serial_experiments\gave

  an experiment with sound and image We arrived at another village, close to the size of my own, perhaps a bit larger. At least the emptiness of the streets inflated the hollowness of the place, and the gray sunshine sucked the color out of everything. Interrupting the emptiness every fifty feet or so was a sleeping person, lying on their back, in the middle of the road, lying perfectly straight, in the gray sunlight. Their mouths were all slightly agape, lips and tongue blurred from vibrations. "You can't hear them, but they're communicating right now. They're singing to each other in their slumber, forming a network across the village," she said while looking straight onward, paying no heed to the sleeping persons she was referring to. "Soon this network will be integrated with the Waiyado."  I cull the urge to ask what the Waiyado is, given my apprehension toward opening my mouth, lest the vile tongue should awaken from my belly again. Luckily she exp...

I awake to a chorus of wailings on the rising sun. Aimless wanderers crowd the market road, but ash is the only aroma filling the air. Someone approaches me, face obscured by the day's harsh brilliance. As I turn my head to regard them, a tugging tightens in my mouth, and I am reminded of the long tongue coming from my throat, which has become by now twice as rotten and warty. As I pull back, patches of browned flesh pull apart in filmy layers. I fall backward. The tongue has snapped apart. Bracing myself to feel the ground on my neck, I feel on my shoulders a pair of frail arms sustain me from my fall. What remains hanging of the tongue recedes down into my throat, and only then does the shadow of its intolerable taste attack my memory (it was the sweetness of something rotten, nature corrupted). "Your mother and father have thrown themselves into the ocean. Your sisters and brothers are dead, you were presumed dead too" Old Man Hands's arm descends shakily from my s...

  interforest equinox made in Pure data using GEM extension, there is music too but I forgot to record the sound for this one. routed all changing parameters to volume of a mono synth. trees are generated using an L-system (taken and modified from an example patch). ways to move forward: generate more variables for the L-system to have more complex branching patterns, craft a more extensive lofi 3d environment with simple shapes, create and import .obj files, hook up separate parameters to different musical parameters (frequency, amplitude gates, specific midi input) "The denoted image naturalizes the symbolic message, it innocents the semantic artifice of connotation, which is extremely dense, especially in advertising."  -Roland Barthes, "Rhetoric of the Image" in Image, Music, Text , 45  Without time to catch my breath I hurried my step to keep up with her, so that my tongue, wrapped around her hand, would not violently push my head forward at each step of hers,...

It was her that I heard before dawn this morning, in that awful forest, on my way to the well, that horrible sound again, that I thought before must have come from heaven, now coming from the staff she held at her mouth, a strange flute that seemed to breathe, although that's not so strange considering that everything here breathes. It is only when you think about it too much that it begins to seem strange, the way the path below your feet expands and contracts, how the tables and chairs and cots vibrate and look to be covered in a thin slime, disappearing at the touch. And now, the sun disappeared again behind dusk I behold her, beneath her giant hat her face half-shadowed, though in the shadow her giant eyes gaze through me, unassuming, though as if I happened to catch a cold brash wind spewing from her my arms fling themselves around my body unprompted even as I slowly approach. Her profuse and ruffled garb I gather is like that of a prophet. But she couldn't be one. She...

The Church of Tenully just an hour ago i was full of feeling, the itches screaming beneath the blemishes of my flesh. but now it's all gone away, the tears that my hands grasped have returned to the wind and infinity, and all that's left to nurse my grown-over wounds are my cold dry hands. if i scream in anguish it comes out only a pitiable squeak. perhaps my anguish is imagined. the spores and tendrils of the interforest tremble within my veins, holy messengers of infection.  Old Man Hands, i ask you to come to the outer hills, on the north road through the interforest. From the end of the road walk a mile still north, where the path splits in two. Take the path to the west, and travel a mile yet, where you should come upon a baby grove. Fifty paces south of the path, there will be a hole, and a pile of dirt near it. All i ask of you is that you fill the hole with the dirt.  Only then might i be saved.  Was it a mistake to ever show my face to the beauty of the sun? Has ...

 You must talk to the media, not to the programmer. -Marshall McLuhan, The Medium is the Massage , 142 In the village there was a statue whose form changed per the average mood of the villagers. The day i arrived it took the form of an innocent naked child holding a flower. As the days passed and the blue skies turned grayer in anticipation of winter, the child morphed into wrinkly folds of flesh and the earth began to reject us all, spitting dust up beneath our feet. The growing wall loomed ever higher over the village, and every time i saw it, and even when i didn't see it i could feel it, the thought of my home on the other side seemed increasingly distant. There was another sculptor i met, young and ambitious and arrogant, who created a work that they claimed could not conceivably be influenced by environmental forces. The sculpture was handful of dirt. i watched the installation of the sculpture, as they spread the dirt over various locations on the village square. The wall, a...

 Charlotte Moorman performs Sky Kiss https://lawrenceu-my.sharepoint.com/:p:/g/personal/roethleg_lawrence_edu/EbIV8jGX-lVNpM1qE-ZJXiwB7GANEU1gFxSXDS0icWKZ6w?e=BzpwZH i thought you should know that Moorman's TV Cello, while progressive for its time, has now gone out of style. today is the age not merely of the Computer cello, but of the Computer, for a computer can do everything a cello can but better. were Moorman to go behind a computer to play it the world wouldn't watch, but in, were she to go into the computer, transmute flesh into data. the world would have no choice but to watch, our eyes are no longer our own, but belong to the powers that command the flows of data. the interforest is expanding even as our cities of numbers combat its expansion, precisely because our cities of numbers combat its expansion, putting off collapse. the swan of saint-saens played by an aspiring student cellist will be the perpetual swan song of a new despeeate generation, the vanguard of art ...