Friday, June 03, 2005
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
COMMUNICATIONS
From some girl...
it's "felt." mark felt. not feld. so we would not confuse the two, i don't think. but, wow. one mystery of our times, solved. yet still i can't help feeling it's just another distraction. i was just thinking about your comments board and wondering if it will ever come back. i like to think of it as the blogworld equivalent of the TARDIS -- a bit unpredictable in where it lands.
And semi-enlightenment from Funtopia Rich
I've just been into the template for Doc40 to check the comments code and checked it against the codegenerated for this account by the comments board provider and it all looks fine. I'm baffled. Maybeit's as you say, it's doing it's "wandering feline" routine again and will reappear as mysteriously as it disappeared. Failing that I'll e-mail the "support" section on Enetation!
From some girl...
it's "felt." mark felt. not feld. so we would not confuse the two, i don't think. but, wow. one mystery of our times, solved. yet still i can't help feeling it's just another distraction. i was just thinking about your comments board and wondering if it will ever come back. i like to think of it as the blogworld equivalent of the TARDIS -- a bit unpredictable in where it lands.
And semi-enlightenment from Funtopia Rich
I've just been into the template for Doc40 to check the comments code and checked it against the codegenerated for this account by the comments board provider and it all looks fine. I'm baffled. Maybeit's as you say, it's doing it's "wandering feline" routine again and will reappear as mysteriously as it disappeared. Failing that I'll e-mail the "support" section on Enetation!
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
HA!
So Deep Throat finally came out of the closet and into Vanity Fair, revealing himself to be Mark Feld (not to be confused with the real name of Marc Bolan) who was second banana at the FBI at the time of Watergate. And on my TV the same old weasels are weaseling and blaming Nixon’s downfall on the media. Don’t these fucking Republicans ever learn the phrase "it’s a fair cop, copper"?
But can I now hope that there will be a deathbed confession from one of the shooters from the Dealey Plaza Triangulation? (And if that makes no sense, you are either very sheltered or very young.)
FROM OUT OF A CLEAR SKY
The following fell on me out of a clear cyber-sky...
THE PROMISED DAY HAS COME
Friends and fellow-heirs of the Kingdom of Bahá'u'lláh:
A tempest, unprecedented in its violence, unpredictable in its course, catastrophic in its immediate effects, unimaginably glorious in its ultimate consequences, is at present sweeping the face of the earth. Its driving power is remorselessly gaining in range and momentum. Its cleansing force, however much undetected, is increasing with every passing day. Humanity, gripped in the clutches of its devastating power, is smitten by the evidences of its resistless fury. It can neither perceive its origin, nor probe its significance, nor discern its outcome. Bewildered, agonized and helpless, it watches this great and mighty wind of God invading the remotest and fairest regions of the earth, rocking its foundations, deranging its equilibrium, sundering its nations, disrupting the homes of its peoples, wasting its cities, driving into exile its kings, pulling down its bulwarks, uprooting its institutions, dimming its light, and harrowing up the souls of its inhabitants.
For more...
http://darrenhiebert.com/eBahai/html/pdc.html
Although post secret is probably a lot more fun...
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/
WHILE I WAS AWAY
The big old comments board vanished, and, in answer to a number of concerned emails, I did not take it down, and I have no idea where it went, and neither does Rich. It has, of course, mysteriously vanished before, and then just a mysteriously returned like some wandering street feline, but, if it doesn’t, I know it will be missed, and the annoying little comments links at the bottom of each post are not the same thing. I’m wondering if it is possible to rig a parallel blog that is open to all. Is there anyone out there with the skill and expertise to create the Doc40 Annex?
The email is byron4d@msn.com
The secret word is Assist
CRYPTIQUE – His brain is squirming like a toad.
So Deep Throat finally came out of the closet and into Vanity Fair, revealing himself to be Mark Feld (not to be confused with the real name of Marc Bolan) who was second banana at the FBI at the time of Watergate. And on my TV the same old weasels are weaseling and blaming Nixon’s downfall on the media. Don’t these fucking Republicans ever learn the phrase "it’s a fair cop, copper"?
But can I now hope that there will be a deathbed confession from one of the shooters from the Dealey Plaza Triangulation? (And if that makes no sense, you are either very sheltered or very young.)
FROM OUT OF A CLEAR SKY
The following fell on me out of a clear cyber-sky...
THE PROMISED DAY HAS COME
Friends and fellow-heirs of the Kingdom of Bahá'u'lláh:
A tempest, unprecedented in its violence, unpredictable in its course, catastrophic in its immediate effects, unimaginably glorious in its ultimate consequences, is at present sweeping the face of the earth. Its driving power is remorselessly gaining in range and momentum. Its cleansing force, however much undetected, is increasing with every passing day. Humanity, gripped in the clutches of its devastating power, is smitten by the evidences of its resistless fury. It can neither perceive its origin, nor probe its significance, nor discern its outcome. Bewildered, agonized and helpless, it watches this great and mighty wind of God invading the remotest and fairest regions of the earth, rocking its foundations, deranging its equilibrium, sundering its nations, disrupting the homes of its peoples, wasting its cities, driving into exile its kings, pulling down its bulwarks, uprooting its institutions, dimming its light, and harrowing up the souls of its inhabitants.
For more...
http://darrenhiebert.com/eBahai/html/pdc.html
Although post secret is probably a lot more fun...
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/
WHILE I WAS AWAY
The big old comments board vanished, and, in answer to a number of concerned emails, I did not take it down, and I have no idea where it went, and neither does Rich. It has, of course, mysteriously vanished before, and then just a mysteriously returned like some wandering street feline, but, if it doesn’t, I know it will be missed, and the annoying little comments links at the bottom of each post are not the same thing. I’m wondering if it is possible to rig a parallel blog that is open to all. Is there anyone out there with the skill and expertise to create the Doc40 Annex?
The email is byron4d@msn.com
The secret word is Assist
CRYPTIQUE – His brain is squirming like a toad.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
D-BRANE THE HARD WAY
To explain the process of protracted fiction to anyone who has never so engaged is not easy, and I’ve always considered it infinitely preferable to simply offer the result and make no comment on how it came to be, but, since I’ve been missing from the blogworld for a few weeks, I felt a brief justification might be in order. To deliberately set one’s brain loose in a whole imaginary and completely fantastic construct for long hours of each day can has to be, with very little qualification, an exercise in controlled insanity that is not a hundred miles from those individuals who put on the tinfoil hats to prevent the CIA or the aliens from reading their thoughts. Except the author eschews the tinfoil. No hat and no exit, except abject failure of the most extreme and terminal kind. He walks his mind naked like a dog, and often with only a very flimsy leash, at the mercy of a legion of multiple personalities, and an entire cast of characters, operating in a mental state that might, I guess, be called, for want of a better word, polyphrenia. (As in schizophrenia, only with a whole lot more options.) The only real control is in how well you have pre-planned the landscape of imagination, and the environment of fantasy, because all protect must be installed in advance. Before one lets slip Superman it is good to have invented kryptonite, so to speak. The only lifeline to the real world is the process itself, the physical fingers on the noisy keys, punch-drunk with illusion of arthritis, the desperate vocabulary, and the highwire deception of the crafted sentence. One becomes one’s own pimp as, hour after hour, one turns phrases as if they were tricks, to the galley slave drummer of internal quality-control...
"Make it better!"
"Make it better!"
At 120,000 words, the novel Conflagration is long by the popular standards of every one except maybe Stephen King, and in the last 20,000 the author’s mind snaps entirely. Unless it is an exceedingly dull story, the characters, by then, in a high state of excitation with epic psycho-sexual hell breaking out around them. As in old fashioned amphetamine psychosis, time and sleep are the first to go, working against the dawn, leaf-blowers, waste-management, the annexation of crows, the demands of felines, and fear that the marijuana may run out. No one understands you. In the moments that you flag and fall in front the comforting formalism of TV Law & Order re-runs is about all you can handle. Even The Simpsons are too bright and random. One even begins to speak in the third persons and as if the present was already past.
The final collapse is best not described at all. Mercifully the memory is highly selective about both pain and dementia, but the decompression has to be handled with care – like a diver with the bends – and not mutilated or spindled because those tiny, champagne nitro-bubbles of vacant creativity will appear in the bloodstream of the aftermath and wreak havoc in what is left of the brain.
But I survive, all the way to the terrible post-depression when, as usual, I wonder – like the old actor – if I will ever work again. But it the same time, I ravenously need write on regardless.
MARK BOYLE -- RIP
JEFF NUTALL -- RIP
LINK
A awesome piece of animation from Russia that says something about mortality...
http://fcmx.net/vec/v.php?i=003702
CRYPTIQUE – Fill in the next line yourself.
The secret word is Tangled.
To explain the process of protracted fiction to anyone who has never so engaged is not easy, and I’ve always considered it infinitely preferable to simply offer the result and make no comment on how it came to be, but, since I’ve been missing from the blogworld for a few weeks, I felt a brief justification might be in order. To deliberately set one’s brain loose in a whole imaginary and completely fantastic construct for long hours of each day can has to be, with very little qualification, an exercise in controlled insanity that is not a hundred miles from those individuals who put on the tinfoil hats to prevent the CIA or the aliens from reading their thoughts. Except the author eschews the tinfoil. No hat and no exit, except abject failure of the most extreme and terminal kind. He walks his mind naked like a dog, and often with only a very flimsy leash, at the mercy of a legion of multiple personalities, and an entire cast of characters, operating in a mental state that might, I guess, be called, for want of a better word, polyphrenia. (As in schizophrenia, only with a whole lot more options.) The only real control is in how well you have pre-planned the landscape of imagination, and the environment of fantasy, because all protect must be installed in advance. Before one lets slip Superman it is good to have invented kryptonite, so to speak. The only lifeline to the real world is the process itself, the physical fingers on the noisy keys, punch-drunk with illusion of arthritis, the desperate vocabulary, and the highwire deception of the crafted sentence. One becomes one’s own pimp as, hour after hour, one turns phrases as if they were tricks, to the galley slave drummer of internal quality-control...
"Make it better!"
"Make it better!"
At 120,000 words, the novel Conflagration is long by the popular standards of every one except maybe Stephen King, and in the last 20,000 the author’s mind snaps entirely. Unless it is an exceedingly dull story, the characters, by then, in a high state of excitation with epic psycho-sexual hell breaking out around them. As in old fashioned amphetamine psychosis, time and sleep are the first to go, working against the dawn, leaf-blowers, waste-management, the annexation of crows, the demands of felines, and fear that the marijuana may run out. No one understands you. In the moments that you flag and fall in front the comforting formalism of TV Law & Order re-runs is about all you can handle. Even The Simpsons are too bright and random. One even begins to speak in the third persons and as if the present was already past.
The final collapse is best not described at all. Mercifully the memory is highly selective about both pain and dementia, but the decompression has to be handled with care – like a diver with the bends – and not mutilated or spindled because those tiny, champagne nitro-bubbles of vacant creativity will appear in the bloodstream of the aftermath and wreak havoc in what is left of the brain.
But I survive, all the way to the terrible post-depression when, as usual, I wonder – like the old actor – if I will ever work again. But it the same time, I ravenously need write on regardless.
MARK BOYLE -- RIP
JEFF NUTALL -- RIP
LINK
A awesome piece of animation from Russia that says something about mortality...
http://fcmx.net/vec/v.php?i=003702
CRYPTIQUE – Fill in the next line yourself.
The secret word is Tangled.
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