Friday, March 2, 2018

Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence @ Radio Shack, Part IX

The dog is shaggy and sometimes looks gaseous in form but this is only when photographed.  For in the real world, on the pine-root paths between the zither shed and the radio shack, the dog is real to the monk, searching out squirrels and running up to sniff his sandals while Monk thinks about the invisible shape of his radio fields.

What was his instrument used for in the beginning, when a man chopped a plank off of a Pawlonia trunk?  Perhaps the tree was hit by lightning and it split exactly into the phallic purple-white-tan zither that he is custodian of.  He knows that silk is an important part of the equation, just as much as nylon is, for the ancients would not have heard the potential of Pawlonia without the crystal tones of stretched silken filaments, buttressed by the arch of the branch: convex for koto, straight for qin. 

"This koto is for my wife on the internet, for she takes the curved wood and I take the straight wood.  My zither is played like a man who is chanting lowly and inflecting with slow movements accompanied by the rustling of his rob, and of course the sound of the fans that cool the transmitter, birds outside of the shack."

The monk hears the wind in the pines, and impromptu, as is allowed by tradition, he recites a poem over broad zither strokes, in a dry lilting voice which then becomes wet and sloppy as he turns the feedback up on his radio-zither, high chaotic tones enter the situation: bombs in the pines, shrieks elicit from radio receivers across the land.  The corn-cob-man, listening, has a stroke; immediately Monkletto senses this, and putting his facemask on, steps out into the sofa...

The Dog Does the Drugs
"I like poop," says the dog.  "Now when I go out in the pines because my monk is playing those post-musical high frequencies which beat in my ear, I go and look for poop out in the fields past the pines.  Out here I can hear still his matrix of ultrasound, but it is fading out into the wind, squirrels, and cows.  I comb the grass for poop, poop that grows mushrooms.  Quantus Monk is projecting structured ultrasound into the fields, and transmitting this on the radio too. 

In the next installment of "Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence,"
On first encountering the monk Quantus Barney, playing his zither in a concert hall.



 Think about the bumper sticker "this machine kills fascists." The most appropriate place for this sticker, according to Woody Guthrie and your own good conscience, is on a musical instrument.
Music affects our emotions. Overly simple music is emotionally manipulative. Think of war marches, pop music, and religious (not esoteric) mood play. The core flaw of Western Music is its division into happy and sad, major and minor.

In America, we are musically bipolar. The simple message of Islamic music, I feel, is offering a most sublime alternative: analog gradience between minor and major. Like non-representational art, it leaves out the extremes of hate and love.

Our research into 17 tone equal temperament (17tet) goes back a decade, when Carson Garhart and I built our first Namastitar, fretted in just intonation according to the ratios outlined by Zalzal. Our goal was to respectfully recreate neutral seconds and thirds.

The affect of netural intervals is one of yearning, perpetuity, and eternal motion. -Ron Shalom

Foucault admired the Iranian revolution because of its return to irrationality in the face of modernism, and its spirituality. The way to transmute our president begins with this irrationality and ends with solving global imperialism.

Protest music has always been termed "noise" and "irrational;" It strikes a dissonant chord. In the Bush years, it was literally "noise music." We seek an evolution of protest noise that is not literally noisy.

The band "Sun City Girls" termed their music as "disorientalism:" an appropriation that makes you dizzy, or a misinterpretation that creates new appreciation for the world. When we first fretted an instrument in 17tet, we heard its neutral thirds quite clearly.

If I had made the SHTAR in 12tet, it would not have 33 frets, because that would be impossible on any instrument but a berimbau. 33 frets is a lucky number, because it uses a 32-bit computer, and there is an extra one for emergency situations. -Peter B

The Persian Tar's neck is made of walnut and its body of mulberry, which are also common American fine hardwoods, so we can understand this instrument materially. Whereas the tar uses goat, the SHTAR uses acoustic plastic for its skin. Likewise a bridge in bone became one of black gold: smoked polycarbonate.

It is strung in bronze: although it is weaker it is more resonant. The bronze age of music was like the Baroque, offering microsound for soft touchers. What Foucault saw as the creative force in Iran was to skip modernism and reconnect spirituality to the bronze age. He also admired closeness to danger.

A computer music system in Islamic tuning requires an intellectual commitment. Contrasted to analog culture, offering instant and intuitively fun sounds, this instrument must take years to develop a relationship. That's the epitome of computer music; it's a different business plan encompassing hacking and the idea of the recipe.

Everyone knows that taking pictures of a modular, or trying to write down the patch system, is bogus. The dial's gradience is the true basis of the composition, and it is anti-semiotic. but in computer music, a score, or text, is truly a legitimate thing.

Musically, Christianity prefers intervals of salvation, and Islam those of yearning; one is simplifying, the other is subliming. In Phillip K. Dicks "Divine Transformation," a major world religion is Islamo-Christianity. In this world, what would the pop singer Linda Fox sound like?

-Control NYC, November 2017 (Thanks to Rachelle)


Dear Charlemagne Palestine,
i saw your concert last Fall in Sophienkirche.
I had been waiting a long time to hear your organ performance live,
ever since my friend Ezra Buchla gave me a CD in college,
when I apprenticed to organ builders in Oregon and Ohio.
I noticed that your current work has more glory-of-god dominant modulation,
and I wonder if you think so too ?)

I am not Muslim, in fact my middle name is Christian.
However, I often meditate on how immigrants enrich my country,
even though some were slaves to it.
Your name is composed of a holy roman emperor and a trodden Islamic state,
have you ever thought of it that way ?)

I am a synthesizer builder, and honestly
I wanted to show you one but I am cautious after shows,
so I stood outside instead.
I have released a string instrument with embedded computer music,
in an tuning good for Islamic music,
like the neutral intervals in the call to prayer:

17 tone equal temperament, have you heard of it?

My dream project is to convert a pipe organ
(for the glory of Fid)
retuning it to this scale, with neutral intervals.
If you ever notice a mosque in Berlin that wants this radical project,
let me know!

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!