The Silence of Sound.

If I wrote a play, and I am actually writing one, it wouldn’t quite be in Braille, but to start with would consist of a lot of dots fairly well organized, able to be read with a little imagination or delusion. (Spot the différance.) Then I’d join the dots just as we did as kids. Next, I’d perform a Gaussian blur on the image just as we did as kids. And the figures resulting would have perspective, correct shading, take on the form of both humans doing various things and also quite clearly letters. That way I would write a play.

Or I could start of with one of my compositions, and with the fcuked up spectrum that is imposed on everything these days (new project: to trace the source of this leak, shouldn’t neither boil nor freeze me in the process), and my psychological trauma of resulting in terrible co-dependence, I must deface that and what will I find? Exactly that message. Ugh. It seems I have_ daemon written terrible_ socket things without_ resource realizing_ driver_ framework it. Every_ dae.

Convincing? Wait until my next barrage_

Chirp Chirp Marble Dressed up as Love Birds.

Can you see them? Their love is so strong that they even managed to etch, psychically, their names. That much should be obvious. And quite a few angles (well, half each) of their faces.

Oh, rotate so their signature is on the left. They in many forms are on the right.

Vandals.

Waiting for ελευθερία. Beckett. And The Lost Ones. A small world of a flattened cylinder, with a circumference of 50m and a height of 16m. And its pitiful inhabitants. Dense prose. Beckett.

This is How I Remember You Most Fondly.

THis is built on the eigHtH letter of tHe alpHabet. It is an easy letter to miss wHen typing sucH tHat every occurrence of it will be capitalized, kaput. It sneaks in. In Russian it is transliterated to X in tHe Latin alpHabet. In Greek, it is just marked as an aspirant. See, I’m avoiding it quite well.

I saw tHe apparition of an acHe on an ex-girlfriend’s bum (yes, bum; and yes, we sHared Her). SHe offered no explanation. I realized tHen tHat sometHing was awry witH tHe relationsHip. NotHing (I am? SHe is) but a HeartacHe. THe end of my world or one Hull of assail.

So I took a sHot of tHat H-bum and did tHe curve tHing to it in ~PHotosHop. Snap. CHange. Snap. Use Latin. Don’t use Latin.

AnotHer girlfriend, well, tHere was a butt story (not a bum story). SHe also witH a nice round one, sat on an empty soup bowl. SHe stood up. THe plate liked tHat butt, and sHowed tHat by suction. We didn’t need to pry it off. It slurp-glopped off.

I missed six acHes wHen (no, seven!) writing tHis.

I Don’t Want the Top of the Words.

When I was around 8 years old, I went through to my parents bedroom, and said, mostly asleep, but recall it well, and I was very earnest about this, exactly what is written in the title of this entry. I never quite knew what it meant, but I’ve played around with the idea.

The first image is a snapshot of a piece of P’s in the way we view sounds. It is slightly stretched. In fact it was largely ever-so-slightly filtered white noise. For an experiment, I grabbed the whole image, altered its perspective (always fun) using GraphicConverter, and plonked it somewhere so that things seemed to line up well on all four sides, so the lines and circles sync'd very nicely. Just playing around with possibilities, just a study in complete randomness. I have outlined the plonked image in black—its resolution is slightly different. I Gaussian blurred the whole thing slightly, as that brings out strong lines quite well. Just more randomness.

Songs are not Meant to be Stupid. Tread Lightly.

Don't end a clause with a preposition, so: Don't with songs, up with which mess, again: words are very important, without which we would not have such tender expressions as:–

I need to speak up
I cannot see
I need to find you
—Jose Amnesia ft. Jennifer Rene, “Louder” (Original Mix) (Armind label [Dutch Trance], 2006)

Sometimes I spin around for days
Skip and chase and say
—Blonde Redhead, “Led Zep” (In an Expression of the Inexpressible, 1998)

I know the way now
Always I’m not down... oh no!!
—Blonde Redhead, “Melody of Certain Three” (Melody of Certain Lemons, 2000)

But these are the letters from melody
Show me how to read
Show me how to write
These are the things you can do for me
—Blonde Redhead, “Melody” (Misery is a Butterfly, 2004)

And then I’ll have to figure out what to do
I’m kind of afraid I’m co-dependent on you
—Loquat, “Swingset Chain” (It’s Yours to Keep, 2005, Jackpine Social Club label)

(Click on the singer/guitarist’s name, Kylee, for her narrative of the background of the song, and also this—ignore the crappy ringtone blah—in fact the whole site is pretty interesting.)

Think of songs, usually love songs, that involve being lost, needing to find the way, figuring things out. Finally some truth; I know this feeling well.

[All reproduced for the purposes of academic critique. And in this case it is a critique-in-absense, to be found in between the lines of what I write below. © the original copyright holders.]

What if I am actually t&<strong>raining these people—in what? Whatever, I don’t mind, really, honesty never kills—in the sound/musical aspect? (Spect- does mean see, after all. Nah, just opining, I seriously need to chill.)