a little act of kindness every day to make a difference to someone.
To mark St Patrick’s Day I wish to refer to three Rocky Roads. The first, a documentary made by Irish journalist, Peter Lennon, in 1968 which reported on his sad, emotionally frozen, culturally isolated homeland. In a Guardian article of 2005 Phillip French states, His thesis was that a revolution launched by poets and socialists had been hijacked by conservative politicians and a repressive church and the country diverted into the nostalgic celebration of old heroes. This argument appealed to the Irish young but was rejected by the Irish establishment and never shown outside Dublin or on TV.
The Ireland of the time was in the grip of an obscurantist, uncultivated church, according to short story writer Sean O’Faolain and Lennon’s friend in Paris, Samuel Beckett, warned him not to bother making the film because they aren't serious people. But he did and the documentary, Rocky Road to Dublin, was re-released to wide acclaim in an Ireland utterly changed in the intervening decades.
The second Rocky Road to which I will briefly but somewhat indulgently refer is a personal one. In September 1968 I moved to Belfast to attend College and in quick order over the next four years, whilst humming with a beer buzz, became involved in student politics, got engaged, became hospitalised with sarcoidosis, married, welcomed my elder daughter into the wildly rioting world, lived up the Whiterock Road during internment, and flew out to Australia with my wife and infant child to start a new life.
But the third Rocky Road is the main subject and my first song. The Rocky Road to Dublin features the common archetype of the young man who leaves home to make his mark on the world, driven by the desire to prove himself, overcoming obstacles to achieve greatness. Bilbo and Frodo Baggins from The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings come to mind. As do Harry Potter from the popular series by R K Rowling. For those more addicted to film than the written word, Luke Skywalker from the Star Wars franchise will be a shining example of the type. Let’s now follow the more comically mundane adventures of a young man as he makes his way from Galway to Dublin and then to Liverpool. [insert song]
But for every male adventurer who makes it large, there are a legion of those who miss the mark and end up like the ageing “Sport” described, with deep pathos, by African American poet, Langston Hughes, Life/For him/Must be/The shivering of/A great drum/Beaten with swift sticks/Then at the closing hour/The lights go out/And there is no music at all/ And death becomes/An empty cabaret/And eternity an unblown saxophone/And yesterday a glass of gin/Drunk long/Ago. Oh Lord, such succinctness is the mark of a great poet, don’t you think?
And that sad segue leads me to the second song of this post, If Wishes Were Fishes, by Eric Bogle. I first heard of him fifty years ago when I was attending a folk night in a farmhouse near the Hawkesbury River north-west of Sydney.Someone sang And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda, a song about the ANZACSin the disastrous Gallipoli campaign, Its music and lyrical scope stood head and shoulders above the other offerings on the night and when, later, I heard his song, No Man’s Land a.k.a. The Green Fields of France, I had goosebumps, such was the physical impact of that song on me.
And over the years, alone and with others, I have covered songs such as, Shelter, which celebrates Australia’s welcoming of migrants to its shores- but this was before the inhuman policies of the 2000s and later where refugees were turned back or incarcerated indefinitely in off-shore tropical island hellholes. Now I’m Easy a.k.a. The Cocky Farmer traces a farmer’s life and stoicism in the face of tragedies. My Youngest Son Came Home Today delineates the horrors of the troubles in Northern Ireland. But it’s with If Wishes Were Fishes that I choose to close this letter.
I identify with so many elements of the song that if I didn’t know for certain that Bogle wrote the thing, I would imagine that I had done so myself! And because I am tracking the advance of A. I.- and advancing it certainly is- I requested a poem about wishes from my Bing Co-pilot. This is what it came up with: I wish I could fly in the sky/And touch the clouds with my hands/I wish I could swim in the sea/And explore the depths with my eyes/I wish I could run in the fields/And feel the breeze on my face/I wish I could climb the mountains/And see the world from above/But most of all, I wish I could be/The person that you love//
You know, that’s not a bad effort for less than five seconds composition! I remain confident, but increasingly less so, that we still have a while to rule the roost as writers and musicians before we have to be content to compete among our lesser selves as, say, the Special Olympics competitors do in their own contests quarantined off from more able-bodied athletes. [insert song]
The next post drops on 14 April on which day the RMS Titanic struck an iceberg just before midnight; President Lincoln was assassinated and, on a more personal and joyous note, my younger daughter was born. Until then, keep safe, be happy, and perform a little act of kindness every day to make a difference to someone.
The Rocky Road to Dublin (slip jig/ words by D K Gavan 19th Century Galway poet)
In the merry month of June, now from me home, I started
Left the girls of Tuam were nearly broken-hearted
Saluted father dear, kissed me darling mother
Drank a pint of beer, me grief and tears to smother
Then off to reap the corn, and leave where I was born
Cut a stout, black thorn to banish ghosts and goblins
A brand-new pair of brogues to rattle over the bogs
And frighten all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin
One, two, three, four, five
Hunt the hare, and turn her down the rocky road
And all the ways to Dublin, whack-fol lolly-rah
In Mullingar that night, I rested limbs so weary
Started by daylight, next morning blithe and early
Took a drop of the pure to keep me heart from shrinking
That’s the Paddy’s cure when’er he’s on for drinking
To see the lassies smile, laughing all the while
At me curious style, ‘twould set your heart a-bubblin’
They asked me was I hired, and wages I required till I
Was nearly tired of the rocky road to Dublin
(Chorus)
In Dublin next arrived, I thought it such a pity
To be so soon deprived a view of that fine city
So then I took a stroll, all among the quality
Bundle it was stole, in a neat locality
Something crossed me mind, when I looked behind
No bundle could I find upon me stick a-wobblin’
‘Quiring for the rogue, said me Connaught brogue
It wasn’t much in vogue on the rocky road to Dublin
Chorus)
From there I got away, me spirits never falling
Landed on the quay, just as the ship was sailing
Captain at me roared, said that no room had he
When I jumped aboard, a cabin found for Paddy
Down among the pigs, did some hearty rigs
I played some hearty jigs, the water round me bubbling
When off Holy head I wished meself was dead
Or better far instead on the rocky road to Dublin
(Chorus)
The boys of Liverpool, when we safely landed
Called meself a fool, I could no longer stand it
Blood began to boil, temper I was losing
Poor old Erin’s Isle they began abusing
“Hurrah me soul” says I, me Shillelagh I let fly
Galway’s boys were by and saw I was a hobblin’
With a loud “hurray” they joined in the affray
Quickly cleared the way for the rocky road to Dublin
(Chorus)
If Wishes Were Fishes (Eric Bogle)
I wish I was home again, at home in my heart again.
It’s been a long time since my heart talked to me.
Wastin’ my precious days wishin’ my life away.
If wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets in the sea.
And I wish I was young again, my song still to be sung again.
The sweet tunes of my life have gone sour and off key.
Writin’ my tired old rhymes, tryin’ to turn back time.
If wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets in the sea.
If wishes were fishes, I know where I’d be:
Casting my net in the dark rolling sea.
And if my net’s empty when it comes back to shore,
I’ll throw it away and go fishing no more.
I wish I could care again, reach out and share again,
Mend what’s been broken and let it run free.
The older I get, it seems, the more wishin’ takes the place of dreams.
If wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets in the sea.
If wishes were fishes, I know where I’d be:
Casting my net in the dark rolling sea.
And if my net’s empty when it comes back to shore,
I’ll throw it away and go fishing no more.
I wish I was home again, at home in my heart again.
It’s been a long time since my heart talked to me.
Wastin’ my precious days, wishin’ my life away.
If wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets in the sea.
Credits: All written text, song lyrics and music (including background music) written and composed by Quentin Bega unless otherwise specified in the credits section after individual posts. Illustrative excerpts from other texts identified clearly within each podcast. I donate to and use Wikipedia frequently as one of the saner sources of information on the web.
Technical Stuff: Microphone-songs Shure SM58; (for the podcast spoken content) Audio Technica AT 2020 front-facing with pop filter); Apogee 76K also used for songs and spoken text. For recording and mixing down: 64-bit N-Track Studio 10 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2023 combo for music composition.
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Letters from Quotidia, 2024- Episode 3. You don’t need a visa to enter Quotidia because Quotidia remains that space, that place, where ordinary people lead ordinary lives. But where, from time to time, they encounter the extraordinary.
To mark St Patrick’s Day I wish to refer to three Rocky Roads. The first, a documentary made by Irish journalist, Peter Lennon, in 1968 which reported on his sad, emotionally frozen, culturally isolated homeland. In a Guardian article of 2005 Phillip French states, His thesis was that a revolution launched by poets and socialists had been hijacked by conservative politicians and a repressive church and the country diverted into the nostalgic celebration of old heroes. This argument appealed to the Irish young but was rejected by the Irish establishment and never shown outside Dublin or on TV.
The Ireland of the time was in the grip of an obscurantist, uncultivated church, according to short story writer Sean O’Faolain and Lennon’s friend in Paris, Samuel Beckett, warned him not to bother making the film because they aren't serious people. But he did and the documentary, Rocky Road to Dublin, was re-released to wide acclaim in an Ireland utterly changed in the intervening decades.
The second Rocky Road to which I will briefly but somewhat indulgently refer is a personal one. In September 1968 I moved to Belfast to attend College and in quick order over the next four years, whilst humming with a beer buzz, became involved in student politics, got engaged, became hospitalised with sarcoidosis, married, welcomed my elder daughter into the wildly rioting world, lived up the Whiterock Road during internment, and flew out to Australia with my wife and infant child to start a new life.
But the third Rocky Road is the main subject and my first song. The Rocky Road to Dublin features the common archetype of the young man who leaves home to make his mark on the world, driven by the desire to prove himself, overcoming obstacles to achieve greatness. Bilbo and Frodo Baggins from The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings come to mind. As do Harry Potter from the popular series by R K Rowling. For those more addicted to film than the written word, Luke Skywalker from the Star Wars franchise will be a shining example of the type. Let’s now follow the more comically mundane adventures of a young man as he makes his way from Galway to Dublin and then to Liverpool. [insert song]
But for every male adventurer who makes it large, there are a legion of those who miss the mark and end up like the ageing “Sport” described, with deep pathos, by African American poet, Langston Hughes, Life/For him/Must be/The shivering of/A great drum/Beaten with swift sticks/Then at the closing hour/The lights go out/And there is no music at all/ And death becomes/An empty cabaret/And eternity an unblown saxophone/And yesterday a glass of gin/Drunk long/Ago. Oh Lord, such succinctness is the mark of a great poet, don’t you think?
And that sad segue leads me to the second song of this post, If Wishes Were Fishes, by Eric Bogle. I first heard of him fifty years ago when I was attending a folk night in a farmhouse near the Hawkesbury River north-west of Sydney.Someone sang And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda, a song about the ANZACSin the disastrous Gallipoli campaign, Its music and lyrical scope stood head and shoulders above the other offerings on the night and when, later, I heard his song, No Man’s Land a.k.a. The Green Fields of France, I had goosebumps, such was the physical impact of that song on me.
And over the years, alone and with others, I have covered songs such as, Shelter, which celebrates Australia’s welcoming of migrants to its shores- but this was before the inhuman policies of the 2000s and later where refugees were turned back or incarcerated indefinitely in off-shore tropical island hellholes. Now I’m Easy a.k.a. The Cocky Farmer traces a farmer’s life and stoicism in the face of tragedies. My Youngest Son Came Home Today delineates the horrors of the troubles in Northern Ireland. But it’s with If Wishes Were Fishes that I choose to close this letter.
I identify with so many elements of the song that if I didn’t know for certain that Bogle wrote the thing, I would imagine that I had done so myself! And because I am tracking the advance of A. I.- and advancing it certainly is- I requested a poem about wishes from my Bing Co-pilot. This is what it came up with: I wish I could fly in the sky/And touch the clouds with my hands/I wish I could swim in the sea/And explore the depths with my eyes/I wish I could run in the fields/And feel the breeze on my face/I wish I could climb the mountains/And see the world from above/But most of all, I wish I could be/The person that you love//
You know, that’s not a bad effort for less than five seconds composition! I remain confident, but increasingly less so, that we still have a while to rule the roost as writers and musicians before we have to be content to compete among our lesser selves as, say, the Special Olympics competitors do in their own contests quarantined off from more able-bodied athletes. [insert song]
The next post drops on 14 April on which day the RMS Titanic struck an iceberg just before midnight; President Lincoln was assassinated and, on a more personal and joyous note, my younger daughter was born. Until then, keep safe, be happy, and perform a little act of kindness every day to make a difference to someone.
To mark St Patrick’s Day I wish to refer to three Rocky Roads. The first, a documentary made by Irish journalist, Peter Lennon, in 1968 which reported on his sad, emotionally frozen, culturally isolated homeland. In a Guardian article of 2005 Phillip French states, His thesis was that a revolution launched by poets and socialists had been hijacked by conservative politicians and a repressive church and the country diverted into the nostalgic celebration of old heroes. This argument appealed to the Irish young but was rejected by the Irish establishment and never shown outside Dublin or on TV.
The Ireland of the time was in the grip of an obscurantist, uncultivated church, according to short story writer Sean O’Faolain and Lennon’s friend in Paris, Samuel Beckett, warned him not to bother making the film because they aren't serious people. But he did and the documentary, Rocky Road to Dublin, was re-released to wide acclaim in an Ireland utterly changed in the intervening decades.
The second Rocky Road to which I will briefly but somewhat indulgently refer is a personal one. In September 1968 I moved to Belfast to attend College and in quick order over the next four years, whilst humming with a beer buzz, became involved in student politics, got engaged, became hospitalised with sarcoidosis, married, welcomed my elder daughter into the wildly rioting world, lived up the Whiterock Road during internment, and flew out to Australia with my wife and infant child to start a new life.
But the third Rocky Road is the main subject and my first song. The Rocky Road to Dublin features the common archetype of the young man who leaves home to make his mark on the world, driven by the desire to prove himself, overcoming obstacles to achieve greatness. Bilbo and Frodo Baggins from The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings come to mind. As do Harry Potter from the popular series by R K Rowling. For those more addicted to film than the written word, Luke Skywalker from the Star Wars franchise will be a shining example of the type. Let’s now follow the more comically mundane adventures of a young man as he makes his way from Galway to Dublin and then to Liverpool. [insert song]
But for every male adventurer who makes it large, there are a legion of those who miss the mark and end up like the ageing “Sport” described, with deep pathos, by African American poet, Langston Hughes, Life/For him/Must be/The shivering of/A great drum/Beaten with swift sticks/Then at the closing hour/The lights go out/And there is no music at all/ And death becomes/An empty cabaret/And eternity an unblown saxophone/And yesterday a glass of gin/Drunk long/Ago. Oh Lord, such succinctness is the mark of a great poet, don’t you think?
And that sad segue leads me to the second song of this post, If Wishes Were Fishes, by Eric Bogle. I first heard of him fifty years ago when I was attending a folk night in a farmhouse near the Hawkesbury River north-west of Sydney.Someone sang And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda, a song about the ANZACSin the disastrous Gallipoli campaign, Its music and lyrical scope stood head and shoulders above the other offerings on the night and when, later, I heard his song, No Man’s Land a.k.a. The Green Fields of France, I had goosebumps, such was the physical impact of that song on me.
And over the years, alone and with others, I have covered songs such as, Shelter, which celebrates Australia’s welcoming of migrants to its shores- but this was before the inhuman policies of the 2000s and later where refugees were turned back or incarcerated indefinitely in off-shore tropical island hellholes. Now I’m Easy a.k.a. The Cocky Farmer traces a farmer’s life and stoicism in the face of tragedies. My Youngest Son Came Home Today delineates the horrors of the troubles in Northern Ireland. But it’s with If Wishes Were Fishes that I choose to close this letter.
I identify with so many elements of the song that if I didn’t know for certain that Bogle wrote the thing, I would imagine that I had done so myself! And because I am tracking the advance of A. I.- and advancing it certainly is- I requested a poem about wishes from my Bing Co-pilot. This is what it came up with: I wish I could fly in the sky/And touch the clouds with my hands/I wish I could swim in the sea/And explore the depths with my eyes/I wish I could run in the fields/And feel the breeze on my face/I wish I could climb the mountains/And see the world from above/But most of all, I wish I could be/The person that you love//
You know, that’s not a bad effort for less than five seconds composition! I remain confident, but increasingly less so, that we still have a while to rule the roost as writers and musicians before we have to be content to compete among our lesser selves as, say, the Special Olympics competitors do in their own contests quarantined off from more able-bodied athletes. [insert song]
The next post drops on 14 April on which day the RMS Titanic struck an iceberg just before midnight; President Lincoln was assassinated and, on a more personal and joyous note, my younger daughter was born. Until then, keep safe, be happy, and perform a little act of kindness every day to make a difference to someone.
The Rocky Road to Dublin (slip jig/ words by D K Gavan 19th Century Galway poet)
In the merry month of June, now from me home, I started
Left the girls of Tuam were nearly broken-hearted
Saluted father dear, kissed me darling mother
Drank a pint of beer, me grief and tears to smother
Then off to reap the corn, and leave where I was born
Cut a stout, black thorn to banish ghosts and goblins
A brand-new pair of brogues to rattle over the bogs
And frighten all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin
One, two, three, four, five
Hunt the hare, and turn her down the rocky road
And all the ways to Dublin, whack-fol lolly-rah
In Mullingar that night, I rested limbs so weary
Started by daylight, next morning blithe and early
Took a drop of the pure to keep me heart from shrinking
That’s the Paddy’s cure when’er he’s on for drinking
To see the lassies smile, laughing all the while
At me curious style, ‘twould set your heart a-bubblin’
They asked me was I hired, and wages I required till I
Was nearly tired of the rocky road to Dublin
(Chorus)
In Dublin next arrived, I thought it such a pity
To be so soon deprived a view of that fine city
So then I took a stroll, all among the quality
Bundle it was stole, in a neat locality
Something crossed me mind, when I looked behind
No bundle could I find upon me stick a-wobblin’
‘Quiring for the rogue, said me Connaught brogue
It wasn’t much in vogue on the rocky road to Dublin
Chorus)
From there I got away, me spirits never falling
Landed on the quay, just as the ship was sailing
Captain at me roared, said that no room had he
When I jumped aboard, a cabin found for Paddy
Down among the pigs, did some hearty rigs
I played some hearty jigs, the water round me bubbling
When off Holy head I wished meself was dead
Or better far instead on the rocky road to Dublin
(Chorus)
The boys of Liverpool, when we safely landed
Called meself a fool, I could no longer stand it
Blood began to boil, temper I was losing
Poor old Erin’s Isle they began abusing
“Hurrah me soul” says I, me Shillelagh I let fly
Galway’s boys were by and saw I was a hobblin’
With a loud “hurray” they joined in the affray
Quickly cleared the way for the rocky road to Dublin
(Chorus)
If Wishes Were Fishes (Eric Bogle)
I wish I was home again, at home in my heart again.
It’s been a long time since my heart talked to me.
Wastin’ my precious days wishin’ my life away.
If wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets in the sea.
And I wish I was young again, my song still to be sung again.
The sweet tunes of my life have gone sour and off key.
Writin’ my tired old rhymes, tryin’ to turn back time.
If wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets in the sea.
If wishes were fishes, I know where I’d be:
Casting my net in the dark rolling sea.
And if my net’s empty when it comes back to shore,
I’ll throw it away and go fishing no more.
I wish I could care again, reach out and share again,
Mend what’s been broken and let it run free.
The older I get, it seems, the more wishin’ takes the place of dreams.
If wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets in the sea.
If wishes were fishes, I know where I’d be:
Casting my net in the dark rolling sea.
And if my net’s empty when it comes back to shore,
I’ll throw it away and go fishing no more.
I wish I was home again, at home in my heart again.
It’s been a long time since my heart talked to me.
Wastin’ my precious days, wishin’ my life away.
If wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets in the sea.
Credits: All written text, song lyrics and music (including background music) written and composed by Quentin Bega unless otherwise specified in the credits section after individual posts. Illustrative excerpts from other texts identified clearly within each podcast. I donate to and use Wikipedia frequently as one of the saner sources of information on the web.
Technical Stuff: Microphone-songs Shure SM58; (for the podcast spoken content) Audio Technica AT 2020 front-facing with pop filter); Apogee 76K also used for songs and spoken text. For recording and mixing down: 64-bit N-Track Studio 10 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2023 combo for music composition.