- New credit card (nice colors).
- Extra yera of age (free).
- Soot on my kitchen ceiling (microwave mishap).
- Dent in my living-room ceiling (champagne cork-popping mishap - not mine).
- War of the Worlds DVD (2-disc edition, birthday present - yay boyfriend).
- A freezeburn above my left ankle (torpedo-shaped, caused by a friend spraying compresed air from a can held upside-down so the prpellant sprayed out in liquid form - healing, currently purple).
- New interest in alcoholic beverages (currently girlishly obsessed with sweet or fizzy drinks that successfully mask the taste of alcohol).
Can’t think of any more. Pick this up as a second-generation meme and see how far you get :)
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Sunday, January 1, 2006
Resolutions!
1. Stay classy.
2. Enjoy my new age -- I’ve always preferred odd-numbered years, and this one’s a second power! Yay!
3. Never again make home-made cakes with cake mix and put them in the microwave/hot air oven combo for an hour -- on microwave, instead of hot air, then open all the windows in the entire house to get the smoke out. The result was a black basalt brick that continued to smoke even after liters of water were poured over it and which subsequently couldn’t be demolished even with huge amounts of fireworks.
4. Spend stupendous amounts of time with my friends. I love you all, you beautiful people.
5. Learn to drink (maybe).
6. Learn to enjoy being stoned (maybe).
7. Reign supreme in Soul Calibur (go Kilik!)
8. Write more.
9. Read more.
10. Keep flyin’.
2. Enjoy my new age -- I’ve always preferred odd-numbered years, and this one’s a second power! Yay!
3. Never again make home-made cakes with cake mix and put them in the microwave/hot air oven combo for an hour -- on microwave, instead of hot air, then open all the windows in the entire house to get the smoke out. The result was a black basalt brick that continued to smoke even after liters of water were poured over it and which subsequently couldn’t be demolished even with huge amounts of fireworks.
4. Spend stupendous amounts of time with my friends. I love you all, you beautiful people.
5. Learn to drink (maybe).
6. Learn to enjoy being stoned (maybe).
7. Reign supreme in Soul Calibur (go Kilik!)
8. Write more.
9. Read more.
10. Keep flyin’.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Ruined.
I just recorded over half an hour of steamy ghey lovin’ twixt an American fox and a semi-Aussie wolf and fucking Garageband crashes on me and it’s all gone, irretrievable.
I still love Mac, but grrr!
I still love Mac, but grrr!
Friday, December 30, 2005
Emancipate the analogue!
So, I was recording Chapter 4 of the audiobook of kyellgold’s novel ‘Volle’ (why yes, I am a sensationally multi-talented Renaissance Wuff, how nice of you to say so) and I was shuffling some of the pages of the script I’d prepared. Kyell had sent me the text version of the novel and after a good bit of experiemntation I’d settled on the optimal reading format -- 13-points sans-serif font (Trebuchet, cute and legible, thick and spacious), left-justified, indented paragraphs, 1.1 line distance, 8-points paragraph distance, landscape format A4 for maximum line length, thus minimizing problems arising from mistaken predictions about the grammatical structure of a sentence -- when two of the pages slipped out of the pile and I had to hunt through the pile to slip the numbered pages in their proper spot.
I seem to be struck by things quite a bit lately; first music and now this. I was struck by how marvelous the idea is that mere paper suddenly becomes valuable simply by dint of what’s printed on it. Specifically, without those particular sheets of paper, I wouldn’t be able to narrate those sections of the story.
I know it seems trite and obvious, but run with it. I’ve often professed jealousy at the compactness of visual art. When I joined jotun_neko to an evening class at his art school I saw people sharing drawings from teir portfolios and I felt a pang of envy at the ease with which artists can share their work. “Here, take this piece of paper and look at it, tell me what you think.” While proper appraisal of a complicated work of art can take some time, you can form an opinion of most ordinary works of art in a single glance. You like the colours or you don’t, the style appeals to you or it doesn’t, and the obvious faults leap into view.
Not so for writers. Poets, musicians, actors, even filmmakers practice crafts whose products take very little time to consume and appraise, at least a first glance. The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, in its splendid Extended Edition Glory may be a twelve-hour marathon, but there are few regular readers out there that could read the latest Harry Potter cover to cover in that time -- despite the fact that that bitch Rowling used double line spacing to make the book seem thicker! For God’s sake, ‘Volle’ is longer than that, and so’s Maranatha and it isn’t even finished yet!
, from Family Guy>
The point is, while making a film surely taes more time and more money and a lot more calories than writing a book (not counting research, such as for travel books), the product is more compact, taking less time to consume. Artists can come together for a night and show each other their work and talk about it, and everyone can show a few pieces and get a few opinions. Long-form writers can’t do that. Reading a longer story takes hours, days, weeks, depending on how you pace yourself and the material takes time to settle.
This is sad, but also fantastic. While I’m a big geek and as an itinerant New Mediast deeply enamoured with all things digitial (I want one of these, if not to own it, then at least for the thing to exist) I’m also a big promoter of the analogue. The voice versus the iPod, as in the earlier post.
Now, take books. Like this fat pile of paper in my lap, which I’m slowly chewing through, intoning into my (digital) microphone, reading Kyell’s excellent story for mass consumption. it’ll be somewhere between ten and fifteen hours of audio material and will take easily three times as long to actually record and put together, but look, I can hold it in my hand. Sure, you may say that millions of books fit on a DVD, but before you can read them you need A) a computer, B) a DVD drive, C) a screen and D) a nationwide electricity network powered by dams, windmills, nuclear and fossil fuel reactors -- whereas to read the beautiful story I now hold in my grubby little paws, you need only your eyes and your education.
Sure, you may argue, the time it took you to learn to read (and in some of your cases, to also learn English aside from your native tongue) could be translated monetarily into a fortune far greater than the cost of a computer (though not perhaps that of the electricity network) but honestly, what were you going to do with those years anyway? Besides, you’ve had use of those skills so often since then that the cost has been amortized to nearly nothing.
Suddenly it’s not such a pity that it takes so long to read a story or a book; it’s quite special. No other medium can contain such a huge amount of information or entertainment in such a small object, which takes so very little to be consumed. As mentioned, eyes and knowledge of the written form of the book’s language are sufficient. It’s almost magical. The Lord of the Rings films may be spectacular, but the books can carry you away wherever you may read them. Beach, bus stop, hospital...
I know I sound lik the Magic Of Reading dude from that Chickenf*cker episode of South Park, but go with it.
I seem to be struck by things quite a bit lately; first music and now this. I was struck by how marvelous the idea is that mere paper suddenly becomes valuable simply by dint of what’s printed on it. Specifically, without those particular sheets of paper, I wouldn’t be able to narrate those sections of the story.
I know it seems trite and obvious, but run with it. I’ve often professed jealousy at the compactness of visual art. When I joined jotun_neko to an evening class at his art school I saw people sharing drawings from teir portfolios and I felt a pang of envy at the ease with which artists can share their work. “Here, take this piece of paper and look at it, tell me what you think.” While proper appraisal of a complicated work of art can take some time, you can form an opinion of most ordinary works of art in a single glance. You like the colours or you don’t, the style appeals to you or it doesn’t, and the obvious faults leap into view.
Not so for writers. Poets, musicians, actors, even filmmakers practice crafts whose products take very little time to consume and appraise, at least a first glance. The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, in its splendid Extended Edition Glory may be a twelve-hour marathon, but there are few regular readers out there that could read the latest Harry Potter cover to cover in that time -- despite the fact that that bitch Rowling used double line spacing to make the book seem thicker! For God’s sake, ‘Volle’ is longer than that, and so’s Maranatha and it isn’t even finished yet!
, from Family Guy>
The point is, while making a film surely taes more time and more money and a lot more calories than writing a book (not counting research, such as for travel books), the product is more compact, taking less time to consume. Artists can come together for a night and show each other their work and talk about it, and everyone can show a few pieces and get a few opinions. Long-form writers can’t do that. Reading a longer story takes hours, days, weeks, depending on how you pace yourself and the material takes time to settle.
This is sad, but also fantastic. While I’m a big geek and as an itinerant New Mediast deeply enamoured with all things digitial (I want one of these, if not to own it, then at least for the thing to exist) I’m also a big promoter of the analogue. The voice versus the iPod, as in the earlier post.
Now, take books. Like this fat pile of paper in my lap, which I’m slowly chewing through, intoning into my (digital) microphone, reading Kyell’s excellent story for mass consumption. it’ll be somewhere between ten and fifteen hours of audio material and will take easily three times as long to actually record and put together, but look, I can hold it in my hand. Sure, you may say that millions of books fit on a DVD, but before you can read them you need A) a computer, B) a DVD drive, C) a screen and D) a nationwide electricity network powered by dams, windmills, nuclear and fossil fuel reactors -- whereas to read the beautiful story I now hold in my grubby little paws, you need only your eyes and your education.
Sure, you may argue, the time it took you to learn to read (and in some of your cases, to also learn English aside from your native tongue) could be translated monetarily into a fortune far greater than the cost of a computer (though not perhaps that of the electricity network) but honestly, what were you going to do with those years anyway? Besides, you’ve had use of those skills so often since then that the cost has been amortized to nearly nothing.
Suddenly it’s not such a pity that it takes so long to read a story or a book; it’s quite special. No other medium can contain such a huge amount of information or entertainment in such a small object, which takes so very little to be consumed. As mentioned, eyes and knowledge of the written form of the book’s language are sufficient. It’s almost magical. The Lord of the Rings films may be spectacular, but the books can carry you away wherever you may read them. Beach, bus stop, hospital...
I know I sound lik the Magic Of Reading dude from that Chickenf*cker episode of South Park, but go with it.
Take on me...
So, at Ches & Wolfie's Annual Interfestum Gastroblast (dinner), much superrlative food and excellent company was to be had. Oh, and remember my rancid musing about singing and the public shame surrounding same? Ches broke out two mics and plugged them into the new PS2 the off-key but highly impassioned voices of our Gang howling along to A-Ha, Ricky Martin and others.
Serendipity!
Serendipity!
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Hilversum III bestond nog niet...
Video killed the radio show, but you know what radio killed? Singing, whistling, and quality buskers. Much that once was was lost, for none now live who remember it -- a time when construction yards rang with crude, poorly-sung ditties, when butchers wheezed entire arias with all the skill of a practiced lip-flautist and when a fiddler on a street corner didn't just make good money on account of being a novelty, but actually improved the lives of people that passed him.
People are quiet on the streets, because there's always noise coming from somewhere. People are ashamed to sing--how perverse! What a terrible waste! It doesn't matter if you don't have the world's finest voice or if you can't quite hold the tune; if you know the words and follow the melody and sing with conviction, you're golden.
Several years ago I had an experience that solidified my opinion in this regard. I was walking down a high street, empty since all the shops had already shut, and from not too far away I heard someone raise Gilbert & Sullivan -- Sighing Softly to the River or some such, one of the G&Ses I happen to know, anyway. My first instinct was to join in, but I felt myself shrinking, looking around to see if nobody was looking. While it was a shame I felt that need, fortunately there wasn't anyone to be seen so I joined in, close harmony to begin with and then, when the other voice picked up confidence, I struck out in another voice or counterpoint or whatever the crap it's called.
It lasted only a minute or two; I never saw who it was that was singing, probably someone living above a shop, or sitting outside a cafe in some side street, and I passed out of hearing shortly after the song was over. But that was cracking good fun.
I want more of this. I want to live in a world where people crack open their putrid maws, rattle their phlegmatic vocal chords and belch out vile tunes without heed of the opinion or aural comfort of others. Sure, it's annoying when somebody misses a note -- so join in and let your own voice guide his.
Down with radio!
Down with digital recording!
Vive la chanson!
People are quiet on the streets, because there's always noise coming from somewhere. People are ashamed to sing--how perverse! What a terrible waste! It doesn't matter if you don't have the world's finest voice or if you can't quite hold the tune; if you know the words and follow the melody and sing with conviction, you're golden.
Several years ago I had an experience that solidified my opinion in this regard. I was walking down a high street, empty since all the shops had already shut, and from not too far away I heard someone raise Gilbert & Sullivan -- Sighing Softly to the River or some such, one of the G&Ses I happen to know, anyway. My first instinct was to join in, but I felt myself shrinking, looking around to see if nobody was looking. While it was a shame I felt that need, fortunately there wasn't anyone to be seen so I joined in, close harmony to begin with and then, when the other voice picked up confidence, I struck out in another voice or counterpoint or whatever the crap it's called.
It lasted only a minute or two; I never saw who it was that was singing, probably someone living above a shop, or sitting outside a cafe in some side street, and I passed out of hearing shortly after the song was over. But that was cracking good fun.
I want more of this. I want to live in a world where people crack open their putrid maws, rattle their phlegmatic vocal chords and belch out vile tunes without heed of the opinion or aural comfort of others. Sure, it's annoying when somebody misses a note -- so join in and let your own voice guide his.
Down with radio!
Down with digital recording!
Vive la chanson!
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Dirt Herding.
Of late, my goal's been to make money and I've really been putting my education and my writerly sensibilities to work, breaking my back in factories and raking leaves and such. The latter got me a cold--yay cold!--and the former got my hands covered in bruises and wounds. When I came home at night the skin on my fingertips was so marred by the dirt and the heavy-duty soap at the paper factory that everything I touched felt coarse, and now I can't see my fingerprints--but that's not important now.
What's important is that I learned a new activity. In sweeping the floor while coughing my lungs out, red-eyed from all the paper sawdust in the air, I noticed while I was climbing across the gaping, chomping blades of The Shredder (guess what what does) that there was a hose dangling from the ceiling, with a gun-style handle at the nozzle. Some of you may recognize this as a compressed air hose.
A world of Newtonian play opened up for me. Blasting the floor with the proper intensity, from the proper height, causes the dust to be blown away in a circular fashion, so to guide the dirt into the proper corner for later sweeping took some skill, which I slowly developed. Blast to get the dirt moving, then shoot past the rim to get the excess back, then step around...
Sweeping would indeed have been easier, but much less fun that this: dirt herdin'. Git alawng, li'l dawgies!
This mode of speech reminds me of the White Wolf Western Omnibus by Hal Dunning -- which has nothing to do with the role-playing games manufacturer, but rather a tawdry Western fiction writer. I picked the book up for two pounds at a thrift shop in Belfast and the style of it is a constant marvel to me.
I write long, you see, detailing the look and feel of things. People, places, motions, intentions, interior dialogue, all that post-bicameral stuff, but not Hal. For Hal, it's perfectly possible for a man to ride into town, round up a posse, head over to Hacksaw Johnson's farm to bring the varmint to justice, hang him in the village square and then go to the Lone Star Saloon to drink to their victory, all in one single page.
The amount of plot in his stories is astonishing to me.
While I was giving the NaNoWriMo workshops at the local American Book Centre, I brought two books to illustrate writing 'short' (Good old Hal!) and writing 'long', for which I had brought my Oscar Wilde collection in hardcover where I had a three-page sentence bookmarked.
Merry christmas, everyone!
What's important is that I learned a new activity. In sweeping the floor while coughing my lungs out, red-eyed from all the paper sawdust in the air, I noticed while I was climbing across the gaping, chomping blades of The Shredder (guess what what does) that there was a hose dangling from the ceiling, with a gun-style handle at the nozzle. Some of you may recognize this as a compressed air hose.
A world of Newtonian play opened up for me. Blasting the floor with the proper intensity, from the proper height, causes the dust to be blown away in a circular fashion, so to guide the dirt into the proper corner for later sweeping took some skill, which I slowly developed. Blast to get the dirt moving, then shoot past the rim to get the excess back, then step around...
Sweeping would indeed have been easier, but much less fun that this: dirt herdin'. Git alawng, li'l dawgies!
This mode of speech reminds me of the White Wolf Western Omnibus by Hal Dunning -- which has nothing to do with the role-playing games manufacturer, but rather a tawdry Western fiction writer. I picked the book up for two pounds at a thrift shop in Belfast and the style of it is a constant marvel to me.
I write long, you see, detailing the look and feel of things. People, places, motions, intentions, interior dialogue, all that post-bicameral stuff, but not Hal. For Hal, it's perfectly possible for a man to ride into town, round up a posse, head over to Hacksaw Johnson's farm to bring the varmint to justice, hang him in the village square and then go to the Lone Star Saloon to drink to their victory, all in one single page.
The amount of plot in his stories is astonishing to me.
While I was giving the NaNoWriMo workshops at the local American Book Centre, I brought two books to illustrate writing 'short' (Good old Hal!) and writing 'long', for which I had brought my Oscar Wilde collection in hardcover where I had a three-page sentence bookmarked.
Merry christmas, everyone!
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