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.