Thursday, November 2, 2017

Introduction to Fishbobo

[] is space list
<> is time function
{} is space situation
() is time sound

Friday, September 29, 2017

Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence @ Radio Shack, Part VIII

The following was transcribed from the language of the deer tick brain computer. Think of it not as English, but a system of gears and mechanisms: instincts not unlike a sophisticated FPGA parallel computer. It's much cuter, and alive though. It has feelings and emotions, desires and hungers. Let's enter its brain for a moment to empathize with that.

My two emotions are thrilled and rest.

I am cool, it is dark, it is cool, it was night. I am under a leaf, I am comfortable at home, and growing. I'm a big boy.

Hark, blobs of pink flesh approach, accompanied by a hairy, leaner love. I love the smell of dog; my leather, under a warm canopy; my cup of wine.

The pink gloves are moving in my temple. Huge white beam is tilting away. My eyes do not comprehend. I am activated by vibrations in my house.

Walking around, crawling on the dry leaf, now I feel the sun on my back; it warms the remaining blood in my stomach and fertilizes my thoughts.

Wolf wolf wolf. I jump in the air, feel the wind on my flat body. I am oxygenated. My eyes are oxygenated. I can see the dog below me.

I am so lucky to be a modern tick, who can fly from a dry leaf and land on a clean and rich dog field. I can walk around and see the hair, the pink underwear!

I dig my head in, my eyes are pink light. My brain is going blank. My head is surrounded in pink glove. I commune with dog.

The blood fills me, my brain is sleeping. I dream in the language of the spirochete. It is a coil which unwinds to slide through my fangs.

I dream of this blood my wine, as it lives in the dog and interfaces with its brain. Excited to create splash art in my natural medium of dog blood, my coil becomes a lance that penetrates to the vein. I will give this dog the gift of sadness, and sleep and sore joints.

Like the tick that bore me, I too will rest in the shade of a bloody liver; I will coil up again, tight like a cyst and wait, resonating my own thoughts into the dog's brain.

My two emotions are penetrate and disappear.
The tick and I get along very well.

The Dog has now contracted Lyme's disease
Since he already was a stoner, he will still live a long life coping with this disease. It may hurt more, and Quantus will be puzzled why his dog has become slower. This is a portal to create trippier writing and psychedelic storytelling from the viewpoint of the dog.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Julia Actor Network

My next step in the code rewrite is to tear apart everything that I hacked together in the first version. I was very concerned with strict OOP, or Object Oriented Programming. I wanted each virtual object to be self-contained, or hermetic, so I employed a radical slackerism of not separating my class definitions into definitions and implementation... Which resulted in a spaghetti of nesting and recursive definitions. The crisis of readability is that similar functions, such as paint(), are interspersed and spread far from each other.

I said, what about some Actor-Network theory to serve this situation! First of all, it dissolves the boundaries of strict objectivism, allowing the objects to interplay with the network of actions. And it gives these actions, or functions, that share a similar impulse network, to have a first-class file of their own.

So I cut up all the class definitions and glued them together on construction paper, giving like functions a name with underscore: _painting.c. The object definitions are now classically headed, with object names and a focus on inheritance and composition. Now the Classes can focus on their job and Functions can focus on theirs.

I appreciate a pretty directory layout. The most important files, those describing the networks, are listed first. Then the object definitions. Thanks Bruno!

Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence @ Radio Shack, Part VII

"We can get a great falafel and then make art all night," yelled Monkletto in the radio station pavilion. Virtually yelled, thought Quantus. Can't he hear me practicing 'gongs in the wind' by Matsuo Basho? Monkletto was urging his cohorts to join him in his chariot on a food run, having been emptied by some intense jamming and audio editing. He was sweaty, in a charred way, under his armpits.

Quantus did not recognize the group of youths and musicians gathered around Monkletto, but judged them by the quality of their teeth. He was cranky, and preoccupied at how Monkletto only made splash art and still garnered so much attention.

Monkletto had found an old chariot in a decaying mechanic's garage, overgrown in gourd vines, and took it home. He made it into his own party vehicle; during a late night, strung out art session, he cast a lead dildo erect on a lead shield for the front of his chariot. It made Quantus uncomfortable.

It was this chariot that was now rolling out the gravel compound drive, carting all youths and musicians, no doubt for soft serve grille with a side of vegan tofu. "Double bass and a piccolo," muttered Quantus at the departed. It was becoming dusk, the epitome of Ohio. Quantus watched the corn fields darken past the pines which rimmed the compound. His compound; the crowd had not invited him for soft serve for they sensed the gravitas of his position as caretaker of the Ji sect transmitter.

His compound, only for the time it took to unfurl his zither and sail across the radio. The dog was by his side. They walked out to the pines, smelling the air there. Old Hanuman's barn stood hovering over the corn fields. It had a bright spotlight on it, over its door, that went on and off, supposedly triggered by the movement of a skunk, the old farmer, or Quantus himself, when he moved a certain way in the pines: remote action.

Quantus thought about this a bit, long enough to hear a mosquito, feel it pierce his leg, and to smack it dead and bloody. The dog licked the blood and ironic insect, barked once at the night. Didn't the barn light go on when I smacked my leg? It was on now, and very far away to sense me... Yet it is still, no animals moving, and he could see Heinmann through bay windows, illuminated by TV in his house, sedate.

Yes, that old barn must have an ultrasound transceiver, which is an "input" for its lighting circuit. I am standing in the pines, which whistle at very high frequencies because of their needles, and so they are interacting with the ultrasound field. When I change position, it triggers the light. He held still. The light went out. It was very quiet over the corn. The dog was still, watching him. He moved his arm; the light turned on for a few seconds; it went out. The corn stood still. It, the pines, and the dog were inviting Quantus to ponder ultrasound.

Suddenly the light went on, at a rush in the road near it, of a vehicle driven by a single driver. It illuminated the lead, sweaty looking dildo, as Monkletto drove his chariot back up the drive, leaving orange dust in the barn light. Quantus snorted at the sight.

When he pulled into the courtyard, Monkletto hopped out. "Nah, the group is sleeping at the waterfalls tonight," he said to Bingzi. That explained why he was alone again. Quantus could see him smoking a cigarette, like an orange LED an inch from his lips.

Quantus did not intend to play a magic trick on Monkletto that night, but it did happen. He admired how the artist broke from the group and rode his chariot into the night to pursue his splash art alone in the lounge or transmitter booth. And so he walked down to the courtyard and met Monkletto.

"Would you like to see my gongs? I'd like to try soft-playing them in the pines." Quantus gestured to Monkletto with a grand gesture of his robed arm. Monkletto, hungry for an experimental ritual after soft-serve, followed Quantus to the edge of the compound, stopping on the way to check his phone for updates on the group's art activities, or to puff on his cigarette. They arrived in the pines, where the corn stood like a still and the barn was primed to indicate an "event."

Quantus struck the gong; the light on the barn went on. He looked over at Monkletto: in the harsh pink light of the barn, his eyes were like coals or black holes like charcoal. His mouth was like white noise. He was entranced by the gong's ability to trigger a pink light on a barn. The light went off; they heard the sound of paper rustling in the corn, but it sounded like corn rustling so they didn't listen to it.

"I'm sorry I made you paint your chariot," Quantus suddenly said. He appreciated outbursts that broke silence. The two men stood very still, thinking about how they competed aesthetically in their youth. When Monkletto found the chariot, he wanted to keep it looking rotten, coated in beeswax and encrusted in other substances. Quantus, channeling the council's emphasis on painted supergraphics, eventually convinced it to force Monkletto to paint his chariot and make it look new over old.

The art drama spun out, eventually leading to Monkletto's phallic master statement on the front of his chariot: a movement machine that pierces the night with a heavy metal dick, carrying people over two spoked wheels. Maybe if Quantus hadn't forced him to paint it, it wouldn't also have a penis on the front.

The men stood very still. The barn light turned on. Quantus mentally scrolled through a list of events that could trigger it: a skunk raising its tail, a turkey shuffling in its nest, the farmer stepping outside to smoke a cigar. Monkletto did the same, and focused on the magic of the gong. But none of these events were here; it was actually Blanc hiding in the corn.

"Now what do I do?" Blanc whispered to himself. His hand darted for a random cargo pocket on his pants. "Ah! Driftwood and a sharpy, to sketch a barn in the night, that has just lit itself with a random thrust of my hand into my pocket of art materials. Too bad I didn't reach into my holster!"

"I will wait for Monkletto to leave the compound, but first I must draw. I use the sharpy to make a black fill on the driftwood; that is the night. Fuck stars; you can't see them anyway. I leave a halo un-sharpied, that is the cone of light around the barn. Then I lightly sketch some details: oak siding, a giant latch, tattered rope."

Irrationally then, Blanc threw the driftwood straight up in the air and a little toward the two figures in the pines. They startled, looked out, and started moving toward him. He could hear them crunching through the corn. Monkletto was the point man, extending his art adventure into the corny night. Quantus trailed behind, curious about this weird prank.

They tromped into the corn. Still far, Blanc said to himself, "I'm gonna crunch-walk toward them, and we'll see what happens when we meet in this thickest corn."

But they didn't meet. Quantus and Monkletto rustled through the corn until they arrived squarely in front of Hanuman's barn... The light was on, it was quiet and still; the light went off. They heard Heinmann snoring.

Blanc rustled loudly the other way; the two parties could not sense each other because of their own loudnesses. They crossed close but slipped by each other.

Blanc walked up into the compound with his paper shirt on, strolling through the empty, well-lit lounge. He ate a chip from the bowl on the table. His shirt swished as he turned around, walked out the back door. He walked a little on the gravel path, then turned around and ran back, yet he didn't see anyone. He walked up to the pavilion, completely missing Bingzi cooking spicy seafood soup in the kitchen. The courtyard was empty, so he walked out of the compound and back to the lake.

He arrived at the sound of the morning bird, annoyingly piercing the silence and reminding him that he hadn't slept. He slept a bit when the sun rose, and then woke to eat some breakfast sandwiches and a smoothie. Exhausted from his night of stalking, he spent a hellish day stabbing at art. "Why we didn't meet in the corn is why I keep this story going," Blanc muttered to himself.

In the next installment of "Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence,"
The deertick, spirochete, and dog.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Shbobo Fish Class Hierarchy PAINTING

Well, there it is, the class hierarchy for a complete re-write of Shbobo Fish. The language shall continue to be C++ and JUCE is the interface, but I'd like to add support for lisp scripting, so there are four types of basic atoms now: crock and fish as in the original Fish, but now it adds "fiberglass" boat and tank. More on that later. Basically, she has a generic recipe in front of her, out of organic and also in-organic ingredients. Her holograph continues into the room, with different recipes.

Julia Child, if you look in her media image, often has an "ecole des gourmands" badge, as well as a golden chain necklace. I would like to use this badge as a metaphor for the generic list of ingredients, the ecole, with grub-like, ambiguous shapes contained within. They are the computer music opcodes. The necklace chain represents an evolution of the original Gwonzer, to support multiple Shbobo devices (shnth and shtar). Two-way communication (asynchronous/simulcast) is a priority.

I brightened the exposure of this screenshot to reveal the "Garcon" who stands not-off-camera, beyond the wood-frame door. He receives commands from the OS through his cigarette, and distributes them, managing windows.

I promise to not procrastinate on the software anymore, now that this bogus painting-meditation is over!

Thursday, September 14, 2017

Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence @ Radio Shack, Part VI

Chris Peters had her testicles removed in a Brooklyn apartment, 1956. She traveled to the city with some of her closest musical friends to seek out a professional private surgeon to perform this procedure called an orchiectomy. Many years later, it is absorbed into her identity and she portrays the cutting as a private and musical ritual. Barney only knows her when she has grey hair.

She visited him in Ohio today, and at night they went to the diner by the side of the lake. Who would have any relationship other than ambiguous with perch as a food? Yet, the dish was advertised on the metal motel sign. Their tires crunched on the gravel as they pulled into the parking lot, joining a couple other night trucks.

"You want to get a twelve-pack of deep-fried perch here?"

"Why not?"

Chris Peters (her last name is Vander Essence) had a mystical presence in her student Barney's work, seducing his deepest cortex with secret sounds that were enabled by her use of technology. When he was around her, he thought about every sound in a playful and deep way.

"Of course in the 50s all we had was shortwave radios, and yes, we did have one oscillator. It was provided by the science department of the Pastoral College. Because it was scientific, it went to radio frequencies."

Chris Peters was seeking the null pubis moment, as expressed in the computer language, lisp.

"My friend, Barney, he's dead now, had a huge beard, so he wasn't like you. We worked on programming some sounds in lisp... The interface is philosophical. I still use those sounds–they are like telecommunication."

The word telecommunication, whispered by Chris Peters' lips, in the context of experimental and radical music, had more than one meaning. Barney crunched on a perch tail. The sound was delightfully whistling high, almost crystalline, and particulate like sand. Chris Peters' eyes became dreamy, yearning for something beyond the future:

"I have an idea for a perfect instrument. It has one note, which it builds into chords... but it is this one note, like my oscillator in the 50s, that I can play from Tuba-Town to ultrasound. I call the organ my 'Mona see.'"

The perch meat was sweet and you had to pick through bones, but the greasy breading did its trick and it became a delightful midnight snack with Coke and white wine. Perfect to fortify one's self against the buffeting cold wind from the lake. When they stepped out of the diner, crossing the empty road, to stroll lakeward for a look. The melting ice floated around like asteroids in space.

The white blobs receded into the oily night. Out there in the darkness, all you could hear was the random crunching when one ice intersected another, and this sound receded too. The lake is mystical, and it's been cleaned enough to eat its perch again.

They drove up the lake road, through quiet houses and an empty town with its bright wastewater meth-flame.

"Let's drive by my friend Blanc's house. It might be trash night in his neighborhood; we could find some lighting fixtures or a couch."

It wasn't trash night. When they pulled up to Blanc's house by the lake, the womb-colored light was on and hovering over the kitchen table. They could see it through the bay windows.

Chris Peters whispered, "did you hear a rustling of leaves inside the house?"

Barney glanced at his friend, who could hear through the walls of a house. He believed her, and scanned the darkness in the house beyond the sole light: the shelves of painted shells, a burlap couch. There, behind the burlap couch stood a pile of tattered paper crepe, with a male form inside it, still but alive. The two friends sitting in a parked car felt a thrill at spying on this unknown activity.

Suddenly what was a camouflaged blob sped up and materialized in swat gear, dancing tactically towards the kitchen table.

"That's Blanc! He's up this late? I thought he was a morning person. I guess you can pick up shells and beach trash at any time of day and paint them."

Chris Peters snorted: "I wonder what kind of music he's listening to in there."

Through the bay window, they saw Blanc's face approach the cone of light at the kitchen table. He unstrapped a device from his pants' loin and grinned at it...

Somehow the two friends decided they would not walk up and knock on Blanc's door. They would instead wind their way back down the lake road. Chris Peters had a bottle of white wine in the car and she was cheerful in the night. She spoke more about her antique computer music samples, playing a game of singing them, and adding crunchy sounds where the digital code spoke.

Back at Barney's residency in the fields, he lied down on the couch, tired from driving but content with the company. Chris Peters explored the space inside the main lounge: "Is the station broadcasting right now?"

"No, but you can go in there and play. If you turn the light switch on, everything goes on and you can plug into the mixer which is the radio transmitter. Broadcast anything; it's late enough for free speech!"

She did for a while. Barney listened on one of the many testing radios: little bits of consumer receivers from the ages. His favorite was evidently a beach radio. It was soft and held batteries, and sounded warm like one's vacation expectations. Through this warmly compressed voice box, he heard her extreme sounds as new animals, and wondered what the corncob men thought as they received her transmission over early morning coffee:

"I think if I were a farmer, I'd think these sounds are from a satellite. Wonder what Blanc was doing, late night with no one in the house, hiding in that paper camouflage. I won't ever ask him, because then he will know that I spied on him in swat gear."

Chris Peters came back into the lounge and sat on a firmly upholstered chair. While Barney drifted to sleep, she plotted more about her Monassi, quietly sipping on white wine. Her cheeks were rosy; this was truly when and where she was most excited, late night with access to a radio station and her sounds:

"It's the ideal organ of the future... one sensor... well really as many sensors as there are in a chord.  Those are like all the nerves of the music, but it's all part of the One Touch. There's a knob for escalating and descending, that's it! It's like the one eye in the sky, one big socialist internet. Everyone is surveilled, including the president. You watch what he eats on Instagram, and read tweets of public policy. The Mona see..."

Barney, drifting off, tried to focus on his friends rant: "Do you mean the panopticon as a metaphor for your One Touch organ? How do you spell Monassi? M-O-N-A-S-S-I?"

"M-O-N-A S-E-E!" They both laughed.

"That clothing your friend was wearing... I liked his sudden change from amorphous to present. But what does it mean, alone at home, spied upon through bay windows? Wonder what he had in his pants? I thought you said he was a painter?"

"A painter of trash." Barney trailed out and snored sincerely.

I'd like to thank Daniel Fishkin for asking me to write this episode.
He was deeply affected by his teacher Maryanne Amacher, who was radical and perceptive. She also seemed to have secrets, like bass drums hidden in the walls of an old house. Also I was thinking about when someone gets older and how the tides of their creativity turn. It seems there is a certain age when you become playful again with everything, so I included the dorky imaginary organ, originally a "Vander Essence" theme, as an example of failing, but fun adventure.

Sunday, April 2, 2017

Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence @ Radio Shack, Part V

"The kind of artist who works at the beach has noise in their head," he muttered into his zither, as smoke curled out of the sound hole. Sunlight streamed in rays from the wooden planks that panel the radio shack walls. Quantus sat in there, with a silent cup of tea, not playing the zither, but periodically brushing a noise-tone from it: the chirp of the field-cricket, crackling of an Ohio cigar, the clang of war by sword. Here in the farmland, sounds are grains against silence–it reflects the emptiness of the landscape. Between every town, there is a deep cut that you cannot see until you are on top–the river valleys. They are like a piece, a flow of water with narrative, that pierce the regular sound-effecty silence of the land. The opposite of mountains, these pieces are invisible until you're in it.

The Black River flows downward to the ocean: an ocean of freshwater known as lake Erie. The waves lap sand here, and little beachfront towns totter on old sticks, a fence of houses around a rusty core of long-cooled steel. The steel mills recede into the landscape like ruins, and houses become only a fertile metallic patch in the pasture. Blanc deluded himself to be living at the ocean beach when he merely lived at the shores of a lake, albeit eerie and great; this false cognition was a source of bemusement to Quantus and the other members of the Ji Sect.

"Blanc moved to Northern Ohio in 2007," Quantus informed his zither. "He purchased a condominium in the Lorain, with large windows and a deck that leads over the dunes onto the beach. He likes to pick through the flotsam for shells, driftwood, and little rounded pieces of plastic, their origin erased by erosion. He moved his brushes and paints into the sandy basement of that house and works alone there, practicing only this: painting pastoral and maritime scenes on beach trash. He will host the Ji sect meeting tonight. I worry that our activities have violated his inculcation on webcams." Quantus ran his fingernails along the string to make a blaster sound. His long silk sleeve then brushed the zither, whispering harmonically.

That dog returned to the radio shack, fresh from sniffing the fields for somatic growths on cow dung. "Monkletto does not come to the meeting, as he is a downcast member of the sect–degraded. Bing Zi and the elves also do not come, since they are laymen–do they even exist? There are other members of the sect who set audio/video policy at this meeting, but it is important to focus on Blanc. I fear he will be lambasting the presence of media artists as an attraction to party-people." As a coda, Quantus made three disparate, woodworker like motions on his zither–knock, wobble, and twang.

It is night. The sound of crashing surf on the dock of Blanc's house: Quantus reviews his notes from the council's exhortation on webcams in the temple.

"But you have your paints, that is a medium!" Quantus had stammered at the heavy oak table. The council sat around it, exhausted from Blanc's exhortation on media art. A stained-glass dining lamp hung above the table, projecting warm colors of the womb on inhabitants: orange of flesh and red of the virgin umbilical blood.

"I am a medium artist and a beach programmer," Blanc declared. "There is a difference. I have eliminated the multiplicity that exists in media art, and boiled it down to the singular medium of pigment on shells."

"But you have your shells and bits of rounded plastic, are they your canvas?"

"Yes, they are the canvas, and paint is the medium. There is nothing else–no feed of vintage polaroid simulacra, DIY music videos, 8-bit art–the list never ends for media art. And furthermore, an exhibition of media art attracts an equally disparate crowd of party people, who distract from the message of our practice. They are degenerates, like Monkletto, who is not present here at the council table. I used to bring my computer to the beach..."

Quantus imagined Blanc sitting at the lagoon, watching ducks eat poop, with his laptop, coding. He couldn't help snorting, earmarking the transition to Blanc's beach-programming theme: "I would program microcontrollers to draw complex geometries with a felt-tip pen, and also do byte-beats. I thought the purity of the noise, and the salty wind in my scalp somehow made this practice holy and meditative.  I was in my twenties, and already tiring of the party-people who seek hypercolor art and computer music as a bed for their sociality. I realized, however, that I was only seeking noise, and the beach is the true source of that: a massive sound environment of crashing and gusting, and the erosion and entropy beneath our feet. I removed the computer from my dock, and now only scan the beach for flotsam, which I use as canvas: the ultimate artistic self-abasement as trash-man."

"You, Quantus," Blanc continued, "you have your zither–it is your medium; the canvas is the Honda Civic you use to transport it–is it connected to the internet? The reason why not is that you have chosen a palette of physical wood, wire, and circuits, as an extension of your practice as friendship bracelet weaver. I think you have quite successfully avoided the fracturing and social anarchy of the media artist..."

Later, over coffee and cake, the council-members either drifted off or sank into Blanc's overstuffed leather chairs, gazing at the display cases of beach trash painted in muted pigments: scenes of cows drinking from trout-water, an old iron lighthouse on the isthmus, rocky piers. Blanc seemed to be attracted to trash and dead animals that pervaded the lake–he studied the shape of fishkill washed up on the sand, their bodies mummified and contorted, then smoothed and streamlined by the blowing sand. Their hollow eyes allowed him dramatic shading for his paint set.

Meeting at Blanc's house on the lake was not unlike meeting at the Theosophical headquarters in Cleveland. The massive brick building also stood on the lake, had a giant oak table, and also warm womb-like lighting. However, the intimate and outskirted nature of Blanc's made it more like a retreat. On the dock, Parson comforted his friend Quantus. "here, artistic manifestoes can emerge from the oily blackness of the lake," he said touching his arm in the friendly way of a musician. The city, even a rusty one like Cleveland, brought a mediocre-media-arts audience to the Theosophical Society, which was not present at the small Ji sect council, and thus its members thus spake with such frankness.

In the next installment of "Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence,"
Do Bing Zi and the elves exist on the radio shack compound while the masters are at the lakeside retreat discussing audio/video policy? More noodle slurping and anus-darting.