Circuit Bending

I recently got into Circuit Bending, and managed to convince my art teacher to let me bend a turtle for our sculpture unit, but I have to formulate a solid opinion on circuit bending.

(For those curious as to an explanation, see here: http://www.anti-theory.com/soundart/circuitbend/ )

On one hand, it's incredibly refreshing. It requires all of one's attention, which can be incredibly calming; the downside however is that interruptions are around 5,000 times more annoying then stubbing your toe.

The real, real point of this is is that I just attached two LED's, that I salvaged from another toy, onto my turtle for art, and I was very pleased with myself and felt like sharing.

The End.

(review of Underoath's new album up once I've listened to it a few more times).

Quoth

"i like my conversation like my sleep

just as long as it's deep"

Also, this video impressed me mightily:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dgWavGttom4&feature=youtu.be

A Loss of Vision

I feel as though this blog needs something fresh.

Reading what I've written is nice, but it's all so thoroughly non-cohesive. It bounces too much. Not that I'm advocating structure, more trying to figure out what to write now. See, if I had a theme for this blog, or a fixed topic, new posts would be so much easier. As it is though, I usually just write whatever I want to whenever inspiration strikes, but what with the onslaught of lowered temperatures, inspiration has decided to stop striking.

Winter is always like this: it makes me want to hibernate. Or at the very least, curl up with a special someone under a blanket with a hot coco and a classic. But, sadly, I'm filled with longings for the unattainable, and there's only one mug beside the remote.

Another problem I have with this season is how it requires attention. In the summer, or spring, or fall, whenever a task becomes too cumbersome or uninteresting, a quick walk remedies that feeling. Or at the very least focuses my creative energies into some other effort.

Not so with winter. It's too cold, and as beautiful as snow can be, blankets of white do little for my imagination.

So, I spend my time online, accomplishing nothing and waiting for something worthwhile to transpire.

I need a hobby.

Chunk 1, Unedited or Proof-Read.

I never talk to my co-workers, I simply imagine their lives as they pass by and smile. I conjure up stories of what they do on the weekends, I misconstrue their friendly glances at each other as confirmation of secrets kept. I wrote.

And then I awoke.

I can't tell you how long I've been dreaming in narrative, but it's been this way on and off since around the time I first noticed that clouds could be mountains. My body relaxes into disconnect, and my mind fires up a thousand type-writers, sending indelible streams of ink into the prefrontal cortex of my brain, covering everything in words. Skies of grammar and ground of punctuation. If I haven't experienced it in a book, the sensation is not in the dream. The air smells of library and bergamot, and the wind whispers poetry in my ears, subtle readings of Elliot and Poe rising and falling with the temperature. The only way that colour is experienced is in that odd dream-esque way of knowing but not knowing.

And then, as sure as surfacing, she arrives.

She is comprised of the tiniest font possible, thousands of verbs and adverbs and adjectives and cliched phrases race over her flesh, are her flesh. In spite of the constant motion of her skin, she does not move, although she is never in the same position.

She is motionless in motion.

I've been seeing her for months now. She's a customer at my work, she's leaving the coffee shop right as I place my order, she's just behind the shelves in the library, on the street, in the sky and now, in my dreams.

I'm not obsessed, I'm not stalking, I wouldn't even say I'm interested. She wasn't my type, but she also wasn't so thoroughly not my type that she was my type in a roundabout way. She wasn't exceptionally plain, but didn't quite drip with that gorgeousness that some people seem to exude in place of carbon dioxide.

She simply was and simply wasn't.

Yet there she was in helvitica and times new roman, haunting me in the friendliest way possible.

I think her name was Fire.

But I'm probably wrong.

This Annoys Me and This Interests Me

"How are you?"

What does this question even mean? While it's infinitely well intentioned, it is ultimately meaningless. Can one really delve into the entirety of human existence, or sum it up with one line?

Also:

How closely can the image of God resemble before it is God? What does that say about us? What does it say about God?

Limitless Language

My mind is quite working the way it used to. That dramatic shift I spoke of in the last blog? It's apparently just a subtle change of the wallpapering in my head.

Now at the end of every day I lie awake at night and wait to feel

The wires of my brain get cut and quietly rearranged.

A thought occurred to me today: what if language was perfect in it's ability to express?

Can life ever be fully expressed through one medium? Can one mode of expression handle the immensity of everything? Obviously not, but what if it could?

What if everything we said was perceived exactly how we meant it. Whenever we whispered 'I love yous' or soberly said 'thank you,' it was taken with every ounce and pound of meaning that it was imbibed with.

Or even screams of "I hate you" could be heard with the understanding that it isn't forever, the person saying it feels like they mean it, but they don't really.

I think people would say a lot less for a long time. Then some would speak their heart and find that others out there mirrored it. Some would still sit in silence and ponder what to say until a brown eyed girl would walk over to them and ask them if they would like to dance.

And they would say "Yes."

And they would mean it.

Of course, such a world doesn't exist, but if it did, I have a feeling it would be at a disadvantage.

If life could be explained, if it could be fully understood with something as limited as language, then it would lose very much of its livelihood.

One could take the pro's and con's and wage a mighty war in prose and possibly convince some members in the audience, but in the end it's all speculation.

This isn't even an idea of a perfect world.

It's a question of limited perfection should be.

There Something Somewhere Doing Something

I feel as though I am on the precipice.

There is a great fall before me, and what is at the bottom, well, time knows.

And God knows time.

And I, well I, I simply do not know:

What is keeping me here, on this edge, here waiting for a push.

Or a slip of the foot.

I'm not sure if I'm worried or excited, and I'm not if this unknown feeling is for the fall or the inevitable moment when I land and must take stock of my new surroundings.

Sometimes everything feels so surreal that the idea that it is really real feels simply sacrilegious.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this blog like this,

this almost poem-but-still-not style of writing.

I always feel that poetry loses quite a bit in the transfer between mind and paper. Like within those few seconds, a wind gently shifts through the room and steals some of the magic.

Of course, I wouldn't be presumptuous enough to call this poetry, why, it doesn't even rhyme.

Of course, life doesn't either, and it still has that literary beauty to it that is just beyond the realms of the narrative.

Now I'm talking in prose and the meaning is all but lost, and I'm sure thats symbolic of something, maybe my desire to stagnate, a desire to not jump off this cliff.

But I think

I think

I would if I could.

But

there seems to be a wall in the way.