June 3,
June 8,
June 10,
June 16,
June 17,
June 18,
June 22,
June 23
Well, a lot has happened lately. Too bad I can't remember most of it. I guess that's the problem with not writing things down?
I will be the first to admit that I've found a new temporary activity to behave obsessively toward. Who would have thought - computer programming. I always figured me an' my NatureOriented self would shy away from the LCD (not LSD) and keep my somber eyes averted from IttyBitty little screens that hurt the eyes and cause neckaches. But who am I to guess at my own behavior anymore?
I guess it's like a new puzzle for me. Figure out what to type and the is what will appear. This is what will make sound. This is what will ask question. This is what will give answers. This is what will, eventually and with full purpose, connect people? That's my point, right? To connect people. To piddle my time away finding connections. For what purpose? Sheee-it. Who knows ... It's something to do while unemployed, right ...
So I put up pictures, I reorganize "frames," "tables," "margins," cellpadding, cellspacing, hspace, vspacecolspanrowspanhtmljavascript:location="kissmyfuckingass" ...
what gibberish!
but I tell 'ya, when I'm up at 5am trying to make a crappy, digitized character on a 3 inch by 5 inch display on your computer screen talk, you better watch out, because that's when it's all worth it.
I've been skimming through, literally, thousands of pages of manuals looking for the correct way to write <>a href="parent.frontmain=self.Resize(300,700)> (That's not actually how it looks, btw.) Who am I kidding?
And the end result is, of course, that you can listen to my music and look at my pictures and read things I write. Not to be morbid, again, but part of my excessivity is that I think of this as though I'm going to make a presentation at my funeral. I'll have a card table set up with the things that I've created. Stuff don't mean shit. I don't care so much about the guitars, the turntables, the computers. I care about artwork that contains memories, sounds that contain feelings, and words that represent the things I've learned. I even feel like I'm getting sappy at myself some times, or that I'm focused on strange shit. But, what have I got to focus on? My photos, my music, and my words are the collective representation of what my friends and family mean to me. They represent the common ground of spirituality I've found with my environment, be it happy or angry, god-fearing or quasi-scientific. They represent - how I'd like to present things ...
And, in the infinite loop, how well that story comes across is how well I tell it at my funeral party. How well that funeral party goes will depend on the success of my presentation. And the presentation is what I'm working on every day right now, including working on this fucking programming shit.
on (release) {
gotoAndStop(3);
getURL("http:/(2:39am).com"; "_self");
}
whatever ...
It started with a quick trip in a low-rider, feelin’ the I-5 on the way to Sea-Tac. Before that, there was low-intensity packing. Over the years, I’ve determined that it’s better to take less luggage. So, over these same years, the number of suitcases taken traveling has decreased substantially. I made it down to one this time – my camera case, with extra boxer shorts stashed inside. Since I planned on stealing my little brother’s socks, there was no need for anything else. And since I always wear the same clothes anyway, once again, there was no need to bring any others. Heading to Michigan for a few days? Bring your camera.
The airport. I like trying to stand up straight without holding on to the poles on the ShuttleTrain from Concourse “whatever” to Concourse “whatotherever,” when they say you’re supposed to. I look at the dark tunnel ahead and try to gauge which way to lean. It’s a very *ch’i experience.
Planes make my neck hurt. They make us as uncomfortable as possible. They are for people who are much taller or much shorter. And there was some ad for this deal that inflates and lets you sleep falling forward. It’s big and blue and plastic. They sell it through the “skymall.” 1800SKYMALL.
Sea-Tac to SomeWhereInMinnesota. Tried reading something, I think; mostly NeckAche slumber. Minnesota. Few minutes of layover. Minnesota/Detroit. Family of kids behind us kicking and screaming. Leave the children behind, folks. More Slumber. Trying to read about the “Basic of Social Research.” Didn’t make it too far.
Detroit/Flint. Hit up the PuddleJumper. Little TruboProp deal. The best thing about flying into Flint, MI – Bishop airport. It’s tiny; it only has one runway. They call it international – goes into Canada. Riiiiiiiight.
I remember the time I came back to Flint after getting back from FuckingWestPac – that lovely 10-month ordeal. Somehow the newspeople found out I was coming in; they weren’t there right when I got off of the plane. But—this chic and her CameraCaddies show up a few minutes later. “So, how does it feeeeeeel to be back?” Fuck off, woman. I had my army shirt on. “You know,” she said, “I was in the Army …” Riiiiiight ….
This memory comes back walking into the purple, teal, and light blue mod fashion of the aeropuerto.
Well, I called my grandma from D-town, asked her to pick me up at 10:50. She said she’d come get me at 11. She didn’t want to park in the lot. She didn’t want to turn left out of the lot, too many cars. So she turned right. On the way back to the house, I was able to tell stories every mile or so, talking about landmarks, who lived here, what they had to do with me, what they had to do with people that I knew, people my parents knew, etc. Because, you see, growing up in a small town, I guess that’s really the main thing I have – stories. There’s really not much to do in Swartz Creek, Michigan. So, after living there for 14.5 out of my first 16 years, I have a lot of stories about houses, pieces of land, new buildings, old stores, bars on the corners, and where to find all of my old high school friends.
It just so happened that I’d come back home on HomeTown Days …
(to be continued … )
So the saga, for sure, continues of the trip home, and, guaranteed, stories and useless anecdotes are on the way. But I have more of a purpose today.
I woke up this morning, wandered around, ate some Life cereal, took my JuicePlus, and began hurtling myself at a project. Occasionally, I get these random whims of focus and vicious intent. Today it was about music. Synthesized music, that lovely stuff. So, from 11 o'clock this morning until 11 o'clock this evening, minus a short trip to QFC to pick up some organic split pea soup, I was sitting inside a pair of headphones, pointing, clicking, and imagining myself into the luckless world of HomeProduction. This is what came out of it.
www.artisticengineer.com/rhicks/Music/rift.mp3
Now, for real, those of you with time to spare for 3 minutes or so, take a moment to listen to the music, and I'll take you on a quick synoptic view of what the people with too much time on their hands do - to use up that time - or - something like that.
This one started with a guitar riff. On the high e-string of my black acoustic, I've been playing this single-string riff for who knows how long. I translated it onto this computer production program, Reason, and went from there. The first thing you hear in the song is as close of a reproduction as I could to how that riff sounds on my electric guitar, thrown through standard distortion on a little 15-watt Fender amp.
Now, the drums stem from inspiration from good old Rich in NorCal. He told me once that he didn't like straight trance beats. And the speed of the song? I started DJing at about 130bpm, moved up to 135 for a while, and now am sitting sort of on about 139. "Rift" is at 139, but it doesn't really feel like it because of Rich's slightly bent if not broken beat.
I've had a shit balls time trying to get any kind of bass out of this fucking computer, but after more than six months of screwing about, I got ahold of that deep drone you hear in the background. It's called "superstrings" or some shit.
So you hear the main riff, drums, and that high off beat things for awhile. I'm trying to expand the spectrum of sound, and I come up with a single high repeated note, syncopated for fun and profit, right? The bass drones come in, and then that smidge of piano type sound. What can I say, I played the piano for years in elementary school. I feel the need for some type of classical melody. Well, I stuck one in there. Along with that melody line from the strings in the background that sounds a little out of place. But - it serves its purpose.
Sooner or later, there the hard lead; it sort of function like a trombone in a band, countermelody type shit. Then there's another string section up top playing counterpoint over the other stuff. I put some of it slightly out of key to add some interesting resonance during the buildup. Oh, yes, what techno song would be techno without the buildup. That's one problem I have making music. I get bored spinning records that take too long to develop their ideas, so my songs typically have one main functional part. When I get good enough, I should be able to just smash my ideas together one after the other without feeling like I'm boring anyone who might be listening.
So, I guess the whole point of this song, like most of my others, is about tension and release.
If you've got the time, read this next part while the music is going on:
I step off of a bus. I turn to my left and start walking. I don't have anywhere in particular to go. It's an angry journey, stomping down a city street. I'm looking at my feet, watching the lines in the sidewalk pass underneath. Seeing the shadows of people passing by me going the other direction. Every once in a while I look up to see the sky; check out the clouds, few and far between on a clear day. Random ideas compound in my head, layering over each other, mixing and matching with the sidewalk, with the sky, the clouds. I start coming to the conclusion, once again, that everything is connected but essentially has no purpose. It's all very frustrating. But even through this frustration, everything I see and everything I think; they all resolve with each other eventually. In the end, though the tension has resolved, I know it will all come back next time I start thinking about things again.
Walked 3.27 miles today to go to a pool party. Down Meridian, down Northgate, a “slight left” on Lake City Way, left on 137th, right on 32nd. Enter the ClockTowers. Found the cats sitting on towels and chairs by the pool in the back. Eyebrows raise a smidge seeing seven girls in bikinis, no males in sight. End up talking to OldBoy Matt (who arrives before too long), says he’s got a few publications in Rolling Stone, writing about anarchists from Portland. Talk about digital photography. Older people in this crowd. Untying bathing suits to avoid getting tan lines. Trying to decided what they look like, but all I see are whiteboard cutouts of people. This is turning into a theme. Swap stories about college and work, etc. Feet are burning on cement under Australian bathing suit. (I still remember the day I bought it in Perth. Same day I bought these ankle socks that are much to small now.)
Eventually get in pool; bathwater warm, 5’ deep. Four of the girls are playing chicken, threatening pulling tops off, smacking and splashing water at each other. I am concentrating keeping pool water out of my contacts. Rolling Stone is picking teams.
Her Apt. is almost identical to mine, construction and materials, just minus one bedroom and bathroom. And the view. I’m up high; paranoia sticks me up there. She is down low; has a pleasant view of rocks.
Time goes on; turns out Rolling Stone has Lebanese hash. (Like, the prescription kind, fer sure.) Harsh, take lightly. Spend next hour feeling weird, struggling. Get picked up, run away. Got some sun. It only took me an hour to walk the 3.27 miles. Going at a pretty good clip. Was walking while eating an apple. Dust and grime from the roads would occasionally smear on apple surface. (Shrugging). Additional protein, I suppose.
Dirty breaks at the Pike this evening. Tried dancing; pretty futile. Pretty faded today. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up before noon. Strange, tense dreams have been plaguing me.
Sitting on the roof in downtown Seattle. The sun sets. The newly-graduated cuisine class was milling around, drinking beer, eating sushi and brownies … An Asian in a hot pink top, Saki, was wandering aimlessly, squatting randomly and looking underneath the food serving table. Djzheee’na was wearing a picnic table; she was there with her boyfriend who makes sooooooongs based on math, like, base-16 or whatever. That’s what I think about when I’m listening to music. Math.
There’s the chubby drunk girl, the picnic table, the songster, some old people, the tattooed guy, the hot pink Asian, and others. Randomly, people would spill things and then pick them up without looking. Where in the shit was I?! Beer dribbled down a plastic table. Hot Pink was over in a chair in the corner, back facing me. I watched her turn her head and tip a glass of beer (?) on her lap. She looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching. Mmm hmmm... Just me ... She spent the next hour wiping off her jeans with paper towels.
It all reminded me of a fungi night several years back. "Greg, dude, you’re sweatshirt’s on backwards, man ""
"It is not! Look at the hood! The hood is in the back!"
"Dude, what’r you doin?" "Dude, I don’t know."
There were dinosaurs roaming around on the carpet. People were walking on the ceiling. A Jehova’s Witness had her eyes crossed. Madness ensued …
Ah, the fond memories "
Well, hiking tomorrow, sleep calls ...
Woke up; morning. 6:31am. Visit the mirror. Large, lovely blue circles under eyes. Mmmm. Grumpy. 7:05am. Begin the car ride to Rattlesnake Lake. Joining the Genie team for a morning of hiking. Sounds like fun. Get there early. Left before traffic started; hence, got there 45 minutes early. Sleep in the car.
Hike up the hill. Step by step, pushing feet over gravel and tree roots, dirt and pieces of ferns. At the top, beautiful view of the surrounding area. Took about 45 minutes to get up here. Rocks underneath are too uncomfortable for the dogs to lay on. Take some pictures through the haze; wide angle, to capture the majesty of the area. Green and blue, red tints and the sunshine.
The way back down hurt the knees a little. Jerking motion fighting against gravity struck chords among already destructed cartilage. Damn sports during YouthTime.
Hit the bar, visit the GM who is my old bartender. He comps us the price for the MacNJax, recommends the crab dip (not like the Navy kind) and the TJ burger. Excellent stuff.
Coma hits back at the apt. Phone calls to determine the excitement for the evening. End up at Toi for dinner+drinks. Me n' my UnAware partner in crime talk school; she gives us a bitchin' discount.
Music is slow and chillin'; enter the DJs. Nice music this evening; not too loud. New remixes of old stuff.
I am baffled, somehow. "Did you cut your hair?" "Gee, I didn't recognize you." "The nose ring tipped me off." "You take photos, right?"
Dance dance dance and drink go the NotQuite-21-year olds. I swear as I get older they get littler. And arrogant little bastards, they drink in the open, RumNCoke, arguing against my $10 black opal.
Down further, the discussion turns to noodles with cowboy hats and picnic table handkerchiefs. On their horses, they round up the curly pasta that's runnin' amongst the tumbleweed.
It's abbreviated beyond me. There are no more universals. It's all a sham.
The guy sitting next to me exhaled a cloud of dark, hazy pot smoke. Wait a minute, why is this guy smoking pot in a classroom? And why is it so dark in here? Mother-fucker, when did I fall asleep?
"And so, if you're really a true deontologist, if a guy was chasing another guy with a pistol, and you saw the guy running away run a certain way, and the guy with the pistol asked you which way the running guy ran, would you have to tell the truth then?"
"Well, if you were a real deontologist, yes ... "
Wait a minute. That doesn't sound right. {Raise my hand} "Can't you just say 'I don't want to tell you which way the guy ran?' Isn't that still the truth?"
{momentary lapse} {i felt like i made that last statement through clenched teeth; it sounded all gruffely, like my jaw is locked shut} {class is quiet} {did i saw that at an appropriate time?}
"haha ha. that's a good one, huh ?" mumble mumble teacher says "slippery ... "
dozing, dozing ...
I feel like I'm backing into this whole ethics thing a little bit. Have any of these cocksmokers written anything, ever? And for whom? My whole time was a big sham; biggest and best thing I learned was not to compare my experience to any others, not to assume I was ever right about anything, and that if I'm ever going to feel successful, I'll have to run my own show and not be edited down by either some shithead mission statement or some politically correct weenie who doesn't have one. I will fail miserably on my own terms, thanks. And I won't compare myself to anyone else. Journalism need not be a relative career. I will choose mine to be functional. I will choose to withhold names pending facts. I will choose end results over someone else's idea of morality. I can and I will pick my own base values.
{The class laughs ... }
This school thing is a bit rabid. I get bit by this squirrel and I'm trippin', like, I have to sit down at this fucking half-desk and listen to gibberish. This girl in the back of the room makes the teacher's throat twitch uncontrollably. He's so mellow until she starts talking. About Rand and shit. Wouldn't these philosophers be more timeless if we quit using their names and just started listening to their wisdom. Lotta smart people out there; why not do the deeds as opposed to setting their diatribes up against each other for the purpose of justifying why we're right and someone else is wrong. Can't it be left unsaid that "there are no right answers, just answers; and you need to back them up." No fucking shit. I need to pay your salary to have you tell me this!?
Meeting some cats for lunch; headed to the bookstore. Saw the bookstore. But yes, I turned the other way down the street trying to get there. Why on earth am I so unaware sometimes? Ended up in a back alley, confused, in front of a bank. Banks do not sell books.
Six books I had to buy for this history class. Six! Books about war and immigrants and stuff. Autobiographies about Nam. Cheers ...
Temporary discussion hit today about the military; classic topic over wine and weed, yes?; so I question this chicky if she believes in mandatory military service. Though buzzed, she is cautious with her answer, comes out very neutral, says she doesn't support the military, but she supports "us" (the vets, eh).
Wouldn't it be *interesting, says I to myself though, if every US citizen had mandatory military service. Might be two years, a year, six months, maybe just Boot Camp. How 'bout if everybody just got the shit kicked out of them, all of their things taken away from them, and their hair cut to a buzz when they turned 18? Sounds like a good idea to me. Then maybe people would appreciate the concept of the military just a smidge better. Not that it's a good thing, the military, that is, just that it's a thing, and it is, a thing, that is.
Then maybe we could all sing songs round the fireplace about how our drill instructors made us swim like sharks on a tile floor until the weak one puked. Know the best thing about that exercise? The person who pukes first has to go grab a mop and clean it up. Maybe we could tell stories about the gas chamber exercise. It's one of my favorite stories. I did some serious deep breathing exercises and put on my FocusFace before I took that mask off. No one, and I mean no one, was going to be left in that room by the time I gave up. I was going to be the last one, I was gonna be the ToughGuy, spitting phlegm and leaking from my eyes, doing jumping jacks in a room full of poison. That was one of my very few true accomplishments. To bad it wasn't mandatory, right? Could've been eight million more people in that room for me to beat out. I was temporarily blinded from the gas by the time an RDC came and got me out from that chamber. He dragged me over some direction, said, "go toward the water, do not touch the water." Sunlight; I hear people coughing, hack hack hack ... I still couldn't see by the time I got put up on some stage, 112-lb 19-yrold punkass ... I think I got some certificate for that. Don't remember.
Maybe that gas, whatever it was, got into my brain too far. Made me think that I don't have to be a deontologist; made me think I can maybe choose my actions based on a moral code I decide on. Maybe I can be something nameless; something with a cause instead of a label.
Lots of maybes tonight ... I should ask that guy next to me in class for a hit tomorrow ...
I've run into a bit of a situation, see. What do you think?
There is the "media," there are "ethics," and there are "media ethics." Media deals with communication, ethics deal with themselves, and media ethics are where the two meet. Now, my class was given an exercise as follows:
You have pictures A, B, and C. You are the editor of a local newspaper. Do you print these photos, and what is your *philosophical reasoning behind your choices, as in, by what ethical standards did you make these decisions? You have fifteen minutes to discuss among small groups, and then you need to present what you've decided on.
Now hold on one cotton-pickin' minute, here ... Something doesn't feel right about this ...
From the beginning. Being the editor of a paper does not involve pictures A, B, and C. Being the editor of a paper involves pictures A through M (including decisions about cropping and placement), the stories that go with these pictures, the quality of the pictures, the quality of the printer and newspaper used, the deadlines involved, the day of the week, if you publish daily, who the major audience is, and who the sponsor is, among many other factors. Being the editor of a paper means submitting to a publisher, submitting to a printing company, and submitting to advertising (god help us all). It means fighting with reporters' egos, broken machinery, and interdepartmental tension. Where, I ask myself, do "ethics" come along? The way I see it is if I'm the editor of a paper, "ethical" questions answer themselves, I don't have anything to do with them. My decisions are based on ink, font-size, and number of pages.
Pictures A, B, and C, huh? Well, ethically I would print picture A on the front page, in brilliant color, with no story attached. That would be ethical. But hey, I have to consider the cost of ink, and I should probably maintain in interest in keeping my job.
--------------
Oh, it feels like such an honorable question: Should I print, in my newspaper, a photo of two grieving parents who minutes ago were informed that their son was decapitated? Should I print, in my newspaper, the photo of a face of a six-year old girl who was so badly burned her nose and ears melted off? Should I? Should I?
In the editing position, is that decision really up to me? Am I *allowed to be ethical? That, to me, seems to be more the question than "would you run the photos or not?"
Because, semantically, "media ethics" involves "media." That means there is paper; or there are words that vibrate in the air and take up time; or there is a physical stuff by which communication occurs. "Ethics," fortunately or otherwise, are substanceless. Whether they are my ethics or someone else's, I cannot touch them, cannot grab and twist them, cannot eat them, cannot cover myself up with them at night to be warm.
Now, what happens when I try to mix "media" with "ethics." Well gee, I guess I can't. Ethics are luminiferous ether, imaginary; they are tools by which decisions can be made; as in - ethics are only ethics when they are nothing but ethics. You can't mix and match. Every combination of ethics with a physical substance results in a corruption of the purity of those original substanceless entities. So why bother calling some monstrous creation "media ethics" at all? Why not just call it, oh, maybe - "journalism?" Hold on; hot damn, that's what they call it *anyway ...
-------------------------
I am wondering when people are just going to admit that credibility in terms of the written word is a phantasm. When is someone going to stand up and say, "there is a significant chance that the words I've written are incorrect, so please read them for the ideas they present; don't read them as facts. Please, read them as tools for you to use to better your life. Please, if my words are ignorant, learn to justify the opposite. Please, if my words contain wisdom, verify their meaning in your own life. Please, if my words are blasphemy, burn the paper upon which they are written and pray over the ashes for my heathen soul."
Why give off the pretense of writing words as facts? Isn't pretention unethical? Or is that immoral? Are they the same thing? Am I back to semantics again? Does "media morality" work as a catch-phrase, too?
These, to me, are all real-world examples of journalism vs. ethics. "Would you run these photos or not?" sounds to me more like a big can of horseshit, covered over with yesterdays copy of "The New York Times," thinly disguised as a college-level course in How-To-Be-Like-Everyone-Else-Already-Is.