So I haven't posted here in a while, but that's because I've been focusing on writing ANOTHER blog. It's all about my capstone stuff, which translates to uber-cool stuff. Check it here:
http://comdma.com/~langforc
If you've got a Mac you're in for a treat too, since all the work I'm doing on there is in Quartz Composer, and you can download and run the compositions I post in Quicktime. So check it foo!
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
"It is my duty to inform you that Honey Bunches of Oats is the greatest cereal every created by man"
Thank you, Mr. Aesop Rock. And now, a portion of a short story I am working on for my creative writing class:
-------
Well, it's all piled up in the corner there. Tidy in a couple little plastic Tops bags. I slept about as well as Spock does (for those of you who are not Trek fans, Spock doesn't sleep). Sunlight's creeping in around the edges of vinyl roll-up curtains, stray beams of light catching the old-lady wallpaper and various posters scattered around my room. Thank God I kept my room mostly my room. I took down the drawings she had done for me months ago, they're in a landfill somewhere getting gobbled up by maggots I hope. Now it's just James Bond, Batman Returns, Daft Punk, Uma Thurman, and Max Headroom keeping my company in here. She always hated Max, but I was pretty stern about keeping that one up. If I had actually been stern about more important things, she probably would have left me far earlier in the relationship than she did. And I probably would've been a hell of a lot happier, and this would've been a hell of a lot easier.
I'm finally rolling out of bed, my Sony Dream Machine leering at me with those green eyes. Thanks for reminding me it's only 7:30 in the morning, on a day when I could be sleeping in no less. Mmm, good morning cold floor. My feet touch the wooden panels and I get that little sting of annoyance in my head. I shuffle about a little bit and slide into the clothing I have scattered about the floor. I'm too lazy to put away my clean clothes, so they take up all the space in my laundry basket while my dirty clothes lie scattered about the room. At least it's just my clothes now, I don't have any bras with nasty, pointy, cold metal clips to step on anymore.
I'm digging through my laundry basket in an effort to find some pants, seeing as to how I'll probably need some if I want to leave the house today. It's this thought of getting out of the house that draws my attention to those bags again. My glance becomes a stare. The stare becomes a glare. I feel my heart start to speed up as I spot the rolled up posters, the hoody sleeve sticking out, the unfinished paintings I kept encouraging her with. My head is pounding, my floorboards are rattling because I'm shaking, and I
feel my hand spot some denim. I pull out the comfortably baggy jeans I like to wear, more things of mine she hated. Sliding one leg over the other, the stiff pantlegs grinding along the personlegs, and then collapsing into place, floating around, slightly sagging, keeping their distance and providing plenty of circulation in areas that simply shouldn't be kept in tight quarters.
-------
Well, it's all piled up in the corner there. Tidy in a couple little plastic Tops bags. I slept about as well as Spock does (for those of you who are not Trek fans, Spock doesn't sleep). Sunlight's creeping in around the edges of vinyl roll-up curtains, stray beams of light catching the old-lady wallpaper and various posters scattered around my room. Thank God I kept my room mostly my room. I took down the drawings she had done for me months ago, they're in a landfill somewhere getting gobbled up by maggots I hope. Now it's just James Bond, Batman Returns, Daft Punk, Uma Thurman, and Max Headroom keeping my company in here. She always hated Max, but I was pretty stern about keeping that one up. If I had actually been stern about more important things, she probably would have left me far earlier in the relationship than she did. And I probably would've been a hell of a lot happier, and this would've been a hell of a lot easier.
I'm finally rolling out of bed, my Sony Dream Machine leering at me with those green eyes. Thanks for reminding me it's only 7:30 in the morning, on a day when I could be sleeping in no less. Mmm, good morning cold floor. My feet touch the wooden panels and I get that little sting of annoyance in my head. I shuffle about a little bit and slide into the clothing I have scattered about the floor. I'm too lazy to put away my clean clothes, so they take up all the space in my laundry basket while my dirty clothes lie scattered about the room. At least it's just my clothes now, I don't have any bras with nasty, pointy, cold metal clips to step on anymore.
I'm digging through my laundry basket in an effort to find some pants, seeing as to how I'll probably need some if I want to leave the house today. It's this thought of getting out of the house that draws my attention to those bags again. My glance becomes a stare. The stare becomes a glare. I feel my heart start to speed up as I spot the rolled up posters, the hoody sleeve sticking out, the unfinished paintings I kept encouraging her with. My head is pounding, my floorboards are rattling because I'm shaking, and I
feel my hand spot some denim. I pull out the comfortably baggy jeans I like to wear, more things of mine she hated. Sliding one leg over the other, the stiff pantlegs grinding along the personlegs, and then collapsing into place, floating around, slightly sagging, keeping their distance and providing plenty of circulation in areas that simply shouldn't be kept in tight quarters.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Ditty and Compositions
Wrote this little ditty as part of an assignment for my Creative Writing class. I got the idea for the repeating narrative from the insert of Genesis' "The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway."
---
Balancing the lukewarm styrofoam plate on my left forearm, holding an ice-filled glass in my left hand, jingling keys in my right, I opened the door. The base of it caught on the front after moving about an inch, so I kicked it, dislodging it and sending it swinging into a rats nest of cable on the floor. I crept in the dark room, still balancing the plate, and switched on the lights. A cart with amplifiers resting on it protruded from the wall on the left, a doorway on the right led into the still-unlit lounge. I walked forward to the cluttered desk and set down the plate and drink.
As the keys slid into my jeans pocket I progressed forward into the booth where I had left my backpack and newly purchased records. Sliders on a large black mixing board where rearranged, a three channel DJ mixer and Stanton direct-drive turntable were turned on. I reached for the punk plastic bag, "Record Theater" was printed on it in large black letters along side a clip art rendition of an old, turn-crank Victrola. Reaching inside I pulled out Journey's "Frontiers," original pressing from 1983. The cover, similar to all other Journey albums, had a very futuristic airbrushed look, this one in particular with a face in blue sporting a large helmet that one would think a spaceman from the future of 1983 would wear. The forehead seemed to stretch into itself like a tunnel, reaching beyond infinity through the record sleeve. Pulling out the inner sleeve, the bright neon pink paper the lyrics were printed on leapt out at me, a stark contrast from the dark aquatic blue of the cover. The vinyl itself was in good condition with the exception of one scratch (which didn't fortunately didn't affect the playback). I placed it onto the black felt slipmat and watched Steve Perry and his bandmates revolve around and around on the side one label, and proceeded to drop the needle on the groove with a resounding crackle.
As "Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)" came on I turned to grab my backpack, it's stray straps and frayed edges drooping over the chair. From it I pulled a bright yellow legal pad, white paper handouts sticking out from the back of it. I left the booth and was greeted by the greasy cheddar and pepperoni odor of my now less-than-lukewarm pizza sub that was previously teetering on my forearm. I moved to the lounge and slouched into a fairly ugly looking couch, it's 1970's woven patterns faded and riddled with bits of lint collected from years of use by DJ's of days gone by. Lying back with my head on one armrest and my PF Flyers propped on the other, I pulled a pencil from the pocket my keys were sharing, and began to write:
Balancing the lukewarm styrofoam plate on my left forearm, holding an ice-filled glass in my left hand, jingling keys in my right, I opened the door. The base of it caught on the front...
---
In other news, I've been doing a lot of work in Quartz Composer for my capstone project. Once I have some finished products done up I'll be sure to post some source files for those that are interested, and once the semester and project are completed, I'll post a compressed collection of all my work and notes building up to it (can you say open source book?).
---
Balancing the lukewarm styrofoam plate on my left forearm, holding an ice-filled glass in my left hand, jingling keys in my right, I opened the door. The base of it caught on the front after moving about an inch, so I kicked it, dislodging it and sending it swinging into a rats nest of cable on the floor. I crept in the dark room, still balancing the plate, and switched on the lights. A cart with amplifiers resting on it protruded from the wall on the left, a doorway on the right led into the still-unlit lounge. I walked forward to the cluttered desk and set down the plate and drink.
As the keys slid into my jeans pocket I progressed forward into the booth where I had left my backpack and newly purchased records. Sliders on a large black mixing board where rearranged, a three channel DJ mixer and Stanton direct-drive turntable were turned on. I reached for the punk plastic bag, "Record Theater" was printed on it in large black letters along side a clip art rendition of an old, turn-crank Victrola. Reaching inside I pulled out Journey's "Frontiers," original pressing from 1983. The cover, similar to all other Journey albums, had a very futuristic airbrushed look, this one in particular with a face in blue sporting a large helmet that one would think a spaceman from the future of 1983 would wear. The forehead seemed to stretch into itself like a tunnel, reaching beyond infinity through the record sleeve. Pulling out the inner sleeve, the bright neon pink paper the lyrics were printed on leapt out at me, a stark contrast from the dark aquatic blue of the cover. The vinyl itself was in good condition with the exception of one scratch (which didn't fortunately didn't affect the playback). I placed it onto the black felt slipmat and watched Steve Perry and his bandmates revolve around and around on the side one label, and proceeded to drop the needle on the groove with a resounding crackle.
As "Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)" came on I turned to grab my backpack, it's stray straps and frayed edges drooping over the chair. From it I pulled a bright yellow legal pad, white paper handouts sticking out from the back of it. I left the booth and was greeted by the greasy cheddar and pepperoni odor of my now less-than-lukewarm pizza sub that was previously teetering on my forearm. I moved to the lounge and slouched into a fairly ugly looking couch, it's 1970's woven patterns faded and riddled with bits of lint collected from years of use by DJ's of days gone by. Lying back with my head on one armrest and my PF Flyers propped on the other, I pulled a pencil from the pocket my keys were sharing, and began to write:
Balancing the lukewarm styrofoam plate on my left forearm, holding an ice-filled glass in my left hand, jingling keys in my right, I opened the door. The base of it caught on the front...
---
In other news, I've been doing a lot of work in Quartz Composer for my capstone project. Once I have some finished products done up I'll be sure to post some source files for those that are interested, and once the semester and project are completed, I'll post a compressed collection of all my work and notes building up to it (can you say open source book?).
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Whenever I'm feeling upset or depressed, or any other number of things, I like to write. I shouldn't say "like to," I just do. It helps me get my head straight, sort things out. I just wrote this one, and now hopefully I can get to sleep.
---
I'm two inches tall and there's a black leather boot about to step on me. I can't move, I'm frozen in terror. I look in every direction, unable to turn my head. My eyes see nothing but vacancy in every direction. Slowly, the crushing foot is coming towards me. I want to scream but I don't because my mind is saying it won't accomplish anything. I finally muster up the courage to at least shout, and as the ever so loud exclamation of "fuck off" leaves my mouth, the boot begins to retract itself as if the owner wearing it is toppling over backwards at the sound of my voice. I grow taller and taller as she falls back, her body hitting the floor with what would have been a great loud thud if I were still a mere few inches. But I've grown, grown to the clouds, my head so high up in the clouds I can barely see her. But I can still see her, and I look at her with an intensity even I've never witnessed in a mirror. My eyes turn to razor blades, and like the sun through a magnifying glass I evaporate her from this plane of existence, leaving not a single trace behind. I don't smile. I simply find myself now 5'11", in a crowd of people all moving about their business, living their lives like any other day. I start to walk forward, and soon become lost in the crowd, one more person going about his business, continuing where he left off and living to the best of his abilities. I remind myself, just before I disappear completely, that I won't ever let myself be tread upon ever again.
---
I'm two inches tall and there's a black leather boot about to step on me. I can't move, I'm frozen in terror. I look in every direction, unable to turn my head. My eyes see nothing but vacancy in every direction. Slowly, the crushing foot is coming towards me. I want to scream but I don't because my mind is saying it won't accomplish anything. I finally muster up the courage to at least shout, and as the ever so loud exclamation of "fuck off" leaves my mouth, the boot begins to retract itself as if the owner wearing it is toppling over backwards at the sound of my voice. I grow taller and taller as she falls back, her body hitting the floor with what would have been a great loud thud if I were still a mere few inches. But I've grown, grown to the clouds, my head so high up in the clouds I can barely see her. But I can still see her, and I look at her with an intensity even I've never witnessed in a mirror. My eyes turn to razor blades, and like the sun through a magnifying glass I evaporate her from this plane of existence, leaving not a single trace behind. I don't smile. I simply find myself now 5'11", in a crowd of people all moving about their business, living their lives like any other day. I start to walk forward, and soon become lost in the crowd, one more person going about his business, continuing where he left off and living to the best of his abilities. I remind myself, just before I disappear completely, that I won't ever let myself be tread upon ever again.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
I'm at work, still trying to wake up, and bored out of my skull. So to cure my boredom, I thought I might share some music with you from some artists I've been listening to lately.
--Fakebeat--
Just found Fakebeat the other day, and he is very good. I had heard "Cybernetic Love" previously in a summer mix off the Valerie Collective blog, but never knew who it was by. Highly recommend giving a listen.
Fakebeat on MySpace
Fakebeat on Twitter
--A Place To Bury Strangers--
I'm not usually that big on loud, angry music, but these guys are so different from anything else I've heard I can't help but enjoy them. They've got a ridiculously heavy and loud sound, but it sounds good. Big "wall of sound" usage, to a degree that would probably even impress Phil Spector. They've got a second album due out soon, so if you like this then keep your eyes peeled.
A Place To Bury Strangers on MySpace
--Super 64--
Yes, I like the Commodore 64 SID chip. Yes, I know all the tracks this guy has put up sound very similar. But it's still just so damn rad, I can't get enough. This is the kind of music you blast while cruising in a Ferrari while wearing chrome aviators and a bright neon Adidas track jacket. Don't forget the babe in the bikini riding shotgun with the red wayfarers and cherry lipgloss. Yes, I also know I love the 80's.
Super 64 on MySpace
--ST--
ST, or Stellar, is another one of those electronic artists out of France (where else?), with some pretty sweet disco-style tracks. Of all the tunes on there I'd say Blue is my favorite, it's got a good rock edge to it.
ST on MySpace
ST on Twitter
--Kavinsky--
Come on. You're a zombie. Get your corpse of an ass back in the studio and make some more killer tracks. Thank you.
Kavinsky on MySpace
Kavinsky on Twitter
--Valerie Collective--
Okay, not a single artist. The Valerie Collective is a, well, collective of artists with similar tastes in music. It's actually six different bands (The Outrunners, Russ Chimes, College, Anoraak, Maethelvin, and Minitel Rose. Run by David Grellier (aka College), the collective is a sort of blog in which he posts tracks from all kinds of sources, lots of different mixes, and just all kinds of excellence. I highly recommend it to anyone and everyone who enjoys music.
Valerie Collective Main Page
Valerie Collective on MySpace
Valerie Collective on Twitter
--Fakebeat--
Just found Fakebeat the other day, and he is very good. I had heard "Cybernetic Love" previously in a summer mix off the Valerie Collective blog, but never knew who it was by. Highly recommend giving a listen.
Fakebeat on MySpace
Fakebeat on Twitter
--A Place To Bury Strangers--
I'm not usually that big on loud, angry music, but these guys are so different from anything else I've heard I can't help but enjoy them. They've got a ridiculously heavy and loud sound, but it sounds good. Big "wall of sound" usage, to a degree that would probably even impress Phil Spector. They've got a second album due out soon, so if you like this then keep your eyes peeled.
A Place To Bury Strangers on MySpace
--Super 64--
Yes, I like the Commodore 64 SID chip. Yes, I know all the tracks this guy has put up sound very similar. But it's still just so damn rad, I can't get enough. This is the kind of music you blast while cruising in a Ferrari while wearing chrome aviators and a bright neon Adidas track jacket. Don't forget the babe in the bikini riding shotgun with the red wayfarers and cherry lipgloss. Yes, I also know I love the 80's.
Super 64 on MySpace
--ST--
ST, or Stellar, is another one of those electronic artists out of France (where else?), with some pretty sweet disco-style tracks. Of all the tunes on there I'd say Blue is my favorite, it's got a good rock edge to it.
ST on MySpace
ST on Twitter
--Kavinsky--
Come on. You're a zombie. Get your corpse of an ass back in the studio and make some more killer tracks. Thank you.
Kavinsky on MySpace
Kavinsky on Twitter
--Valerie Collective--
Okay, not a single artist. The Valerie Collective is a, well, collective of artists with similar tastes in music. It's actually six different bands (The Outrunners, Russ Chimes, College, Anoraak, Maethelvin, and Minitel Rose. Run by David Grellier (aka College), the collective is a sort of blog in which he posts tracks from all kinds of sources, lots of different mixes, and just all kinds of excellence. I highly recommend it to anyone and everyone who enjoys music.
Valerie Collective Main Page
Valerie Collective on MySpace
Valerie Collective on Twitter
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wednesday
So yesterday I woke up and was on my way out to work, when I spotted this on my porch:
I peer around corners, under rugs, in the couch (which we still need to do something with), but nobody's there watching it. No triplines attached to it, no weird explosives hidden in it. So, being the charitable person I am, I transport it to my room and give it a home.
Flash forward nine hours.
I'm out of work, I eat the last of Dan's Steak-ums (which is what he gets for eating all two pounds of my ground beef, asshole), and I'm on a venture to go get batteries. I'll be eco-friendly and get rechargeable ones, since this thing takes six. And I figure, best place to grab these would probably be out at Radio Shack. First, I wasn't thinking at all, because it's never smart to buy anything at Radio Shack. And I know this first hand. My choosing it was mainly because it'd provide a good, long bike ride. Second, rechargeable batteries are not cheap at all in the first place.
Batteries typically come in sets of four or eight. The Casio takes six. I'm looking, looking, looking, and I'm still sweating like crazy because I just rode about four miles in the 80 degree sunny weather we had last afternoon. Finally I find the-- $19.95??? For eight batteries? I look at the alkaline sets. Eight for $6.49. I'm sorry, but I'm a broke college kid. Once I get my credit card finally paid off and an extra couple hundred in the bank at all times, then I'll buy nothing but NiMH's for the rest of my life, or until they invent something better.
Now, whilst at the Shack (as the trendy people call it now), I had my bike parked out in front of the store. Literally right in front, so I could watch it through the window and make sure nobody was stealing it. For I am without a bike lock. This is a problem for me, as I use my bike as my main form of transportation, and if it were stolen I would definitely not be a happy camper.
So I decide from here to spend what money I have left on a bike lock. I ride all the way back from University Plaza to downtown Buffalo in search of a shop. I'm apparently as blind as Anne Frank, because I couldn't find a damn one. I did, however, find something much more cool. If you go to HSBC One:
there's a big brick clearing with a sculpture in the center. From here, you can chill and watch the big screen in Coca Cola Park( or is it field?). So I'll be hitting up some Bison's games there for free.
And that, in a nutshell, was my Wednesday.
I peer around corners, under rugs, in the couch (which we still need to do something with), but nobody's there watching it. No triplines attached to it, no weird explosives hidden in it. So, being the charitable person I am, I transport it to my room and give it a home.
Flash forward nine hours.
I'm out of work, I eat the last of Dan's Steak-ums (which is what he gets for eating all two pounds of my ground beef, asshole), and I'm on a venture to go get batteries. I'll be eco-friendly and get rechargeable ones, since this thing takes six. And I figure, best place to grab these would probably be out at Radio Shack. First, I wasn't thinking at all, because it's never smart to buy anything at Radio Shack. And I know this first hand. My choosing it was mainly because it'd provide a good, long bike ride. Second, rechargeable batteries are not cheap at all in the first place.
Batteries typically come in sets of four or eight. The Casio takes six. I'm looking, looking, looking, and I'm still sweating like crazy because I just rode about four miles in the 80 degree sunny weather we had last afternoon. Finally I find the-- $19.95??? For eight batteries? I look at the alkaline sets. Eight for $6.49. I'm sorry, but I'm a broke college kid. Once I get my credit card finally paid off and an extra couple hundred in the bank at all times, then I'll buy nothing but NiMH's for the rest of my life, or until they invent something better.
Now, whilst at the Shack (as the trendy people call it now), I had my bike parked out in front of the store. Literally right in front, so I could watch it through the window and make sure nobody was stealing it. For I am without a bike lock. This is a problem for me, as I use my bike as my main form of transportation, and if it were stolen I would definitely not be a happy camper.
So I decide from here to spend what money I have left on a bike lock. I ride all the way back from University Plaza to downtown Buffalo in search of a shop. I'm apparently as blind as Anne Frank, because I couldn't find a damn one. I did, however, find something much more cool. If you go to HSBC One:
there's a big brick clearing with a sculpture in the center. From here, you can chill and watch the big screen in Coca Cola Park( or is it field?). So I'll be hitting up some Bison's games there for free.
And that, in a nutshell, was my Wednesday.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
So I had this crazy dream last night...
The streets are littered with people, and I'm wandering around with a few friends (none of which I actually recognize), and we're all just looking for something to do. The neon light from the signs on the clubs reflected in the rain, giving a very Blade Runner-esque atmosphere to the whole environment. (Something tells me this whole thing was very much influenced by what I was writing last night.)
And suddenly, there she was, this beautiful girl. (For some reason I think she was a Depeche Mode fan, no idea why.) So I think to myself "I should totally introduce myself." She's walking in the same direction I was headed so I follow, but she's keeping the same distance from me as when I first saw her. Eventually she disappears in the crowd, but where she was going was quite apparent. This club had a big crowd around it, and I finally spotted her going inside, but her clothes had changed and she was wearing a tuxedo. Jacket, pants, bow-tie, ruffles, everything.
So I walk up to the entrance but the bouncer is all "Can't come in here bro" and points to a sign which states:
-Patrons Are Required To Dress In Attire Of Opposite Gender
Now, this girl was so damn attractive I ended up wearing this ridiculous plastic pink and black dress, and a pair of heels (which I quickly broke so I could walk like a bit more normally). This place is huge, like an opera house. The ceiling is hundreds of feet up, with incredibly detailed paintings covering it, like the Sistine Chapel. Massive chandeliers look like they're floating above the crowd in the lobby, which is a collection of various cross-dressed people, some taking it more seriously than others. I'm looking at myself in the mirror, and am happy to see I just look like a guy dressed up as a chick as a joke for Halloween.
I spot the girl again, and she's headed for the main hall, which is filled with hundreds of thousands of seats, and there's a massive stage up front, twice as big as the one at Shea's. And there's an open seat right behind her. So I go down, I sit, and I actually introduce myself. And within nanoseconds she and I are getting along as if we've known each other for years, and it's all going great.
Unfortunately this dream didn't end with any sort of erotic content, or anything along the lines of what had been going on previously at all. Instead my phone and laptop (why the hell did I have my laptop with me??) both died from puncture wounds, and I somehow managed to call/text my dad to tell him I needed a new phone and computer.
Don't ask me to analyze this, but feel free to take a crack at it yourself.
And suddenly, there she was, this beautiful girl. (For some reason I think she was a Depeche Mode fan, no idea why.) So I think to myself "I should totally introduce myself." She's walking in the same direction I was headed so I follow, but she's keeping the same distance from me as when I first saw her. Eventually she disappears in the crowd, but where she was going was quite apparent. This club had a big crowd around it, and I finally spotted her going inside, but her clothes had changed and she was wearing a tuxedo. Jacket, pants, bow-tie, ruffles, everything.
So I walk up to the entrance but the bouncer is all "Can't come in here bro" and points to a sign which states:
-Patrons Are Required To Dress In Attire Of Opposite Gender
Now, this girl was so damn attractive I ended up wearing this ridiculous plastic pink and black dress, and a pair of heels (which I quickly broke so I could walk like a bit more normally). This place is huge, like an opera house. The ceiling is hundreds of feet up, with incredibly detailed paintings covering it, like the Sistine Chapel. Massive chandeliers look like they're floating above the crowd in the lobby, which is a collection of various cross-dressed people, some taking it more seriously than others. I'm looking at myself in the mirror, and am happy to see I just look like a guy dressed up as a chick as a joke for Halloween.
I spot the girl again, and she's headed for the main hall, which is filled with hundreds of thousands of seats, and there's a massive stage up front, twice as big as the one at Shea's. And there's an open seat right behind her. So I go down, I sit, and I actually introduce myself. And within nanoseconds she and I are getting along as if we've known each other for years, and it's all going great.
Unfortunately this dream didn't end with any sort of erotic content, or anything along the lines of what had been going on previously at all. Instead my phone and laptop (why the hell did I have my laptop with me??) both died from puncture wounds, and I somehow managed to call/text my dad to tell him I needed a new phone and computer.
Don't ask me to analyze this, but feel free to take a crack at it yourself.
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