Die Cast.

Guess who I’m watching?

With LOTS TO POST and all I am able to say is Eniac | Whispering Silence | Greve | Mess In A... | I only need one contact

Served. And aced, so I bow out with an account of the full fiction.

Here is a first stab. It is in fact just Wikipedia’s article on the (Army of the) Twelve Monkeys. I was set up, and flipped into full sorority mode for two nights. So much seems real, but it is the paint. The fumes. They don’t dissolve my brain, and the images of parasites in my body are lies too, as are the contorted words—you’d think I’d learn—that form threats against family and friends, inasmuch as the screenplay allows these things to exist. But it is almost entirely faked. However, that doesn’t stop much of this coming from a serious plot pointed toward me in one way, and then there’s the whole world thing as well.

It is a ridiculously exciting story, but for me, some sleep and serious teaching! And that sweet revenge I have been dreaming up, it will stay a dream to exactly the same extent that this is all in the same dream, an insidious fiction that spiralled out of usual control, with, in all relatively, my friends being flung like off the netted Escher Möbius strip with the ants walking around it; but with sharper edges and more wear and tear showing, and desperation in others, and the print changing slightly, and yes I thought I the spectrographs were cool, but I suppose just the sounds were. At least I can hit the big apple this weekend to catch up with the friends some of whom I mentally maligned but at least only uttered these things in a strange voice, kind of imagined as pathos from the marathon of Monday, my secrets secretly being a cat leaping from a blackened bridge, not as subtle as that of the friars in London in the Propaganda Due lodge utter crashing and the hanging of a token from the appropriate London bridge. Is falling down falling down.

So, to relax, stop noticing the giant eyes of Erebus and thinking of the Charles as Styx or any other 70s band. I listened to a track called “Dream on” which I know I made in 2005 and flipped linearly in the frequency domain around 1/4 the sampling rate and sprinkle Grimm Bros. image magick on it and thought short but hard, like Zoolander bringing to mind Frankie goes to Hollywood, the chilling is where the killing is to be made, and jobs for me are done well or not started. A mistake? No. The job has started even if it is in Kafka’s mind on a boring day, apple lodged in insect-Kevlar shell, but to fester in a focused way. Mrs A will be proud of me, though I do not plan to fall.

Here is 12m, material from the active W.

12 Monkeys is a 1995 science fiction film directed by Terry Gilliam, inspired by Chris Marker's 1962 short film La jetée, and starring Bruce Willis, Madeleine Stowe, Brad Pitt, and Christopher Plummer.

After Universal Studios acquired the rights to remake La Jetée as a full-length film, David and Janet Peoples were hired to write the script. Under Terry Gilliam's direction, Universal granted the filmmakers a $29.5 million budget, and filming lasted from February to May 1995. The film was shot mostly in Philadelphia and Baltimore, where the story was set.

The film was released to critical praise and grossed approximately $168.4 million worldwide. Brad Pitt was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor, and won a Golden Globe for his performance. The film also won and was nominated for various categories at the Saturn Awards.

Plot

James Cole (Bruce Willis) is a convicted criminal living in a grim post-apocalyptic future. In 1996–1997, the Earth's surface was contaminated by a virus so deadly that it forced the surviving population to live underground. To earn a pardon, Cole allows scientists to send him on dangerous missions to the past to collect information on the virus, thought to be released by a terrorist organization known as the Army of the Twelve Monkeys. If possible, he is to obtain a pure sample of the original virus so a cure can be made. Throughout the film, Cole is troubled with recurring dreams involving a chase and a shooting in an airport.

On Cole's first trip, he arrives in Baltimore in 1990, not 1996 as planned. He is arrested and hospitalized in a mental institution on the diagnosis of Dr. Kathryn Railly (Madeleine Stowe). There, he encounters Jeffrey Goines (Brad Pitt), a fellow mental patient with animal rights and anti-consumerist leanings whose father is a renowned virologist. Cole tries unsuccessfully to leave a voicemail on a number monitored by the scientists in the future. After a failed escape attempt, Cole is restrained and locked in a cell, but then disappears, returning to the future. Back in his own time, Cole is interviewed by the scientists, who play a distorted voice mail message which gives the location of the Army of the Twelve Monkeys and states that they are responsible for the virus. He is also shown photos of numerous people, including Goines. The scientists then send him back to 1996.

Cole kidnaps Railly and sets out in search of Goines, learning that he is the founder of the Army of the Twelve Monkeys. When confronted, however, Goines denies any involvement with the virus and suggests that wiping out humanity was Cole's idea, originally broached at the asylum in 1990. Cole vanishes again as the police approach. After Cole disappears, Railly begins to doubt her diagnosis of Cole when she finds evidence that he is telling the truth. Cole, on the other hand, convinces himself that his future experiences are hallucinations, and persuades the scientists to send him back again. Railly attempts to settle the question of Cole's sanity by leaving a voice mail on the number he provided, creating the message the scientists played prior to his second mission. They both now realize that the coming plague is real, and make plans to enjoy the time they have left.

On their way to the airport, they learn that the Army of the Twelve Monkeys is a red herring; all the Army has done is delay traffic by releasing all the animals in the zoo. At the airport, Cole leaves a last message telling the scientists they are on the wrong track following the Army of the Twelve Monkeys, and that he will not return. He is soon confronted by Jose (Jon Seda), an acquaintance from his own time, who gives Cole a handgun and instructions to complete his mission. At the same time, Railly spots the true culprit behind the virus: Dr. Peters (David Morse), an assistant at the Goines virology lab. Peters is about to embark on a tour of several cities around the world, which matches the sequence (memorized by Cole) of viral outbreaks. Cole, while fighting through security, is fatally shot as he tries to stop Peters. As Cole dies in Railly's arms, she makes eye contact with a small boy: the young James Cole witnessing the scene of his own death, which will replay in his dreams for years to come. Dr. Peters, safely aboard the plane, sits down next to Jones (Carol Florence), one of the lead scientists from the future, who tells him that she is in "insurance."

Development

The genesis of 12 Monkeys came from executive producer Robert Kosberg, who had been a fan of the French short film La jetée (1962). Kosberg persuaded the film's director, Chris Marker, to let him pitch the project to Universal Pictures, seeing it as a perfect basis for a full-length science fiction film. Universal reluctantly agreed to purchase the remake rights and hired David and Janet Peoples to write the screenplay.[1] Producer Charles Roven chose Terry Gilliam to direct because he believed the filmmaker's style was perfect for 12 Monkeys's nonlinear storyline and time travel subplot.[2] Gilliam had just abandoned a film adaptation of A Tale of Two Cities when he signed to direct 12 Monkeys.[3] The film also represents the second film for which Gilliam did not write or co-write the screenplay. Although he prefers to direct his own scripts, he was captivated by the Peoples' "intriguing and intelligent script. The story is disconcerting. It deals with time, madness and a perception of what the world is or isn't. It is a study of madness and dreams, of death and re-birth, set in a world coming apart."[2]

Universal took longer than expected to greenlight 12 Monkeys, although Gilliam had two stars (Bruce Willis and Brad Pitt) and a firm budget of $29.5 million (low for a Hollywood science fiction film). Universal's production of Waterworld (1995) had resulted in various cost overruns. To get 12 Monkeys greenlighted, Gilliam convinced Willis to lower his normal asking price.[4] Because of Universal's strict production incentives and his previous history with the studio on Brazil (1985), Gilliam received the right of final cut privilege.[5] The Writers Guild of America was also skeptical of the "inspired by" credit for La Jetée and Chris Marker.[6]

Casting

Gilliam's initial casting choices were Nick Nolte as James Cole and Jeff Bridges as Jeffrey Goines, but Universal objected.[3] Gilliam, who first met Bruce Willis while casting Jeff Bridges' role in The Fisher King (1991), believed Willis evoked Cole's characterization as being "somebody who is strong and dangerous but also vulnerable."[2] The actor had a trio of tattoos drawn onto his scalp and neck each day when filming: one that indicated his prisoner number, and a pair of barcodes on each side of his neck.

Gilliam cast Madeleine Stowe as Dr. Kathryn Railly because he was impressed by her performance in Blink (1994).[2] The director first met Stowe when he was casting his abandoned film adaptation of A Tale of Two Cities.[3] "She has this incredible ethereal beauty and she's incredibly intelligent", Gilliam reasoned. "Those two things rest very easily with her, and the film needed those elements because it has to be romantic."[2]

Gilliam originally believed that Brad Pitt was not right for the role of Jeffrey Goines, but the casting director convinced him otherwise.[3] Pitt was cast for a relatively small salary, when he was still an "up and coming" actor. By the time of 12 Monkeys' release, however, Interview with the Vampire: The Vampire Chronicles (1994), Legends of the Fall (1994), and Se7en (1995) had been released, making Pitt an A-list actor, which drew greater attention to the film and boosted its box-office standing.[5] In Philadelphia, months before filming, Pitt spent weeks at Temple University's hospital, visiting and studying the psychiatric ward to prepare for his role.[2]

Filming

Filming for 12 Monkeys lasted from February 8-May 6, 1995. Shooting on location in Philadelphia and Baltimore (including the Senator Theatre)[7][8] in the winter time was fraught with weather problems. There were also technical glitches with the futuristic mechanical props. Because the film has a nonlinear storyline, continuity errors occurred and some scenes had to be reshot. Gilliam also injured himself when he went horseback riding. Despite setbacks, however, the director managed to stay within the budget and was only a week behind his shooting schedule. "It was a tough shoot", acknowledged Jeffrey Beecroft (Mr. Brooks, Dances with Wolves), the production designer. "There wasn't a lot of money or enough time. Terry is a perfectionist, but he was really adamant about not going over budget. He got crucified for Munchausen, and that still haunts him."[7]

The filmmakers were not allowed the luxury of sound stages, thus they had to find abandoned buildings or landmarks in Philadelphia to use.[6] The exterior shots of the climactic airport scene were conducted at the Baltimore-Washington International Airport, while the Pennsylvania Convention Center at Reading Terminal housed interior scenes. Filming at the psychiatric hospital was done at the Eastern State Penitentiary.[9]

Design

Gilliam undertook the same filmmaking style from his own Brazil (1985), including the art direction and cinematography (specifically using fresnel lenses).[4] The interrogation room where Cole is being interviewed by the scientists was based on the work of Lebbeus Woods; these scenes were shot at three different power stations (two in Philadelphia and one in Baltimore). Gilliam intended to show Cole being interviewed through a multi-screen interrogation TV set because he felt the machinery evoked a "nightmarish intervention of technology. You try to see the faces on the screens in front of you, but the real faces and voices are down there and you have these tiny voices in your ear. To me that's the world we live in, the way we communicate these days, through technical devices that pretend to be about communication but may not be."[10]

The art department made sure that the 2035 underground world would only use pre-1996 technology as a means to depict the bleak future.[5] Also, Gilliam, Beecroft, and Crispian Sallis (set decorator) went to several flea markets and salvage warehouses looking for materials to decorate the sets.[11] To create the majority of visual effects sequences, Gilliam awarded the shots to Peerless Camera, the London-based effects studio he founded in the late-1970s with visual effects supervisor Kent Houston (The Golden Compass, Casino Royale). Additional digital compositing was done by The Mill, while Cinesite worked on film scanning services.[2]

Music

The film's score was composed, arranged, and conducted by English musician Paul Buckmaster. The main theme is based on Argentinian tango musician and composer Ástor Piazzolla's Suite Punta del Este.[12]

THEMES

Memory, time, and technology

2 Monkeys studies the subjective nature of memories and their effect upon perceptions of reality. Examples of false memories include:[6]

• Cole's recollection of the airport shooting which is altered each time he has a dream.
• A "mentally divergent" man at the asylum who has false memories.
• Railly telling Cole "I remember you like this" when a barely recognizable Cole and Railly are seen in disguise for the first time.

References to time, time travel, and monkeys are scattered throughout the film, including the Woody Woodpecker “Time Tunnel” cartoon playing on the TV in a hotel room, The Marx Brothers movie Monkey Business (1931) on TV in the asylum and the subplots of monkeys (drug testing, news stories and animal rights). The film is also a study of modern civilization's declining efforts to communicate with each other due to the interference of technology.[6]

Cinematic allusions

12 Monkeys is inspired by the French short film La jetée (1962), specifically, both protagonists being haunted by the image of their own death. The climaxes for both films also take place in an airport.[9]

Similar to La Jetée, 12 Monkeys also presents Hitchcockian elements and references to Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo (1958). Toward the end of the film, Cole and Railly hide in a theater showing a 24-hour Hitchcock marathon and watch a scene from Vertigo. Railly then transforms herself with a blonde wig, as Judy (Kim Novak) transformed herself into blonde Madeleine in Vertigo; James sees her emerge within a red light, as Scottie (James Stewart) saw Judy emerge within a green light.[9] Brief notes of Bernard Herrmann’s 1958 film score can also be heard. Railly also wears the same coat Novak wore in the first part of Vertigo. The scene at Muir Woods National Monument, where Judy (as Madeleine) looks at the growth rings of a felled redwood and traces back events in her past life, resonates with larger themes in 12 Monkeys’. Cole and Railly later have a similar conversation while the same music from Vertigo is repeated.[9] In fact, the Muir Woods scene in Vertigo is also re-enacted in La Jetée, making this another connection to that film.

Further on in the film, Cole wakes up in a hospital bed with scientists of the future talking to him in chorus. This is a direct homage to the “Dry Bones” scene in Dennis Potter’s The Singing Detective.[13]

RECEPTION

Release

12 Monkeys was given a limited release in the United States on December 29, 1995. When the 1,629 theater wide release came on January 5, 1996, the film earned $13.84 million in its opening weekend. 12 Monkeys eventually grossed $57.14 million in US totals and $111.7 million in other countries, coming to a worldwide total of $168.84 million.[14] The film was able to hold the #1 spot on box office charts for two weeks in January, before dropping from competition to From Dusk till Dawn, Mr. Holland’s Opus and Black Sheep.[15]

Universal Studios Home Entertainment’s special edition release of 12 Monkeys in May 2005 contains an audio commentary by director Terry Gilliam and producer Charles Roven, The Hamster Factor and Other Tales of Twelve Monkeys (a making-of documentary) and production notes.[16]

Critical reception

The film received a positive response from critics. Based on 45 reviews collected by Rotten Tomatoes, 87% of the critics enjoyed 12 Monkeys with an average rating of 7.6/10. The consensus reads: “The plot’s a bit of a jumble, but excellent performances and mind-blowing plot twists make 12 Monkeys a kooky, effective experience.”[17] The film was more balanced with Rotten Tomatoes’ 18 reviewers in the “Top Critics” poll, receiving an 83% approval rating and a 6.8/10 score.[18] By comparison, Metacritic calculated a 74/100 rating, based on 20 reviews.[19]
Roger Ebert observed 12 Monkeys’ depiction of the future, finding similarities with Blade Runner (1982; also scripted by David Peoples) and Brazil (1985; also directed by Terry Gilliam). “The film is a celebration of madness and doom, with a hero who tries to prevail against the chaos of his condition, and is inadequate,” Ebert wrote. "This vision is a cold, dark, damp one, and even the romance between Willis and Stowe feels desperate rather than joyous. All of this is done very well, and the more you know about movies (especially the technical side), the more you're likely to admire it. And as entertainment, it appeals more to the mind than to the senses."[20]

Desson Thomson of The Washington Post praised the art direction and set design. "Willis and Pitts's performances, Gilliam's atmospherics and an exhilarating momentum easily outweigh such trifling flaws in the script", Thomson reasoned.[21] Peter Travers from Rolling Stone magazine cited the film's success on Gilliam's direction and Willis' performance.[22] Internet reviewer James Berardinelli believed the filmmakers took an intelligent and creative motive for the time travel subplot. Rather than being sent to change the past, James Cole is instead observing it to make a better future.[23] Richard Corliss of Time magazine felt the film's time travel aspect and apocalyptic depiction of a bleaker future was overtly cliché. "In its frantic mix of chaos, carnage and zoo animals, 12 Monkeys is Jumanji for adults", Corliss wrote.[24]

Awards and nominations

Brad Pitt was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor, but lost to Kevin Spacey in The Usual Suspects. Costume designer Julie Weiss (Hollywoodland, Frida) was also nominated for her work, but lost to James Acheson of Restoration.[25] However, Pitt was able to win a Golden Globe Award for Best Supporting Actor in a Motion Picture.[26] Terry Gilliam was honored for his directing duties at the 1996 Berlin International Film Festival.[9] 12 Monkeys received positive notices from the science fiction community. The film was nominated for the Hugo Award for Best Dramatic Presentation[27] and the Academy of Science Fiction, Fantasy & Horror Films awarded 12 Monkeys the Saturn Award for Best Science Fiction Film. Pitt and Weiss also won awards at the 22nd Saturn Awards. Bruce Willis, Madeleine Stowe, Gilliam and writers David and Janet Peoples received nominations.[28]

Lebbeus Woods lawsuit

In the beginning of the film, James is brought into the interrogation room and told to sit in a chair which is attached to a vertical rail on the wall. A sphere supported by a metal armature is suspended directly in front of him, probing for weaknesses as the inquisitors interrogate him.[29] Architect Lebbeus Woods filed a lawsuit against Universal in February 1996, claiming that his work "Neomechanical Tower (Upper) Chamber" was used without permission. Woods won his lawsuit, earning "a high six-figure cash settlement" from Universal.[29]

Then:

Vertigo is a 1958 American psychological thriller film directed by Alfred Hitchcock and starring James Stewart, Kim Novak, and Barbara Bel Geddes. The film was written by Alec Coppel and Samuel A. Taylor, based on a novel by Boileau-Narcejac. A retired police detective, who has acrophobia, is hired as a private investigator to follow the wife of an acquaintance to uncover the mystery of her peculiar behavior. The film received mixed reviews upon initial release, but has garnered much acclaim since then and is now frequently ranked among the greatest films ever made, and often cited as a classic Hitchcock film and one of the defining works of his career.[1]

Plot

During a police chase across the rooftops of San Francisco, Detective John "Scottie" Ferguson (James Stewart) discovers his latent acrophobia (fear of heights) when he stumbles and hangs from a rain gutter. When his partner (Fred Graham) tries to save Scottie, he slips and falls to his own death before Scottie’s eyes. After the incident, Scottie decides to retire from police work, but a college acquaintance named Gavin Elster (Tom Helmore) hires Scottie as a private investigator to decipher the peculiar behavior of his wife, Madeleine Elster (Kim Novak).

Scottie follows Madeleine as she visits the grave, the former home and the museum portrait of a dead woman named Carlotta Valdes. Scottie learns that Carlotta Valdes had a tragic life that ended in suicide and that she was Madeleine's great-grandmother. After following Madeleine to Fort Point, Scottie sees Madeleine jump into San Francisco Bay next to the Golden Gate Bridge. Scottie rescues her and takes her to his home to recover. Madeleine eventually confesses that she feels like she may be going insane and has to repress suicidal impulses. Scottie comforts and reassures her and the intimacy between them grows.

When Madeleine recounts the details of a bad dream, Scottie identifies the setting as Mission San Juan Bautista and takes her there in an effort to ease her anxiety. At the mission, Madeleine panics and suddenly runs into the church and up the staircase of the bell tower. Scottie chases after her, but his acrophobia prevents him from making it to the top of the staircase. Halted on the steps by vertigo and paralyzing fear, Scottie hears a scream and, through a window, sees Madeleine fall from the tower. The manner of her death was officially declared to be suicide and Gavin blamed it on possession by Carlotta Valdes.

Scottie had fallen in love with Madeleine and is depressed after her death. As his emotional state improves, he begins to haunt the places that Madeleine had visited. On the street, he spots a young woman who, in spite of her very different looks, somehow reminds him of Madeleine. Scottie follows her to her hotel room and tries to persuade her to talk to him. She tells him that her name is Judy Barton, and that she is just a simple girl from Kansas. Though initially hostile and defensive, she eventually agrees to join Scottie for dinner - but once Scottie has left, we learn of her true identity. She was, in fact, the woman whom he knew as "Madeleine," but she was not actually Gavin's wife. Gavin had hired her to pose as his wife and pretend to be possessed by Carlotta Valdes. Gavin faked the suicide by hiding at the top of the bell tower and tossing over the body of his already-murdered wife. Gavin used Scottie as a witness to her apparent suicide by correctly predicting that his acrophobia would prevent him from following "Madeleine" to the top of the tower. But Judy had fallen in love with Scottie, so she chooses to hide the truth and attempts to establish a genuine relationship with him.

Scottie grows fond of Judy, but their relationship is hindered by his memory of "Madeleine." He gradually transforms Judy so that she bears an uncanny resemblance to "Madeleine," and Judy goes along with this change so that they may be happy together. Scottie's suspicion is aroused when Judy wears a necklace that he remembered seeing in the portrait of Carlotta Valdes. Scottie takes Judy to Mission San Juan Bautista, revealing to her upon arrival that he wants to reenact the event in which he failed to save Madeleine, admitting that he has realized she is the same person. Scottie forces Judy up the bell tower while he recounts the incident and presses her for the truth. Scottie realizes that he has conquered his acrophobia and his ascent, therefore, is not impeded by vertigo. On top of the bell tower, Judy admits to the deception, but pleads to Scottie that she loves him. The two embrace, but Judy, startled by an approaching shadow (a nun), steps backward and falls from the tower to her death. The film ends with Scottie perched on a narrow ledge in utter despair while the nun rings the church bell.

Cast

- James Stewart as John “Scottie” Ferguson, a police detective who develops acrophobia after watching a fellow police officer fall to his death.
- Kim Novak as Judy Barton, a girl hired by Gavin Elster to pretend to be Madeleine Elster.
- Barbara Bel Geddes as Midge Wood, Scottie’s confidant and friend.
- Tom Helmore as Gavin Elster, an old college friend of Scottie’s.

Adaptation

The screenplay is an adaptation of the French novel The Living and the Dead (D’entre les morts) by Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac. Hitchcock had previously tried to buy the rights to the same authors’ previous novel, Celle qui n’était plus, but he failed, and it was made instead by Henri-Georges Clouzot as Les Diaboliques.[2] Although François Truffaut once suggested that D'Entre les morts was specifically written for Hitchcock by Boileau and Narcejac,[3] Narcejac subsequently denied that this was their intention.[4] However, Hitchcock's interest in their work meant that Paramount Pictures commissioned a synopsis of D’Entre les morts in 1954, before it had even been translated into English.[5]

Hitchcock originally hired playwright Maxwell Anderson to write a screenplay, but rejected his work, which was entitled Darkling I Listen. The final script was written by Samuel A. Taylor—who was recommended to Hitchcock due to his knowledge of San Francisco[5]—from notes by Hitchcock. Among Taylor's creations was the character of Midge.[6] Taylor attempted to take sole credit for the screenplay, but Alec Coppel—the other screenplay writer hired by Hitchcock—protested to the Screen Writers Guild, which determined that both writers were entitled to a credit.[7]

[I’ll finishing this purloining later, I’m tired, other important things spring to mind, such as the film Memento, electroconvulsive therapy...]

From Wikipedia, and I thought I had the concept of “Instruction Manual” (a tiny Korean book with baby writing in it):

The Alliance of Twelve, with SD-6 being one of its subsidiary cells, is a fictional international organized crime group in the television series Alias. It is involved in the trade of intelligence and weapons as well as in blackmailing.

The organization was founded by Alain Christophe, once a CIA counterintelligence officer, as well as other former agents of various other intelligence agencies and wealthy individuals investing in the spy trade after the Cold War.

The Alliance of Twelve is an enemy of the United States and a rival to the CIA.

Organizational structure

The Alliance is led by a board of directors.One of them being Agent Irvin. Some members are from the private sector, but most are former intelligence officers. All of them are wealthy. The organization is divided into 12 sections, named SD-1 through SD-12. "SD" stands for Section Disparue — literally, the section which has disappeared in French (Sydney translates it as "the section that doesn't exist" in the episode Q&A). These organizational cells are spread over 12 major cities of the world. The Alliance takes in CIA agents and trains them to believe they are working for the CIA when in reality they are not.

Objectives

The purview of the Alliance is the black market trading of weapons, military secrets, industrial intelligence, medical technology, computer advances, and political agendas. Its clients include governments, corporations, wealthy citizens, families.

The Alliance aims to eventually reach world domination through its control over organized crime and the trade of intelligence. According to Jack Bristow and Arvin Sloane, the Alliance wished to change the world once it had achieved this, and rid the world of corruption, but had become bloated and corrupt over the years, diverging from their original vision and focusing instead on profit.

Actions

According to Sydney Bristow in the episode Q and A, the Alliance of Twelve was responsible for the carbon proxy disaster in 1992, in which an accidental methyl isocyanate leak at the manufacturer plant in Bangalore, India killed three thousand people and injured another thousand, leaving them disabled. In 1996, near Kyoto, Japan, a bullet train accidentally switched tracks and derailed, killing a hundred and fifty people. The Alliance was also responsible for that disaster. In 2001, the Alliance caused a transport plane in Germany to suffer mechanical failures outside Munich, killing twelve people. The disasters were falsely believed to have been accidents. In truth, some were acts of revenge, others were personal favors to those who helped fund the Alliance. Some were distractions so that local resources were occupied so that SD-4 or SD-7 could infiltrate a building somewhere and retrieve sensitive data.

SD-6

SD-6, headed by Arvin Sloane and based in Los Angeles, is the focus of the first two seasons of Alias. SD-6 pretends to be part of the CIA and states its objective as "retrieval and study of intelligence both military and industrial throughout the world that is critical to the superiority and survival of the United States of America." Even its own members, initially including agent Sydney Bristow, believe it is a black ops division of the CIA and only a handful of senior staff know the truth and are complicit in the deception.

In the first episode of Alias, Sydney learns from her father, Jack about the organization's true character as a part of The Alliance of Twelve.

During the course of the first season, other heads of the SD cells are eventually shown meeting. Among them was Edward Poole, head of SD-9 (played by Roger Moore), who manages to convince Sloane to kill fellow SD head Jean Briault to influence an upcoming vote on whether to declare war on Alexander Khasinau, who has eliminated rival groups FTL and K-Directorate. Another SD leader is identified by the first name "Ramon," but his last name and his SD cell number are unrevealed.

PARANOIA AND RUTHLESSNESS

Of SD-6

SD-6 branch was headquartered in the Credit Dauphine building in Los Angeles, with entry through a special elevator to the sixth sub-level of the building. Every person who entered would be biometrically scanned and visually confirmed. As a security measure, all three areas of the foundations of the building itself were rigged with C-4 explosives that would go off if the inner vault had been breached during a security lockdown or for other contingencies. Fail-safe or lockdown procedures could be carried out only by Arvin Sloane, using his right index fingerprint; presumably, other SD cells had similar contingency plans (such as for deterring a CIA raid, which happens in Season 2) that would make it difficult to shut down.

In addition, SD-6 employed an internal security group responsible for investigating and terminating individuals who even know of SD-6's existence, those believed to know about the true nature of SD-6, or those suspected to be Double agents or traitors to SD-6. Sydney's fiancée, Danny, was murdered by SD-6's internal security division in Season 1 after Sydney revealed to him that she works for SD-6, believing it to be a part of the CIA.

Of The Alliance

In addition to the cell-like nature of Section Disparu, which presumably allows the termination of entire SD cells in the event that it is wholly compromised, the Alliance of Twelve is an utterly ruthless organization that constantly suspects and conduct surveillance of even its head members.

When Arvin Sloane's wife, Emily, admits to knowing of the existence of SD-6, Arvin is told to have his wife killed as a test of loyalty. Arvin was able to win a temporary reprieve because of his wife's cancer which would kill her soon; when her cancer is found to be in remission, he is again told that in order to become a "full partner" in The Alliance, he would have to kill his wife. He then faked his wife's death by drugging her wine and putting her in suspended animation.

Having proven his loyalty to the members of The Alliance, he is welcomed as a full partner and injected in the neck with a tracking device and mini-microphone to have his movements and conversations recorded 24/7. Although Sloane was clearly privy to matters that only a handful of men and women knew about, he was clearly not yet part of an 'inner circle' within The Alliance board, suggesting that there is some sense of competition and suspicion among even the SD cells and their leaders.

The end of The Alliance

The Alliance came to an end in the middle of Season 2 (Episode 13, "Phase One") of Alias when Sydney stumbles upon information, with Sark's aid, that leads her and Vaughn to believe there is one master server, server 47 (in keeping with the Rambaldi sub-plot of the show, where 47 is a key number in Rambaldi's works), which could potentially have all the information the CIA would need to shut down all of the SD cells simultaneously, thus acting as a sort of 'silver bullet' to the cell-like nature of the Alliance.

Although the server was located on a Boeing 747 plane that was constantly airborne as a security measure, Sydney was able to pose as an escort for the computer technicians onboard during one of its landings and copy all the information from the server. When Jack attempted to go back to SD-6 headquarters to get confirmation that the information was genuine (as the CIA would only have one chance), he was apprehended by the acting head Geiger (Sloane had taken off and was declared MIA by the Alliance) who accused him of being a CIA spy.

Knowing she couldn't go back herself, Sydney called her SD-6 partner Marcus Dixon to get the confirmation and tells Dixon the true nature of SD-6. With this information, the CIA was able to successfully raid all the offices of various SD cells around the world; Sydney was a part of the CIA team that infiltrated SD-6 headquarters in Los Angeles and rescued her father moments before he would be electrocuted by Geiger. It is then revealed that Sloane had planned the destruction of the Alliance, having a technician bypass the surveillance devices in his neck, and he and Sark had supplied Sydney with the information the CIA needed to remove The Alliance—after he had cleared out (apparently) all Rambaldi artifacts to his own location outside of SD-6.

However, one artifact escaped Sloane's attention. This artifact, the Horizon, had been sought by Prophet Five for thirty years, and was eventually retrieved (after coercing Sydney) by Irina Derevko, who then betrayed Prophet Five, almost four years after the fall of the Alliance.

so SD is SD is SD. What caught my eye here other than dangling fishhooks at the door was (a) I was brought up in Otago on a Prophet 2002 Sampler, and as soon as I was at Harvard—I have to say, in the last month or two, I am remembering like no one’s business, except it is my business, things we said to each other as kids—are these transplanted or silicone memory implants to make for better mental porn?—I noticed in my Electronic Music Class with Ivan Tcherepnin that kids would cluster and not really talk, and girlfriends/boyfriends would be traded off with the only silence of anger being a moment of ritual, and the over-exuberant “other” manager—I got to know Slide, not... was it Andy Lee—the same name as Helen’s brother, and the “hint” I took with a student (1/2 Finnish, 1/2 East Asian I think) Anders Lee—excitedly saying, “you have a Prophet Five?” kind of out of the blue. Like it was code. Well, the Prophet Five is a apparently the coolest Kurzweil [that’s in the spell check!] vintage item. I still have a Prophet 2002 with some ROM expansion kit I haven’t launched, and a Prophet 2500S keyboard. How peculiar. And there I was thinking a/v here snuck the devices around. It can’t be the dehumidifier under the grandpiano—whose reflections I think I need (and “Reflets dans l’eau” by Debussy, old notes I made in Rome when I lived with Cam at via Parenzo 23, appartamento 8... 00153 Roma I forget, make me think of other reflections, or Refractions, or Shards of mirrors for reflection, or Whispering Silence, or Longing which bears the phallic stamp, little wonder circumstances prevailing before me)—like a dehumanifier I mean the moisture sucking and pumping conterpart, would be FUCK yikes where is it safe.

The other eyecatcher was the 47. The 4117 from the other day. The server 47 on a 747—a ratings-savings episode, IIRC—I think of 77, as in 77 Mass Ave for MIT. The number 77 cropped up a few times in the last week, I just hope 380 or whatever has no connection with MIT. Where the 77, aside from on 7.7.77 at 7.07 for 7s I drew a 7 and still have it! I am the 5-person too, as I was born at 5:55a on 5/5 so in 2005, 05/05/05 at 05:55a it was my... 37th birthday, which is 5x5 (hex, a crazy math). AND it is part of Theosophy, AND there is an article by Robert Gauldin (of Eastman School of Music? He wrote a counterpoint/harmony text) on Stravinsky’s “In Memoriam Dylan Thomas” to which a colleague Elliott Gyger wrote a paper either apply 5 to anything or anything to the Dylan Thomas piece. Jim Morrison, One in Five... I wonder. Oh, 20 percent, which has been some ?libertarian aim on the right for a long time, I think. Or... that is how much of the world should survive with clever osmotic genetic drift in the manner of oceanic extremophiles (think Ron Howard’s Cocoon) well, off the deep end again. Why would someone say their father was a “Tycoon”?—A very odd choice of word that gave me electric shocks to the legs, but I now recall Rachel and at least one other could play tricks with my nerves, directly. The latter used pheromones to seduce me, with a fairly basic epistemology.

But the 77s and 38s. Oh, building 38 must be RLE? Yes, I think I even had a dream of standing atop it once. Not saying. Here is some RLE copyright material, sorry:

In 1973, the growing Laboratory expanded further into all of the new building 36 within the Sherman Fairchild Electrical Engineering and Electronics Complex. Located at 50 Vassar Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts, the Fairchild complex includes an eight-storey structure which houses core space of the Research Laboratory of Electronics( MIT building 36), an adjoining six-storey structure (MIT building 38) housing RLE laboratories, the Department of Electrical Engineering and Computer Science and the Microsystems Technology Laboratories.

The six-storey Education Center (MIT building 34) was constructed in 1983, which provides a physical link between the two buildings and additional conference and lecture rooms.

At the time of its completion in 1973, the Fairchild Complex was the single largest building project at MIT since the Cambridge campus was constructed in 1916.

The complex is named in memory of Sherman M. Fairchild, the late founder and chairman of Fairchild Camera and Instrument Corporation, Fairchild Semiconductor, Fairchild Industries, and the Fairchild Foundation.

The Chicago firm of Skidmore, Owings, and Merrill designed the two concrete and glass buildings which contain classrooms, laboratories, offices, instrument rooms, and mechanical and electronic shops.

Since 1997, over $12M has been re-invested back into the core RLE facilities in MIT buildings 26, 36, and 38 in the form of extensive laboratory and office renovations. Additional significant renovations are underway today.

I’m getting a lot of Fs (fails), the notion of a fair child, I know there is research there into non-invasion brain ?pulse-magnetic neural network alteration as I think DT worked on that despite being the vacuum tube (valve) guru, sucking’em dry those crania. And an SOM, which is funny because Somerville starts that way, but I was chatting about the important of CMOS circuits today. Unless I am a bozoid, which is possible, S.O.M.—they are possibly the most famous BIG, modern, slightly boring I think, architectural firm in the world, nothing like Zahir Hadid or OMA or Gehry or or or—did the building for Entrapmentwith Catherine Zeta Jones and Sean Connery, the twin towers of the national petroleum company in the capital of Malaysia. If I lived at Harvard’s only twin towers—Leverett (means “baby hare”! and incoming sophomores are called rising rabbits) when the WTC twin towers were done in and down (by whom? “The Cell” is it or is it pronounced “The Network”—I recall thinking of Jennifer Lopez!), I had a series of nightmares—which I think a induced sometimes—by tiredness no less—in which the Petronas Towers were crashed into by a double decker plane in an act of what I called CVS (Cerebral V__ Supremacy but I forget the V, or is it 2010S but nothing to do with Consumer Value Stores from Woonsocket RI despite the pliability claim of their name...) MIT RLE.

Rules. For Peter. Switch imagination off. Get bureaucratic stuff done. Post on as many blogs as possible... haha. I mean, get the recording, oh it’s up, many of them are, with the clear sonic modification—not just phase-canceling fractal filters to form the images, arrow writing, tumbling (funny how we watched gymnastic tumbling and synchronized swimming for the 2008 Olympics!), and the rest, but actual layers of sound—added voices, and in the same way as the visuals, and words, and lives, and general parasitic nature I call it—like the clever parasites David Attenborough has, when not doing the Bird of Paradise or Lyre bird in all its mimicry, that has spores entering the brain of some creature, changing its brain, then sprouting fungal agony branches—how the word “dendritic” is one of those relationship resonators, I hope we have some semantic closure here... like limit the dendritic structure of dendritic structure to 10 levels, former love of mein. It is a scary image.

s th rls r n mgntn fr th rst f tdy. no proof reading yet. Hey, especially easy one: answers are buried in questions for the knowing, right? D’uh, the word “yes” is right there, kind of elides with ESP, which is MIT’s special teaching program that a few friends/exes have given seminars at with well-innuendoed descriptions... how not to have volcanoes erupting, and earthquakes shattering... or was that a dysentery reference? Verbally, yes, I suppose.

Speaking indelicately of that, I had the misfortune of having campylobacter enteritis in NZ. Get it, like more coded jargon, compiler entry? Or pyles~cells or batteries, or lobe, or act, or amp__ that one goes anyone though I think amphibole went into the ear of an ex-gf geologist sitting an exam when I first knew her; she maintained she didn’t know the answer but heard my voice sasying amphibole. Ebola, (sounds like) fib, amphibious, Bola (the anti-cyclone that wiped out my coast of the NI of NZ), eloquence upended I’d say. And so the addict(ionarie)s life goes, butter in the churn, letters in the square box, read them R->Le like Hebrew (reminds me: time for a brew of tea and to check up on my nephew, but churn—which might be short for butter churn— makes me think of earning money or be cremated. In any case after the pre-cam. ent. hospitalization where there nurses had that maximally shit job in the world, there was the month-later day surgery, for an anal probe and it felt as if they had left a scalpel in there (which is still how I feel about my London hernia, done at the Middlesex hospital, where a nurse stole half my demerol and IIRC kind of had some fun with me, he did, in the old man’s just-lost-their-bladders ward, after the operation appeared to partially fail, given the gushes of blood from the barely stitched exterior wound—ALW, my girlfriend, took good control of the scene. Anyway, Mr Knight (surgeons are called Mr, not Dr, in New Zealand) did a fine job I am sure with my sigmoidoscrapy, but it did feel like something surgical was left to tickle in that non-tickly way. I barfed for hours upon rousing, and a giant tampon of fully blooded cotton swabs made its way out. I then passed out. Again. Very unlike me.

I never mentioned the swollen ankle swellings, and more importantly how I passed out twice in the basement of Paine Hall, Harvard Music Department, TWICE in EXACTLY the same spot, the only two times I have been in that spot, kind of a dead end opposite my office which was B4 down a go-nowhere corridor. How once in London, in the late 1990s I think, I won’t say where, I had my period very seriously yet again. I told Mum. She seemed sympathetic. David agreed with my theory it was the raspberry pie from MacDonald’s, readily. NO, and it wasn’t hr.s either as I have never had those. The clot gets thicker.

Oh, it is spring verging on summer today, and with some delicate rain today, passing some leaf-ferns today reminded me very much of home, in our “shade house” Dad would build wherever we lived, for the unfurling of fronds and other fernlike things, just the right thing for a Kiwi, where the silver fern is our national plant, our netball team, the koru is the stylized version on Air New Zealand planes, and it looks like a curled up coch-lea or something that would go in one or near one, such as the “coily croimaster”—the curled up end of the teste that lee40 would call cremasters (or croimasters) (which are smallish, apparently, I guess as a counterweight, like the muscle—we saw Cremaster II when we were first together, on Cammy’s suggestion—about Gary Gilmore, with quite some uterine scenes among other claustrophobic Moments). And plot analogies.

Time to unorbifold my lobes (actually, they bulge). Mites in the heart, mitochondria—actually, chondria is the gut in general I think, and some Generals have gut. You had to have guts to sit my generals (comprehensives) in Harvard Music Theory—as in hypochondria, under the chondria.

Three-part sinfonia (so far... not so good).

The answer my friend, is blowing between Tennyson, Dylan, Adapt@ion, and various images ensuing. I was thinking about my Unix aliases from the Harvard Faculty of Arts and Science (FAS) days, where the following seven were my mainstay:

f finger wild
k kill -9
s source ./.aliases
j jobs
p pine
a pico ./.aliases
x exit

and so it is naturally with great disappointment that Lamarck Warp-O... or is it Darwin Mach-O with the ship’s doctor, Bones, oh yes, skin-and-bones was one of my delightful nicknames in Napier, obviously the locals had not seen flagellation nor S. Maria della Concezione... that at least one of those commands was lacking. Wham, as I was Jamba’d at ℏ²t. I was thinking of the Naked Civil Servant, Quentin... Crisp Apple, All Natural Energy Drink, All The Energy, Wicked Good Taste. Be A Force Of Nature. More Nature Than A Sunrise On The Chuck.

Very touching to have that little personal zazz... assuming Chuck isn’t a prod at whatever is prodded, behind the (hopefully not hydrops angioedemic) uvular research told me once during Trotsky’s Transitional Program of the leaking 802.11 wifi signal, oh how badly that hintingly flew suggesting the insult was being rubbed deeply into my unknowing festation.

And that is the entire purpose underlying my blogs and compositions and videos and everything reducing my life as one would in making raspberries of the correct consistency for, say, baked mushrooms with aged camembert inserted, of quite some time now, soon to be of late time, but of whose what THOUGH we know why and anyone in their left minds (for FUCK THE RIGHT ones), which I know not whether it is creative or rational, or just the half we have to ourselves, if at all (I don’t think my outside, if we have two halves, is mine, even, such as possession involves repossessing bailiffs (for it takes more than a posse of pussies to Aha me in Swedish animation). Now, Men Without Hats, and their fair maid not quite a-milking, we are clear there, minimally honest, and I will not beat around this bush any longer and ask eagerly, are we going to make, out of interest or out of Cinderell[bad ]a[tti]-tude, then lament the loss of grace in others, and have to grapple with the prevalence of Janus and his prix fixe, dis-.

The last thing she said to me, somewhat predicted by an opera of all things, which makes this feel very much as if the rotten ones fall in the same buoy, was just beyond the shadow cast by Peabody Terrace preso a the Baattle Zone, that cellphones that flip or swivel have moving parts, and the more moving parts, the more things there are to break. Memories, as leaking and small and staining as they became, hurt. I am [non-prepositionally] the verge of a nervous breakthrough with not glass shattered and no writing in cursive script which always involves a Sisyphus slope (which would most effectively be a cycloid).

I was going to write about Erik Satie, but I did in the Tumblr blog. I broke my lease today! I have a great landlady. Amf, about to run out, is pretty happy about this. But given our looming ahead, where there’s a weave there’s a wave, and that could be a goodbye wave. How those pan out or burn in, chissà, solely you know. I recall talking about touching in Tuscany. As for hardwood floor, if you don’t mind cleaning the paint stains and END OF THIS WRITHINGLY OBNOXIOUS ANTIPYTHON of dis-virtù. This Wicker Man, Manchurian Candidate, wraith of thoughts to be inhaled or imbued, like I used to say of the fascists smoking their ambulatory way (if moving at all) on fitness courses in Villa Ada, fully donned in their snugly-fitting apparel, their fitness was gained only by osmosis.

Smuggle, snorgle. Get under yourself for your own safety and pleasure through elimination of possible allies or alignments or marely, or malignments or airly.

How many ghostwriters does it take to fill my bed? Moot. I sleep on acoustic baffles, and leaked feathers, down on the floor, where even weirder things would happen were it not for that minor precaution, which I extend as often as possible to avoidance of sleep, as dreams are, well, “You can steal my memories, but you can’t steal my dreams” I said to an ex-gf on the day of x-ing as she tried to blemish our memory by rewriting her role. A rolling stone gathers no moss, proverbially. But ascerbially, I am not entirely sure that elegy has been tested for or stung as as a swansong. Stung as a wasp or a bee, making a beeline or b-line spine streetcar to allston or just in power, the strong man of scaffolding, ponteggio in Italy with trompe l’œil behind-the-curtains of good taste imagery which fools one. I dreamed of having a booth, up some stairs, where people could visit and pay me 10c or something grand like that, and they could ask a question about anything. I would write them the answer. Nothing mysterious, just information. READ ABOUT DISINFORMATION.

Never expecting ideas to be, well, an inadvertent experiment in how I think I have described those who blab within my earshot at least, “secrets”: Radio Rachel for instantaneous amplitude and envelope follow, for whom a promise of of-course-Mum’s-the-word then the whole virtual or infinite or etc..... corridor knows. Perhaps it was one of many man y-chromo some hints, or smugnesses, or sillyness, like floodgates open or power being over-rated by a spin doctor (a break dancer? not yet, anyway), the story WILL be known (but streams rapidly filled craggy valley with non-laminar turbulent flow). It was tempting to write, one will never know. But, opaqueness, or ill-treatment of refractive Angle of Incidence: there comes a time for the death of very poor behavior. A list still being formed, but pretty telling and mostly told as it is, wearing thin, feeling old, I shall not. And, rotten to the core, cors, cord, chord, accord, quad core duo even when threaded correctly. After a while enough Gordian knots just negate negate negate and the result is a yawn, some swallowed flies or worms depending on deepening, and with n-removal, yaw with pitch and a drum roll speaks a thousand colors and hopefully pure lines, from that decent can.

Get it? ’bout bloody time. Four inland umpires. And one countdown to Steer Roast. The Iceman Cometh, with a typo in the subtitles, a duet on the roof, sounds like that one from Cat on a Hot Tin... Stannum... Plumbum... to unmount my drives, Resist and Employed. A dream I had, that a chauffeur (not Honfleur of Satie’s faction, nor a chaud dog, though a chow times two, and here despite I’m awesome not a dingoed basketmaker) was shared between those two disk names (kind of), Employment and Broadband Noise Gating, also with, the dream told me, something arcane or an arcade or pergola or with roses growing or snowing, the details are that oft-recalled white out of Mt Erebus, a blur. But only a mirror spoke to me today, and while that is a scary and scarring image in general, the past few days are unsettling in that I-won’t-settle-while-settling way. Nod to X-gene, not Y ⟵ not a veiled reference.

And, yes.

We are advised not to say “The key to this piece of music”: when does discernment become more scientific than feeling by heart? I suppose when the piece appears to be in two keys. THAT IS KEY BUT I STILL GRASP FOR STRAW, AND THEY TURN OUT TO BE MEN, OR LAST ONES, AND CAMELS ARE GRUMPY UNRELIABLE BUSES. Dunedin buses were also brown like camels. Dromedary didn’t give me a spellcheck alert, so I choose well. I doubt I could name the other in all seriousness.

Thoughts of gasps of clasps of throats
Of necks and lace and a place to choke
Of threat or a joke and my class just sang
And made it all worth it, so I will drink with others
port wine aged in a cooper’s oak-cedar cask
And it might be my dusk, my last.

Your deeds will go tooth and combed, in a mixed up way
(He flitted) my mental who know, my asp I’ll hurt and kill
On account of my boa, my bank, my pet,
Directionless and needless to say:

Cat a tonic.

So I stay dumbed, deafened, and once late
Cops beating up black queens gayer than thou
Unjust for the B-line.
My own B-line. Not a pick up line, but a drop down menu,
Cuvée, missed the game, how can we play ball,
And when is the space for anything I have said or will say.
Bye for now.
I understand.
[ ]Id[ ]est[ ].
The interrogatives are drunk and enemies and
Um, friends? Any? Ever? At least I was useful until I (was) found out (side the inbox).

–lasers’r’us, “The every way which but loose cannon to be recited as round about mid??night.”

P.S. The scream-play says, tell YKW I never stopped loving, how could I stop loving, even a myth, but due to a typo, that could have been math.

And, yes, the nth type of floodgate opened. And again,

Makings of the Wave Trade.

“Use me, abuse me, never say you’ll lose me.” I didn’t say love. But I’m hypothesizing different, which is like Think Difficult, Apple’s old slogan. Go to Starbucks, see a form of self-selection (when -ion and -ing have an amorphous boundary: who plays god?). I haven’t posted for a while and we will post a ton of photos, not especially well-filtered as there are so many, just more to get a bunch up there as we prepare for the Big Bang drinking making our Big Bucks. What will appear, about non-mythological ASCII characters, will make such GEMS of love and life as anything invented by Helmholtz—the ophthalmoscope (with that sometimes-mispronounced silent “ache”—howsoever one attempts to spell that letter—as with the great response from the great ex-WiFi, I have a lot to cover in teaching passive resonant LRC circuits and noise in the frequency domain, how will I do do it?—I felt she knew I was seeing a student about something, well-rounded and all, actually, on writing a dynamic compressor and the ODE required to make its knee function work more accurately BY FAR than cycling74’s own examples, which are well-buggy, like a dray—which adds a div-grad-curled dimension to the not plunging into the war joke “What’s the difference between a draught horse and a war horse? One darts into the fray.”

And thinking of the German bored game Troia... layers to be scraped away at until that wooden horse’s home is revealed enough for a publication in an archaeology journal, or Mongorian horse, my brain-voice is rough and I forget—a gory laryngectopic bicylce—but the game might have been made by the same person who invented Die Siedler von Catan (Settlers) of Klaus Teuber. (I have the space version in German too, time to put out on Re-Use at MIT. Hey, look up for Life Instructions—L.I.—on Wikipedia, not the Contradancing I describe elsewhere, or Nodal Modal Tidal this or that, or anything likely which is most likely anything, but this time, it is hilarious, the Starfarers of Catan) page, my sides split at the seams, but so do some synapses—are they parts of churches, with all those sinners and finely crossed pieces of apse? Read the history of the Duomo of Sienna to know when apse makes it big so it has to be converted to the beast itself, but with nothing to support its upper structure... we are left with just a single channel of what would have been part of the nave/aisle... at least it is a tourist trap and we can pay 6500 lire or whatever Euros, and walk that seemingly unsafe walk except nothing is really that unsafe except the medieval towers, like the ones in San Gemignano for which a photo does look like a beast of manytacles, but I am thinking of Pavia where I think towers were remaining after the earthquake in the mid-nineties; one came crumbling down and killed a journalist or journal-seller; if you go there visit the Certosa—the Charterhouse where Chartreuse-like alcohol is made by the monks, who, like Trappists, do not speak aloud except to tourists in need of knowing what lead them along the breadcrumb trail to the house of many candies—this paragraphs is bi-bifurcating and a picture and story needed with every breed of reference, and I HOPE (like BEAU, a character from the daytime soap The Days of Our Lives “Like sands through the hourglass, ...” and you wonder why Dallas and Santa Barbara and Die-nasty, as we called it when not calling it Dysentery with Prince Michael—of Moldavia? in real life, Praed of English Robin Hood fame, now there is a story with every detail needed descripting, and Catherine Oxenberg, a real-life little princess and who really warrants a full blog post, nay, blog, to delve into those of her life’s crevices, and crude that was NOT as a remark) with some cross-breeding, with no Abrahamic slant implied there. Not even, or especially not on Passover and at the end of the season of Lent.

Oh Helmholtz and his great crashing wave we in Napier New Zealand of the potential continent New Holland (and with Caterpillar and Bobcat, really makes me wonder about earthmoving. Canaries in mines, Tenerife being autonymic, in that its tenor is rife, Christchurch not merely the flat boring city I terribly described it as in the past, Northern Japan well thank god the greatest inductions in this area are down the corridor in I think it is induction-welding, hi “Tarky!” and into mysterious clandestine lodges—Clan of the Cave Bear?—or family-determine [whatever bedbugs do that is like lodging, which is a little more brimming than usual since in England what Kiwis would call a boarder—when someone stays with a family and pays for room as well well as hospitality—is called a lodger, kind of combines keeping the books—ledger like the late Heath—or bookkeeper or the one who is onder the one who makes all the embezzlement errors, the subboobbookkeeper, which ends up in a convoluted way being the word in English with the most double letters adjacent, and dodger, which reminds me it is tax day tomorrow in New England, because Patriots Day—Boston Marathon Day–gives the Longfellow Bridge Crossers such as myself a few extra days for our 1040EZs if we make no claims or use TurboTax, this sentence fizzles like a damp squib from the bobby dazzler it was) hear every Monday for lunch, the air-raid SIREN [what fecundity!]—yes, Helmholtz also invented the siren as well as writing the first book on psychoacoustics (that River Styx again, try to free myself from it, well, Achilles was dipped in it—sorry about needing to be held onto—Kerberos travels on it with every new soul going to Hades), as well as you’ll have to Google Helmholtz Waves, I know there is an ex-girlfriend of mine asking about them in a talk on her scientific communications class at Harvard, apparently the perfect locutor, I’d say or at least hears.

I HAVE DECIDED ONCE AND FOR ALL AND ONLY JUST NOW THAT MY THOUGHTS ARE MINE, MY MUSIC IS MINE—Make Mine Music—MY WORDS—My Word—ARE MINE—and the Beeb’s! (THOUGH I SHARE ALL THESE THINGS!), MY ART IS MINE, MY HISTORY IS...

Well, I think I am like part of a staircase and also what Charlotte spun. Bannister and Webb (see the Webb and ... about Shakra and homeopathy...?), whom I read about when I was 6 years old, the year I leant to read—as recommended by an aunt who taught “New Infants”—K(indergarten) in the US but not Kindergarten in New Zealand, where children are grown in German gardens—in fact, in the “SRA” reading method (which failed me, or v.v.), in the same card. SRA—Scientific Research Association surely must still exist, and object.method.

SRA (homeland security, defense, global health), SRA (the one I am talking about though the acronym is not present and it is part of McGraw Hill Online), Society for Research Administrators, Society for Risk Analysis, [Wikompendia], Society for Research on Adolescence (brain malfunction, need to carb load, as I keep seeing Adolf and Idol and gonad and ety- which could be etiology, etymology, or research pertaining to the ear), Sequence Read Archive, Southern Rodeo Association (ex-gf who was barely sexually vigorous by, what a scream, played up some sexual act of impression or “currency” as she called it, no doubt needing more words to hear her spit out lies or truths or even Sex, Lies and Videotapes about “what” she is concurrently doing, urgency, metaphorical South Parth Uncle Fucka—“shut your face”—cunt, count, quefrencies, electric currents, parents, lure, and Wheel of Fortune, let me by a vow of povery or vowel and lose my lead or a turn or turn a trick or dominatrix or whatev, funny how these copious memories, like in Hugh Laurie’s House Cu being the cause of apparent schizophrenia and a caring phonecall gave that away... and orange is my color, the matrimonial ring of my eye—no, Katie would not be a copper poisoner, I have NOTHING NEGATIVE to say about my now ex-wife, whom I actually miss in SD on the outskirts of town by a meadow of grazing well-fleeced jumpers and brayers and neighers in RC—the cupric memories flow I hope for tonight terminally, oh she said, and I’ll haul the phrase out correctly, something about passing the ___ Rodeo Test, which was to see if I could remain inside of her for more than ten [or something] seconds after she orgasmed. THAT REDEFINES THE PETRIE DISH OF SEMANTICS. The Jazz band are playing Paul Desmond’s/Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” right now, give me Radiohead’s “Pyramid Song” to break my heart beat just the wrong-right way, a fire in among the soul OR the other united interpreted nations.

THOUGHT ALERT. Check it out, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Airbus_A380 and think of Boeing 777s. Mind the global (and present) warming, the changing enemies, TG once a brutal/clever attack like 9/11 has happened, it is passé passé. Of the beautiful and haunting new multi-tech opera by Tod Machover, of MIT’s Media Lab—and that is a point to stop not-even-a-stream-of-any-consciousness thoughts. Tod helped I think with Evan Z—Airplane Ears record label—and Joe Paradiso (biggest synth in Boston!) have my Asyndeton video/sound piece played at the ML’s FAST Music and Machine concert a couple of months ago. The on-campus highlight was a few nights ago with Kronos, Bang on a Can, Gamelan Galaktika, I think Loud Objects and Ensemble Robot (a pity not the UVA robot-music group who were AWESOME) and many more doing things by Brian Eno—the original tune in ambient drone music for airports FUCK FUCK my aural cortex is getting tied up in polymerous knots and even triple negatives (yeah, yeah, at least a double positive is negative, but ex-gf of repetitive strain injury to my fingers fame meaning more than what you think that I, listening to my binaurals/stereo type her reference in abundance, and as I am like the Hungry Lambs–Along with Sweet Porride and Stars in the Sky were the very first books we used in NZ for learning to read but I missed one at age six when I was hospitalized for my 10th serious tonisilitis and they whipped ’em out along with my adnoids which I believe is normals, reminds me in 1992 of my failed anal probe when I broke the equipment of a private practitioner in NZ so had to have a general anaesthetic—my brother-in-law, coinci-dentally, administers such things commanding grand amounts of money—and the probe did feel like the first episode of South Park, a Dima-esque sat-e-llite dish like an inverted umbrella—ellajqwn—with no fleshy tags right tight up there with the abdutive inference I either scrawled about or will transfer pixelwise—oh I almost wrote ballet dancing or bellydancing, speaking of abundance and MIT Dance Troupe and its Innovative Names every year—everything at MIT these days is about evolution, minds, fingers to the pulse, cybernautics, the Infinite Metaphor I mean Corridor is a “Run of Gold”en Gauntlet since I am gaunt and am currently letting my spic and span apartment to find new studio space away from the ruminations and mastications of others—and bellydance choreography is graphic as the name would suggest scripted and if semiotics has signs being flung far afield, some detangled at the blackhole event horizon, making it >4% of a universe, then these signs seek hale and hearty referents, and whole bodies could be content in this symbolic gesture of, no it is not tasteful “flawless beauty meeting art” erotica, no, far from it, it is the alpha-omega, the aadvark—zygote of singly composed moments. Höhe Punkte. And if every moment informed by weeks of choreography, well, perhaps innovation takes real victory among even great cerebell[ydancymancer]a. That was one helluva tangent, indeed a bundle of fibres of tangents in differential geometry. How to make something big out of something small, an artform that really should be 451-ed. Even a veneer of logic decimates (above or below) the quiet haeccity of dictionary loss, clearly a relative of eunuchs.

Oh, Southern Rodeo Association, Satanic Ritual Abuse, Sexusl Recovery Anonymous. That is the first Google page on SRA. What a diatribe I fell into, perhaps the lost one. Tinyurl comment: girlfriend who suggested after bad breakup recently I go to the Meadows for Trauma and Codependency issues (was her mirror upside down?) and for leaving a trail of female wrecks in my wake—more like, at my funeral wake, I am guessing the cleverosity was—with the suggestion by concomitant Psychotherapist, that I treat women badly, like, really badly, and while being one of two people to siddle up closely, white noise generator excusing itself in background FBI/CIA style as a vocal formant cancelation device, believing that I did NOT have a psychosis as described by the ten-year-old Instruction Manual and on the flipside of this or that old vinyl of mine—where was I? Ah, I was told I was a sex addict. No. Then a love addict.

Given various pedigrees and research I am very happy to prepare for the apocolyptic cave of the revelation of St John the Theobromine Logician of Patmos Greece, this mistreatment of women has been the biggest cover-up, mascara, made-up conconction of vile proportion, and the worst part is that it still tricks me sometimes. Woe betide senders of old emails I re-read with a mind to knowing. From nine years ago, from whenever. Hearts broken can have blood put in tiny viles. There is then that which San Gannaro of Naples undergoes: liquefaction. Chomp or suck on that; the more recent encounters of greater manipulation (check out In Sheep’s Clothing—about emotional manipulation and overt/covert aggression about women who love psychopaths, but such a title etc. should allow relfection and deconstruction to take intentional even authoritative hold and don’t let my phrase “Instruction Manual” from above lead you to believe I am thinking about anything, and with a strong CAVEAT LECTOR AUDITORQUE that this I all but imagine has little to do with teaching women above all to respond or invent in like. Perhaps Star Wars IS actually alerting us to the Jedi within, as Jack London’s The Star Rover or even crap by Aleister Crowley infer the God Within Complex. And perhaps there are things in the world, similarly, that are honest on some plane. But the offense lies in some cases on our very playing field, and that would be, here I am fanciful in jest lacking an appropriate medium of example, this book on Ovine farming and dressing techniques be a technical niche for psychopathic aggression without discovery, sans denuding, rather like the emperor will not be spun invisibly but the sane, legal, sound enemy who is GOOD (not a false idol, not one of Bacon’s either): how to destroy an enemy by making THEM go made. Passive agressively, since the blame can be laid with them. They are MADE to be victim. They think they have committed some(etymologically imperative) egregious sin whereas as they are either possessed of some gift (let us say), like in the archaeological Indy Jones or Tomb [hmmmmmmmm, and yes let that me a careful intonement] Raider quest movies, for part of a piecemeal artifact or one of a certain number of items/people of value. So squish that person torture, steal, leave empty, except if like good NZ wool used in “Berber” carpets, or in “Berger” paints, where resilience resonates in commercials for both products and most people don’t know collective torture techniques.

How to cause, let’s say, extreme trauma? Bone up on a book on extreme trauma, but read between the li(n)es. I shan’t say more, even if I have said as many things at once as any of these books or higher and doomed stages of unnatural selection anti-evolution with a phenocidal bent yadda yadda gopher ga .

I still am extremely susceptible to suggestion, and they are all from a negative force. All. And all. IT IS STOPPING IN A WEEK, its eight or whatever tentacles are being lopped off at the neck, losing its head;I am told wisely that that it how it is done (in jest), perhaps I won’t risdegard hints of special rolling implements (rolling pins? those strings for removing eyebrows?)? Surely not the parasite-obsessed ex-girlfriend who liked to scare me about tapeworms (oh, poor lap whose top you hosted when the love FELT real) and how the body can have but one and it must leave through the outdoor and must be rolled onto a surgeon’s implement so that it does not break into segments because they all contain eggs and you are generally dead if in those winds breakage occurs; a scare not un-akin to the parasite a friend of hers caught in ?Belize—probably not since that ex-gf spent time in Belize with her class (um, not social class, she left that behind, or they left her family behind, or something abutting on the whole “behind” concept, or the BO Concept store, now, that is true class)—which ate her aortic sphincter (always pronounced shfincter) which apparently is not of the heart but the top of the stomach, causing constant sislatsirep—reverse peristalsis, id est, regurgitation, thus food could not be held down, which is terrible because she also had a step-brother—a delight, Butters was his nickname because of his cuteness and blonde hair—with a similar non-parasite problem, and that caused a delayed puberty and stunted growth which could have corrected itself by now, I will not ever know, as I am quite disjunct by that family :(.

AND MY FINE MOTOR CONTROL. I HAVE NO IDEA HOW THIS IS WRAPPED UP WITH SUGGESTIBILITY, ALTHOUGH, SAY, THE BASAL GANGLIA OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT (IT IS MY BEST GUESS FOR NON-COURSE-NINE REASONS BUT BY THE LOVE TOUCHED MY MIND’S OWN SHINE BY THE MOON OF NO ONE CAN SEE BUT YOU THEN I WILL BE NICE BUT TO OTHERS NO BUT TO YOU, I STILL CANNOT GO ON FOR WHAT HAPPENED? THEY ALREADY STARTED AND I AM JUST A WALKING METAPHORIC CRISIS, NOT JUST IDENTITY).

SO MY ART IS MINE, I VIDE-O.D.-ED MYSELF DRAWING AND WILL POST, it’s a terrible video. But I cannot be held responsible for exactly what my old writings were about. I observed those things for real. Real. I wrote about them. I have already published them. I am not the only channel to their circumnavigation and translation now. My other work is, and it is self-declarative, rather as one would declare to douane those things that I suppose were housed in one of the WTC buildings. I know what is what more every second with every inflection of truth, with Parallel, Relative, Leading-note Exchange (Leittonwechsel) and not the oppositional forces in a Riemannian musical manifold. Or bill fold, as a close friend once said....

There is a week remaining, if you couldn’t glean that. The Big Sweepstakes (of Mis-) are at Steer Roast. It might end up being the final test, though, in a position of publicity, I would prefer a fantastic Peer Gynt.

We will now clean up series of images, probably post Cream of Stonsciousness blah each time (here and on that part of the wash cycle, in a Syncromesh Tumblamatic). And work towards the final pieces—video, music, and the 616 of all my time. And, yes, perspective has it that there is a speciality involved here, apparently, not random, not bespoke, not JUST an intoned and question Richard Serra sculpture of gold this day, not just brimming with puns, not just semiotics, not just just just you’ll not be like,

—well, an ex-girlfriend almost took an MC’s class on 20thc music. She declared she was more in the Peter camp by then. Whatever that means, she was the opposite of average in any sense (more under-estimated in every way but age). Anyway, her narrative is that she didn’t like hearing, say, Bartók’s music should be reduced to a single key even if each hand might have been composed in a separate mode (see New Grove article on Mode, it is a General’s saver for those leaning toward Music Theory hysteria, and one of the most comprehensive and compendious articles on offer); what can be heard might be apprehended as monomodal, or thought through multimodally (sorry Greece and Rome, I should have written it in Byzantine or Ottoman! Or, better yet, Egyptian, Aramaic, Sanskrit, or any of the Han Languages). We can split our our brains, like following a Bach Fugue the parts can be jumped between or played off—those were the dying gasps of my dissertation which APPEARED to argue against voice leading, but was a breath of life back into true voice leading, I believe, just misunderstood aswarm an ocean of too much pretense and obliquity of remarkable clevertude, which is just lifting me from or rolling me out of my lowest caste now, and believe it or not, how close was I to a fairly maximally cool such pretention sans vicious decision-making in contrapuntal understanding even in my own contrived pieces (I shall post a terrible recording of one of my two Repeating Pieces for Helen, as they demonstrate a fair amount without throwing away the baby with the Barthes water) and all negative I have written about; the dissertation was to demonstrate the dangers—I suppose its own type of arrogance, but, barely a dangerous one itself—of that entire Barthes water thing—being too tied up in quadruply uncountable knots forgetting the music, then the sound qua sound, writing as something of poetry and not that phonemic and orthographic relative pottery, and its magic of blast-firing glaze over the porous material which really just hides an encroaching disease that I suspect the Choosing Ones suffer from as individuals, the ones who have the equivalent of learnt perfect pitch, which we know is not possible, read this in Oliver Saks’s Musicophilia, whereas with beat it is different. I think there is something like Marble to Porphyry going on here (even tufa or tuff I think it is in English): as with a penis wanting that final thrust, not even the most desperate or relaxed or imagined thoughts or real feeling or love will wake the squishy thing up if that is how it is; enjoy what is there.

Don’t pretend, don’t be exactly like a Mike Moore Food, Inc. beast of food burden. I wish I had written my dissertation MY WAY. Hey, since things are changing, we will. After all, thoughts are mine once I let the suggestions free themselves to to expression and not action, and accept that my fine motor control has a subtlety that is execrated x-rated raped extremely fine—that’s all under the blame of “extra-pyramidal” side effects such as shaking from psychopharms. Which we are almost off. The control is wrested, seized, but I am not.

Hee Hee She She.

Oh, the party both begins, and ends, and these thing take a week.

XOXO

PS did I mention we are gaunt? Think of John of Gaunt, in Shakespeare’s Richard II:

This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear’d by their breed and famous by their birth
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,
Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son,
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,
Like to a tenement or pelting farm:
England, bound in with the triumphant sea
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds:
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!

That is Act II, scene i, 42–54, but I’d like to check the source, as this is Wikipediatessaron we are sourcing from. [A perfect fourth is five pitch classes, and does form a Perfect Circle mod twelve if you like, but that forgets too much.]

Also, for much fun, to have you enraptured: The Mommy Project. And we forgot how great it is to blog, because some hatchets are to be honed, just as some people CANNOT be buried (or cremated, but... Kenny from South Park... who does he represent, represent? Too much unfiguring has gone on in that absented way in the collectively defective “mind” which consists only of Descartes’ evil genius, and do they not wish that their repetition and having drones refer to what I say and do, in and with varying degrees of obliquity and insult and trivially trailing assault and, yes, I will more than smirk on occasion, and certainly be taken in occasion, but, then again, we must say all things equally and not lend a hand to pollute those who know that Logan and Jessica were not just about the nipple.

Pirate Radio Ham Device Rotting.

Fairly irrelevant post.

Cammarata
Comune di Cammarata
Cammarata
Location of Cammarata in Italy
Coordinates 37°38′N 13°38′E
Country Italy
Region Sicily
Province Agrigento (AG)
Frazioni Borgo Callea
Government
Mayor Vito Diego Mangiapane
Area
Total 192.3 km2 (74.2 sq mi)
Elevation 682 m (2,238 ft)
Population (Dec. 2004)[1]
Total 6,416
Density 33.4/km2 (86.4/sq mi)
Demonym Cammaratesi
Time zone CET (UTC+1)
Summer (DST) CEST (UTC+2)
Postal code 92022
Dialing code 0922
Patron saint St. Nicholas of Bari
Saint day December 6
Website Official website
Cammarata is a comune (municipality) in the Province of Agrigento in the Italian region Sicily, located about 60 km southeast of Palermo and about 35 km north of Agrigento on the eponymous mountain (1,578 m) in a territory rich of forests.
Cammarata borders the following municipalities: Acquaviva Platani, Casteltermini, Castronovo di Sicilia, Mussomeli, San Giovanni Gemini, Santo Stefano Quisquina, Vallelunga Pratameno, Villalba.
The name derives from the Greek Kàmara, meaning "vaulted room". The town is mentioned for the first time in 1141 in a document mentioning several Arabic localities, a sign that it was settled at least from the Islamic domination of the island.
The county of Cammarata followed the history of Sicily under the Normans, the Hohenstaufen and the War of the Vespers. In 1397 the count rebelled and the town was besieged by Bernardo Cabrera, general of king Martin II of Sicily. Later it was a fief of the Abatellis.
Main sights
The castle, an example of Aragonese architecture
Demographic evolution
References
^ All demographics and other statistics: Italian statistical institute Istat.
www.comune.cammarata.ag.it/

The deconvolution expert apparently and the anthropologist apparently, where “apparent” is a positive term.

Without delving into to many details: I have spent the night preparing for my gig at the Enormous Room with Stefan Helmreich. Several years ago I made a highly crappy frequency shifter that went beyond the Nyquist limit, thus flipped. The idea was for a CD of mine, based on Ryoji Ikeda’s +/- so that I would have my remixes (private since not © cleared) but if you linearly flipped the frequency domain around 1/2 the Nyquist limit, which effectively turns the sound upside down so highs are low and lows are high—and by lows that include extremely lows (not that that is usually relevant) and the highs that are way above the threshold of hearing (say, between 16kHz and 20kHz—some MP3 algorithms even chop off at 16kHz, though not the good ones): I thought, well, I could stick Ryoji Ikeda’s originals in the very high non-audible range of the “audible” spectrum. I do things sometimes, like use a silly code or include tricks. I never do anything maliciously, unlike most people who use codes or who embed things steganographically. This was a tribute and an honesty.

The idea of it being a frequency shift rather than transposition was so the range of frequencies would remain the same. See, 10kHz to 20kHz is an octave, so is 440Hz to 880Hz (concert A4 to soprano A5). And I wanted it flipped. SPEAR is an excellent analysis program written by Michael Klingbeil; it has a flip feature, using the highest partial that remains after the McAuley Quatieri algorithm after the FFT inevitable strips some less useful frequencies, as the axis of symmetry. So I used MaxMSP’s [freqshift~] object—I am teaching MacMSP to my advanced class presently—and pushed it past the Nyquist limit so that the highest energy partials—normally the lowest frequencies—would be the highest, this most hidden and less likely to leak.

The frequency shift was simply the trick to flipping, due to the reflection of frequencies at 22.05kHz at the usual CD 44.1kHz sampling rate. I did so [biquad~] filtering of the hidden sound before it went up there, around 6kHz which is pretty pathetic. Then I chopped off some of the normal (“forward”?) sound (they for me are both forward, I’m boringly regular, though less so in some way that one might imagine). The hidden audio message was pretty ugly in sound quality, so I added a fairly naïve pitch transposition to push information downwards; thus within 6kHz for the to-be hidden message, I could, say, hold up to 12kHz of information if I transposed it down an octave. But that kind of compression loses half its information, and then some, due to mathematical noise. There are the same number of “slots” or FFT bins available for the data, no matter what you do with it except if you are very DSP-savvy, which I am not; now there is math getting it there, and math retrieving it. It is not symbolic, rather, number-crunched, hence rounding errors, ripple due to windows, etc.

That indeed is very noisy, especially on MaxMSP which doesn’t have good transposers. I sometimes put it through an [allpass~] filter to reverberate it, again naïvely so—but I didn’t care as it wasn’t a serious venture, just s silly something, actually, mainly to show my class—it by delaying certain phase-shifted frequencies. Kind of a cheat; plus I altered the signal and i/o vectors sizes, which made a huge difference. (I’ve left out many details here, for a reason; it has something to do with being mugged, and my ear being attuned to something, so I haven’t explained, say, how the filters tracked sounds, and all that; the MaxMSP patch was an application, meaning the patching information was hidden, so I couldn’t even see it, after the mugging when I lost everything, as in, everything. I’ve talked about that elsewhere. Plus I write very idiosyncratically, and despite what people think, the visual aspect is sui generis.) [I have been receiving the standard barrage of emails and texts. Probably Bacon’s first idol—associating things too readily. Anyway, when I get pissed off, I post more. They’ll teach me to swim one day, but, hee hee, I have a special skill in the swimming department! I’ll write this in my other bulletin too, I think. Really, truly, madly (actually, not), deeply, wisely, and see below about what this is really about—initials SP! ;)

I demonstrated this to my classes two-to-three years ago, part of my general practice of not keeping secrets when it came to secret things(! I’ll get the semantics correct one day), i.e., I suppose an insurance policy against being accused of hiding nefarious messages there JOKE, or being falsely identified with something JOKE. Just a stupid brag because I do feel somewhat stupid around some students at these fancy universities; rarely an event zapped. Without me feeling silly. But such zapping is harmless. I suppose. And I can assure you, I have never used it fo’ shizzle; on one piece—I shan’t elaborate, only to say I have written about it in connection to rape of all things—fairly irrelevant and I might be getting customs of other countries badly wrong here, so I take that back (epar), but that is my token to identify something—I stripped it before I gave it to the person who wanted that piece. [Re-reading, this is jumbled.]

It was not on the final version; perhaps it was on the mugged version—which was a copy of everything I have ever done—I did find back-up disks weeks later, but they replicated things on the Drobo 3.4TB system—I’ve explained the mysterious return of the cover of it, my SIM card, my laptop being returned but not my bag, and the laptop being scoured for 3 hours then after I used it a couple of times, it died. Etc. I’m kind of rushing writing this because I have the gig tonight and I am not prepared, but I think... therefore... I hate being under-prepared.

One other person was given the algorithm’s description in detail (I rambled it at a talk to No.6 club—a sort-of frat at MIT, 18 months ago—perhaps at Wellesley more recently, I forget), and I gave it to only one person. I shan’t say who that is, of course. Saying this ends friendships, and no-one has ever liked messiness regarding (especially) intellectual copyright (heck, this is exactly that, all these legal patheticnesses, what with my divorce almost two months ago, which in South Dakota means it is probably fully gone through—I am joking of course when I say that now we can testify against each other... JOKE I miss Katie NOT A JOKE a truly wonderful person—see, I said it boldly).

—or artistic. I’ve gone on about honesty elsewhere. If I were sensible I would probably write a poem about this in the style of Lewis Carroll. But a little more earnestly, since I couldn’t even dream of being as multitudinously clever as the Rev. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. I just wrote about The Carpenter and the Walrus. Next on the agenda, The Owl and the Pussycat. I’m getting a kitty this week! I met a student’s black kitty, perhaps the softest, and friendliest/sweets little beastie I have ever met. And there is a teeny tiny fully grown black-tortie in my building! I saw her for the first time today, like a little loaf of purriness.

Anyway. I won’t elaborate. I need breakfast. Trident Bookstore’s huevos rancheros methinks. But I did find something very shocking, as if I am not reviled enough for all the shocking things I find. That is, self-reviled. That saddens me. And to be fair, I developed a new algorithm a few days ago, which I have been working on, and it is sweet. Noisy, but fabulous. It is an insurance policy on a different planet, as some would say, in the Galactic Federation. or Atlantis. Or GG Land, which is in the capital G of Greenland, like something else I’d like to point out in a future post, which is related to Algeria I think, and a park in New York. At least I can use all this craziness for my job—art stuff. Hence the relatively low salary, but “low” is not a complaint. It is a great job, and I just described why.

(I cache all interesting webpages and back them up on paranoid, oops, cautious servers. It isn’t paranoia, because I can’t experience fear. Hence Amfs’s name.) So I’ve had a busy night.

Clank clank clank whisper, this is MY SCREENPLAY!!! I will eventually write out some of the really early stuff from the green fake snakeskin book (It might have been a fake snake). I had promised not to write anymore, and just put up pictures and pieces of music, but this was kind of exceptional. It is the first time I am cross-posting a message too. Oh, and videos, like ones I will be showing tonight.

Check out my other blog for my name....

I meant Dumb Art. Not 501ster. Nor ZA 891.

#DEU

11←legs
h↓
28←16←42
[h]m←bb
cltw←gbu
za←az←map london←ml
?891

#UNS

pc.bt.pj.ig
xn.dt.hp.rf
io.

Post Cunninlingo → wilt or stick? → walter’s dick → deck of cards (rome) → 52*(cardsinadeck←card(inal)sinaddict).
Bermuda Triangle → troubled water → bridge.
ss Peter & John → our church [→parish* <→decollato→breakneck→uncle→ute*.
In Gravidenza → pregnant cow → daniuterrineau [→dani→pathelogicaliar→saytellied→ satellite* →littledog(laughed)→ dish*(ranwaythespoon).
Xanad-u/N [→ s.t.c. → satellite triangle cleric → conic section of dish → parabola → trajectory → missile* /…i’llmissUreverse→missi’ll→ …*.
Delirious Tremens → dt → daytripper → stay for a day → sta diem → stadium.
and my Head while Punting, laura? → the straw hat, noah [→boater→…| <→knowher→no”er”+| → boat*.
Reisenrad Felatio → spinning head → exorcise (linda blair) → exercise → train*.
t. s. elIOt → pre-game talk sucked → peptobismal → or tums → autumns → falls*.
GL → > 50 (years in practice)
UM → ER → EiiR → QEii → buckingham palace

dunster house

7/25 /03
propaganda/instructions/truth,  e.g.buckinghampalace,dunsterHoUse,$50,apples,glass,fabric,bodyprint,treetrimming,sidewalketc.

oops [030722-0611-030724-1643] oops-codes.rtf

Eh? Ah! This is part of the screenplay I was writing in 2003. See other parts of it in my Tumblr blog, which can be accessed from http://anonymous-infinity.com. That site was very developed once, but it is lowest priority. I think I’ll post a lot of the first installment of “Paranoia—a method of torment and mind-rape.”

That is what aspects of my blogs are called.

I caught a cherub

Images © 2010 Peter Whincop. A tiny gesture for a great time smeared into a teeny journal. I also have a new recording but I still can’t work out how to put them up on Blogspot. So it will have to be Tumblr (a gain) and MySpecious (a lass because it’s so very much been hit by the bad taste stick). I am playing at the Enormous Room in Central Square Cambridge tomorrow, and am organizing exactly what. Stefan Helmreich, professor of Anthropology, already released on Negativland’s Seeland record label, was asked by them to be a representative for SETI-X (or something, since last year I cannot figure out relationships, each for their own but cyborging together rather like some of the node-like diagrams way back in some network like posts—not the mote model below, which is more about information processing and data mining) and he contacted me as a de/convolution expert. KAUM! Anyway we will be doing a remix using the Scrambles of ERF CD that SETI-X ?found. It strikes me as an interesting-enough CD, deploying fairly evenly many standard computer music techniques plus 80s synth beats. The decoding is incomplete, as the text demonstrates, and, who knows, it might just be an enormous joke on us, or an instruction manual for being a peaceful place, or a warning of Vogon Construction of a new traffic(king) route or intersection or even just a rotary/roundabout as we say downunder.

I am not an expert at convolution! And deconvolution virtually doesn’t exist. It would be a predictive code, and sonically I can think of an example: removing reverb to give the anechoic sound. Ironically or otherwise, on this disk you would then hear the heart beat of a baby. I am just a dude who has help Stefan with other music projects, kind of injecting the abstractly abstract, very unconcrete, the antithesis of his work—he is pretty well known in some spheres as the maker of the photocopy music CD and writer about the Alien Ocean. Sounds a little like the Ron Howard movie, Cocoon. Perhaps we are distilling an intentional cauldron of water that will engulf the earth, so, run for the hills. Really. Or buy yourself an Alvin and food for five years. I can imagine the Matrix breeding chambers, or the similar thing on the Army of the Twelve Monkeys. A vault for the chosen ones, self-selected, and sometimes sought. Dead and forgotten and stupid people are left behind. I will be left behind, I hope. I feel like I’m in a movie sometimes. Perhaps an early Wenders one, any, or even Antonioni. Or Michael Powell.

Boring. I wish Blogspot played GIFs. Oh, Amf. saw the clouds above Boston being shaped, she claims, and the thin light that gets shone to see how to “write every glyph exactly” as she put it. I believe her, because some people under stand.