Satan to you, boo,
laughs the strange
goat faced man,
ought not be
questions out not
be asked! Boo.
If I had Photoshop and bandwidth, I’d find myself a fire plugin because the Ally logo would look so cool rendered as flames against the trees.
And if there were, unlikely as it may sound, no flamage plugins available I could probably use the enhanced toolset to mock me up something.
Oh, man, back in the day, my favorite plugin was a sky generator. It had features such as cloud type and coverage, your standard azimuth and pitch and such, you could render with horizon or sans.
Had rainbows, and sun position, and it was the greatest thing ever!!!!!
Kept me sane.
Then I moved to an all text workflow and that fucked things up.
I’m making this post in hopes it’ll trigger a refresh of my RSS feed, which has dropped my first 8 Dronecasts. I apologize if it screws with your podcast aggregators.
This is how to title a poem: simple and direct.
From Sad Poem by E., on A Sign of Life.
It’s a wonderful blog, you should check it out.
So, I don’t know what to read first. The Divine Comedy or The Red Night. Am I looking for “a nonlinear course through time and space” or something a bit more structured?
It won’t surprise you to learn I admire Burroughs. That he speaks to me. That it’s his yardstick by which I judge my work by. I wade in the stream that Burroughs forged with the precum of defeated and angry masturbation, in the tears that followed as they mixed into the semen and mucus. Throttled and rattling for death the river roars… and I am wading in the tributary.
The Devine Comedy, on the other hand, is foreign and strange. From all accounts it’s linear and planned. Not to mention it’s one of the more important works in the Western canon. I’ll be reading a 19th century English translation of the 14th century Italian—weird, right? It should shake up my words some. It might lend form to them.
I was expecting Speculation to go viral. What, with Iggy Azalea and a decidedly xenophobic ruling class and cultural appropriation and growing sense of dread, and all. Not to mention the dumbing down and growing coarseness of popular culture.
The deadly preknowledge* that we’ve been through this before and the knowing it doesn’t change.
Is it too dim? It’s supposed to be a recreated ancient message tattered on its journey across time, a CRT on its last legs, a recovered Nostradamus that turns out to have been binary code rendered analog by the artist’s pen.
I was at least expecting a like. A I-see-what-you-did-there, a we recognize you as an ally.
I find it fascinating that birds have less junk DNA cluttering up their chromosomes than do we mammals. Some speculate this tendency is a weight savings mechanism.
Amen to that!
It’s wonderful to imagine an organism so pressured it’s able to identify needless genes and willing to cast them free.
That’s some fierce optimization. The entirety of mammalia must seem like hoarders to our avian allies.
In the early 22nd century a hiphop ensemble shall be propelled to stardom with their hit The Niggers I’ve Fucked, until it is discovered to have been penned by a white supremacist and powerful member of the ruling party.
It will be a minor controversy within a maelstrom of controversies which will blow over in short order. Awards will be rescinded, records updated. The artists will be forgotten while the partyman skates.
Franklyn Monk Dronecast 28: Outtakes.
Just some scraps I had laying around. I record as I write and delete everything up to the final recording—to save disk space, and because there’s always too much to review.
Recordings get scattered all over the place, and I’ll loose track of them, and sometimes stumble over them again. Instead of deleting them this time, I decided to give you a behind the scenes look at my writing process. Continue reading Outtakes