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!
Saturday, December 31, 2005
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!
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Updatism
So, I went to a wedding confirmation ceremony where the bride's relatives turned out to be the Von Trapps, only, you know, without the morally suspect Third Reich connotations. I've been negotiating various thoroughly exciting things with the good people of Sofawolf Press, which is one of the reasons why progress has been slow on FANG 2FG -- the other reason being the sheer, staggering volume of submissions, and of those that I've read almost all have been nothing short of excellent.
In the event that there's enough interest, will be hiring me to record a book-on-CD version of his excellent novel Volle, which I'm very excited about. It's a return to the theatre which I so loved but simply haven't made time for in recent years. I've recorded some samples, which Kyell will be putting up shortly to gauge interest and if there's enough of a response (responses being pre-orders with which he'd pay me -- 'tis the season for commercialism!), and, just for the lark of it, I've engaged in that most atrocious of musical traditions:
Karaoke.
For your enjoyment, The Fairy Tale of New York, originally by The Pogues, now performed by the cast of "Volle" :)
The above was recorded in a single take, no less! Lyrics and singing characters below the cut.
Helfer
It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
Volle
And then he sang a song The Rare Old Mountain Dew I turned my face away And dreamed about you
Helfer
Got on a lucky one Came in eighteen to one I've got a feeling This year's for me and you
Volle
So happy Christmas
I love you baby I can see a better time When all our dreams come true
Dereath
They've got cars big as bars They've got rivers of gold But the wind goes right through you It's no place for the old
Arrin
When you first took my hand On a cold Christmas Eve You promised me Broadway was waiting for me
You were handsome
Tally
You were pretty Queen of New York City When the band finished playing They howled out for more
Tish
Sinatra was swinging, All the drunks they were singing We kissed on a corner Then danced through the night
Xiller
The boys of the NYPD choir Were singing "Galway Bay" And the bells were ringing out For Christmas day
Ilyana
You're a bum You're a punk
Welcis
You're an old slut on junk Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
Ilyana
You scumbag, you maggot You cheap lousy faggot Happy Christmas your arse I pray God it's our last
Richy
The boys of the NYPD choir Were singing "Galway Bay" And the bells were ringing out For Christmas day
Dereath
I could have been someone
Volle
Well so could anyone
Dereath
You took my dreams from me When I first found you
Volle I kept them with me babe I put them with my own Can't make it all alone I've built my dreams around you
Helfer
The boys of the NYPD choir Were singing "Galway Bay" And the bells were ringing out For Christmas day
In the event that there's enough interest, will be hiring me to record a book-on-CD version of his excellent novel Volle, which I'm very excited about. It's a return to the theatre which I so loved but simply haven't made time for in recent years. I've recorded some samples, which Kyell will be putting up shortly to gauge interest and if there's enough of a response (responses being pre-orders with which he'd pay me -- 'tis the season for commercialism!), and, just for the lark of it, I've engaged in that most atrocious of musical traditions:
Karaoke.
For your enjoyment, The Fairy Tale of New York, originally by The Pogues, now performed by the cast of "Volle" :)
The above was recorded in a single take, no less! Lyrics and singing characters below the cut.
<!--more-->
Helfer
It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
Volle
And then he sang a song The Rare Old Mountain Dew I turned my face away And dreamed about you
Helfer
Got on a lucky one Came in eighteen to one I've got a feeling This year's for me and you
Volle
So happy Christmas
I love you baby I can see a better time When all our dreams come true
Dereath
They've got cars big as bars They've got rivers of gold But the wind goes right through you It's no place for the old
Arrin
When you first took my hand On a cold Christmas Eve You promised me Broadway was waiting for me
You were handsome
Tally
You were pretty Queen of New York City When the band finished playing They howled out for more
Tish
Sinatra was swinging, All the drunks they were singing We kissed on a corner Then danced through the night
Xiller
The boys of the NYPD choir Were singing "Galway Bay" And the bells were ringing out For Christmas day
Ilyana
You're a bum You're a punk
Welcis
You're an old slut on junk Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
Ilyana
You scumbag, you maggot You cheap lousy faggot Happy Christmas your arse I pray God it's our last
Richy
The boys of the NYPD choir Were singing "Galway Bay" And the bells were ringing out For Christmas day
Dereath
I could have been someone
Volle
Well so could anyone
Dereath
You took my dreams from me When I first found you
Volle I kept them with me babe I put them with my own Can't make it all alone I've built my dreams around you
Helfer
The boys of the NYPD choir Were singing "Galway Bay" And the bells were ringing out For Christmas day
Monday, December 5, 2005
Cerebral cinema.
I had a dream related to the action-adventure genre of Hollywood cinema. It began very cinematically, following a number of events whose significance now escapes me, but at the time was crucial to the dream's plot. Someone committed suicide, which turned out to be the first symptom of a vast supernatural plot. Much of this section took place in a housing estate full of black people where, after a very sweet girl was kidnapped by supernatural forces, one charismatic young man gathered himself a posse, saying that if he went after her alone, he'd absolutely, most certainly die, but if they went together, they might just take 'that bastard' with them.
I went to a cathedral-like university building in the middle of Manhattan to meet my friend Peter Parker, played by Jake Gyllenhaal, who wasn't Spider-Man, I was. Not that I ever got to use my powers. I interrupted our conversation to run up to some semi-cute waiter and ask for his number, and got shot down. No harm, no foul.
There was some more plot with the black folks which now sadly has already begun to fade, but the long and short of it is that I was standing in a large circular space, which had a big pit in the middle traversed by a single walkway, surrounded by a balcony. On one end Captain Mal Reynolds and I stood shoulder to shoulder, on the other end, The Operative from Serenity and that creepy corrupt Fed in the turtleneck from the Firefly episode The Message on the other. I found a Luger on the floor (a reference, no doubt, to my playing Call of Duty last weekend).
There was some banter, posturing, mutual threats. Some insults in regards to my marksmanship, which were totally grounded until I shot the Creepy Fed in the heart, after which I explained both to the captain and The Operative that of the two, the Fed had been the more unpredictable with his firearm.
I am unsure whether Mal shot The Operative, but time slowed down and Mal ran across the dividing walkway, followed by the ghostly image of beautifully sloshing water, after which a small, proud Japanese man addressed a group of Japanese people and told them that what they had seen ( the ghostly water ) was a cinematic simulation of what was apparently a natural Japanese phenomenon, ghostly zero-G water coursing through spaces. He also informed them that his cruise liner had a simulation that was not only lifelike, but also interactive, and would they all please follow him.
I love having a brain. I love it so much. This stuff's gold!
I went to a cathedral-like university building in the middle of Manhattan to meet my friend Peter Parker, played by Jake Gyllenhaal, who wasn't Spider-Man, I was. Not that I ever got to use my powers. I interrupted our conversation to run up to some semi-cute waiter and ask for his number, and got shot down. No harm, no foul.
There was some more plot with the black folks which now sadly has already begun to fade, but the long and short of it is that I was standing in a large circular space, which had a big pit in the middle traversed by a single walkway, surrounded by a balcony. On one end Captain Mal Reynolds and I stood shoulder to shoulder, on the other end, The Operative from Serenity and that creepy corrupt Fed in the turtleneck from the Firefly episode The Message on the other. I found a Luger on the floor (a reference, no doubt, to my playing Call of Duty last weekend).
There was some banter, posturing, mutual threats. Some insults in regards to my marksmanship, which were totally grounded until I shot the Creepy Fed in the heart, after which I explained both to the captain and The Operative that of the two, the Fed had been the more unpredictable with his firearm.
I am unsure whether Mal shot The Operative, but time slowed down and Mal ran across the dividing walkway, followed by the ghostly image of beautifully sloshing water, after which a small, proud Japanese man addressed a group of Japanese people and told them that what they had seen ( the ghostly water ) was a cinematic simulation of what was apparently a natural Japanese phenomenon, ghostly zero-G water coursing through spaces. He also informed them that his cruise liner had a simulation that was not only lifelike, but also interactive, and would they all please follow him.
I love having a brain. I love it so much. This stuff's gold!
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