I & I

^ traces of a project we did recently at SDaS.

Hellohi.

Over this here Thxgiving break, all my housemates have left town to go see family, & I've had La Casa all to myself! Well, sort of to myself. I've had my best friend w/ me th whole time, my wee beagler Sophie. Also, I've had ten cluckers in th shed to go visit - egg-laying chickens who need feed & water. I choose to eat eggs from our chickens (but still not from any others), since I believe they live well; but w/ no one else around, th eggs accumulate & wait. Still, I've done my part & made eggs for most of my meals this week. I figure, some fat, protein & cholesterol could only do me good. My body doesn't seem to mind.

Th week started off wonderfully, as our friend Beth hosted a Composition Intensive at her house that went from Sunday at noon to Monday night. This involved people coming over, grabbing a pillow, a chair, a bedroom, what have you, & working on something in th company of others working on their own things. Then, at certain intervals, we'd take a break from working to "check in" w/ everyone else. We'd give updates on what we did & set goals for th next chunk of time. I especially enjoyed check-ins because we would use Skype to call other people scattered over th country who wanted to get in on this long-distance. You can see traces of what this project looked like here.

My friends Anna & Michael had me over Wednesday & Thursday to play games. So for two nights in a row, we pulled out Killer Bunnies & th Quest for th Magic Carrot, an old favorite of mine that I haven't hardly played since I lived in Troy, NY. Also, Catch Phrase went over well, as it tends to do. Anna expressed an interest in playing "socially relevant games" (as opposed to these "socially irrelevant games" I guess). Altho I don't think we have a clear idea of what that means yet, I share that interest & want to help organize a different sort of game night in th near future.

I've spent my late evenings blasting German operas on th living room stereo system while sipping bourbon.

I've also done quite a bit of reading about cybernetics this week, in particular th cybernetics of cybernetics, or second-order cybernetics (where you apply cybernetics to cybernetics itself). Says Ranulph Glanville on this:

"What characterises the Cybernetics of Cybernetics is the inclusion of the agent that is determining the system under consideration. It is the insistence that observation needs an observer and that any account that pretends otherwise is essentially in error. It is the insistence that there is (inter)action, that there are processes and that we are involved with and in our processes. It is the insistence that there is no thinking without the thinker and that there is no thinking without thinking."

~Ranulph Glanville, in his paper "Chasing the Blame"

I like all this & want to do more w/ it. I recommend that paper, if you'd like a fascinating read. Indeed, do call me up for a chat, if you'd like to have one, about cybernetics, or about anything.

Which reminds me: VerizonWireless has turned off my cell phone. Probably because I haven't paid them in months. Anyway, I do have a landline, & if you'd like to call it, do!

La Casa Landline: (217)365-9496.

By th way, we have a bunch of wet clumpy snow on th ground! Hooray!

I think I want to go out for some coffee & spend some more time w/ my books. Anyway, much love to all. I desire recurrent interaction w/ you.

Andrew + Cumbus @ UnTwelve

On July 31, 2008, I played a benefit concert for UnTwelve, a new non-profit dedicated to performance & advocacy of microtonal music! Other self-described microtonalists involved included Aaron Krister Johnson, Jacob Barton, Aaron Andrew Hunt & Christopher Bailey.

I mention this because you can now viddy a set of YouTube videos from th event. Just do a search for "UnTwelve" & you find (as I write this) 7 microtonal performances.

Including this one:


I actually call this song what do windows, an automatic title taken from th first three words. Th text comes from my Book of Days project; I wrote th text on One Caneplant on th Mayan calendar -- in this case, May 29, 2008. Each line has some connection to events that I perceived (created) on that day (altho now I can only guess what I might have originally meant).

what do windows tell me stalking?
aping a cable & keys
don't want to trip this bumping
animalperson & new tombs
tightbumping darkstreet
drippingsmog & soupsmell
automated I: vacant, green
Diaspora foodfightfeet
you, Ghost, redheading me
gulling my agesfeet
Belonging notes in Faces Of Europe
a patter on my flippy sole
resolved to drain past futures

I perform(ed) what do windows on th Cümbüş, playing a scale I call B led, a mode of th neutral scale, a MOS subset of 17 equal divisions of an octave. It has seven notes, which we can identify in Sagittal Microtonal Notation as: B C-up D E F-up G-up A (B). In terms of adjacents steps (in 17ths of an octave), it goes: 2 2 3 2 3 2 3. You'd sing this scale in my system of 17edo solfege like this: do ru me fa se lu te (do).

Cheers!

Popcorn Jam

When I say Popcorn Jam, I refer to an event of improvised music coupled w/ tasty popcorn popping nearby for happy consumption. You know that feeling you get when th popcorn is popping? That anticipation? We groove w/ our anticipation, make it our lover. Et cetera. Below: one minute from a typical atypical Popcorn Jam, featuring J.P. Goguen on banjo, Jacob Barton on udderbot (actually, in this instance, condombot) & me on toy piano:

nowish then

Hi hi hi hi hi.

I postaway to youtosee, you see? Sohi hi hi hi & say & one I say hi.

Hm. I livebreathe(etc) in Urbana, IL (I know that already!). Our house has five new chickens as of yesterday (total equals ten).

I have projects begun & notbegun. It grins me to tell you that I don't know.

What can I say to you?

Jacob & I played Ultima this very evening. Last night, we plus Annamichael played also Go.

What else?

Th students & friends of th School for Designing a Society have a wiki that they(we) like to play in called polyproject. Some traces of my work & doings you can find there (if you want to stalk me & this blog doesn't cut th mustard these days); see especially AndR.

Also, my school has a blog.

These days, you might find me:

• participating in a popcorn jam (improvised music plus popcorn, ritualized).
  
• walking my beagle.
  
• taking lots of notes on lots of conversations.
  
• writing performance instructions on index cards.
  
• wrangling chickens.
  
• wearing skirts about town.
  
• reading cybernetics.
  
• wearing my heart on my sleeve.
  
• wishing I wore my heart on my sleeve.
  
• getting potatoes thrown at me.
  
• poking around on my keyboard in 17edo.
  
• rehearsing in a 3-man protoband (or a fledgling udderbot choir).
  
• etc.

Espresso Royale, weeds, MOS Cradle, & th Oxford comma

I got out to an open mic last night at a place called Espresso Royale! Had some fun, met some good folks who seemed to enjoy my tunes of vegetables, fish, etc. Hooray!

W/ my housemate JP, I spent a good long time weeding our giant garden today. I never understood th joy of weeding, but oh boy! I get it now!

I just created a page on Jacob's xenharmonic wiki describing a new way of developing scales that I discovered! Microtonal-types, do check it: MOS Cradle.
~a

brüningnoon

I've spent my afternoon at th Herbert Brün House a.k.a. th Parkhouse, where I sometimes work to digitize old reel-to-reel recordings in th collection of Herbert Brün, a founding thinker of th School for Designing a Society. I sit amidst not only his experimental music compositions (temporarily trapped in analog), but also his words. On th shelf sit several books that he wrote, which th Herbert Brün Society (my teachers & friends) disseminate.

As I work, I sneak little peeks into his book my words and where i want them; so, while I have temporary access to this little wonder, let me take a moment (off th clock, don't worry) to share some bits w/ you. I haven't gotten too far into it, but I do already have favorite bits:

2

I consider words innocent until proven guilty. Once they are proven guilty, however, I consider their meaning to be irredeemable. Thus words form the limits of personal freedom. While I may be free to express my thoughts in a free society, the words at my disposal may not be free at all. Ignorance of this fact is what turns the thoughts of free people into the thoughts of slaves.


7

As long as we do not claim the knowledge of absolute truth, and while believers can not but make liars, listeners make storytellers tell stories and make composers compose music.
And they know it.


8

All I am is not objective.
All I am is said by an observer.
I am said observer's all.
My observer: is it observing me
or is it I observing
or is it I observing me
and does it say what it observed
or am I my observer's language?


15

Belief turns everything into lies, even the truth itself.

Many people intend to lie occasionally. However, even the best intentions and the finest diction can not turn a statement into a lie unless a believer can be found. No believers - no liars. And the inverse, astonishingly, also says what I want it to say.


20

Instead of
finding ourselves
in yesterday's future we
find ourselves in tomorrow's
past.
We cannot afford what
we want today
because of
those who can't buy it and
therefore don't want it.
What is it?


21

Today's daily discourse is the punishment for our obedience to our society's daily orders.


30

The law which you don't break will break you.
The language which you don't speak will speak you.

Th book contains a total of 387 bits. I look forward to more bafflement.

22-tone guitar, a project begun

I yanked th frets off my Fender Stratocaster this week & started tying wires on to serve as new frets for a new tuning (!!): 22 equal divisions of th octave. Th wire frets buzz, break, & shift position when I don't want them to, but otherwise, I feel very pleased w/ how this project has turned out so far! I have started formulating plans for a multi-movement something-or-other to come.

Pix: a pile of frets on my bedroom floor:


Some frets on, some frets off:


A closeup of th neck. You can see dark slots where th original frets used to sit:


Th body of th guitar, w/ decorations left over from when th instrument belonged to teenage Andrew Heathwaite:

Why 22?

I like 22edo because it fits somewhere between very familiar & very strange. You can get some familiar sounds, eg. major chords (w/ more restful-sounding thirds, as 22edo thirds fall closer to th just third of 5:4). But you cannot build a direct analogue to a 12edo major scale. If you try to build a major scale w/ a circle of fifths, you get this:

0 4 8 9 13 17 21 0

Th third in this scale, at 8 degrees of 22, sounds much higher, brighter, than 12edo thirds. In fact, it sounds more like th septimal supermajor third, 9:7, which falls 35% of a half step (35 cents) above a 12edo major third. (That means 435 cents, instead of 400 cents.) This sounds very different & ear-bending.

Th 22edo major third, which comes much closer to 12edo & just, comes at th 7th degree, rather than th 8th (one degree below th supermajor third). It comes closer to just than 12edo does, which, as previously mentioned, makes it sound more restful. But, if we use it in our scale, look what happens:

0 4 7...

See how th major third gets sliced into two differently-sized intervals, a 4 degree interval & a 3 degree interval? That means that we effectively have two different major seconds to play around w/. That sounds odd to those of us accustomed to 12edo, where we have only one major second, but in just intonation, this kind of thing comes up frequently. Some other microtonal scales do what 12edo does, make those two different major seconds th same size. But 22edo does not.

This means that you can't build chord progressions in th same way. It forces you to do something xenharmonic. & that rocks.

22edo has other intervals that do get represented w/ th same step. Th 3 degree step, for example, can function as 10:9, 11:10, & 12:11 for example, which in just intonation would all sound a little different. In this way, it takes a complicated system & makes it simpler. But in a completely different way than 12edo does.

I could go on & on, but it will make even less sense to th uninitiated (& I have to leave soon for class!). But I'll give a few more reasons why I love 22edo.

• It contains 11edo, another wonderful scale!
  
• It contains several interesting moment-of-symmetry scales, including Orwell & Porcupine temperament.
  
• It demands smaller frets, but I still find them manageable. (A tuning w/ more notes might feel more awkward to play).
  
• It contains approximations of a few delightful higher-level JI intervals: 7:6, 11:8, 20:11.
  
• It has a bit of a following in th microtonal world. By writing music for this tuning, I would automatically have people interested in hearing it & playing it. Indeed, some 22edo guitars already exist (& most of them probably have real frets).
  
• It cannot play music conceived in 12edo!

I don't go for th "one true tuning" or "one new standard to replace th one old standard." I still love, for example, 17edo, & plan to continue writing & performing w/ it on th cumbus. I would like to invite other tunings into my life as well: Bohlen-Pierce, 14edo, 15edo, & eventually 31edo, for example. But 22edo calls to me now, so I answer.

run-down of a week of newnesses

Updateagain.
Hi. I have had a week of newnesses & I will report on things as they have gone.

Monday - an open house for th School (Jacob suggests "a school," as surely other "schools for designing (a) societ(y/ies)" exist(s)). Instead of describing SDaS, Susan Parenti (w/ accordion interludes) described eight predecessors, showing th threads of art, cybernetics, sociology, etc. that went into this latest weaving. People generally schmoozed. I forgot several Korean names (all of which I have since learned well).

Tuesday - "A School! Uncertainty!" wrote I in my class notes. Indeed, th willingness to accept uncertainty - indeed, to encourage it to organically enter th space & allow us some divine Chaos to begin from - we take as a starting point (Discordian flavor mine). "TRUE FALSE TEMPORARY" wrote I also - a fine reminder. Each false statement contains a seed of potential. We can make th false true. We began a study of theatre in designing a society & gestures - what do our gestures say about us? Synthesis! Estrangement! We reconvened for a shared dinner at Danielle Chenoweth's house & did more schmoozing.

Wednesday - I & three of my housemates spent th morning w/ th Prairie Monk, a local legend 1000% devoted to restoring th prairies that used to thrive in this area. He came from Australia decades ago to study them, but none remained! So he has a foundation, & he has taken to hiring folks like us to visit his prairie & pick seeds - in this case, th seeds of th New Jersey Tea plant - to use for replanting prairies. So we followed Dave Monk around as he showed us dozen of local landmarks & a few tiny prairies, & we picked seeds for 2 hours. Not bad work!

In class we discussed CHOICE. Not a small undertaking! Words like "alternative", "decision", & "criteria" look very different to me now. We had some rather tense discussion about what "best alternative" & "best decision" might possibly mean. (I could get into some of th interpersonal craziness going on w/ classmates & opinions, but I best not). After a much-needed break, we did some breathing & focus exercises (Zip Zap Zop; Dibby Dibby Dip - Dip Dip Dip; Zip Zap Boing). We wrote wee bits of dialogue in which th first three lines do not appear to have any connection - BUT - th fourth line makes a connection possible. Classmate Jian & I wrote this one:

A: We've been walking in circles all day.
B: I am hungry.
A: Penguins sure are silly-looking
B: Let's come back to th zoo next weekend.

We had a lengthy house meeting at La Casa, th co-op I now live at. We got a few things accomplished. I feel good about th people I live w/ & how things have worked out so far.

Thursday - change of topic, change of teacher. A class called "Political Economy." We picked apart th concepts of "capitalism" & "property" for a good long while. Susan wonders how we can have business w/o monsters (WalMart & friends). Much yet to discuss to discuss.

We rehearsed music for a concert yet-to-come: in particular, a piece of Jacob's: "In Something Else," a take-off on Terry Riley's "In C." Folks visited for a run-thru & much beautiful did take place in our very (red) living room.

Friday, yesterday - in class, more discussion of criteria - that which we consult when making decisions. Mark introduced two principle kinds: appointed criteria, that we choose consciously to take into consideration, & inherited criteria, which we cannot choose, because we have grown up w/i a culture that insists on telling us how we ought to make our decisions. We touched briefly on th concept of "problem," & I had a million questions bubbling up, but they will wait. In my notes, I wrote "problem - ???". Problem presents a problem for me.

We presented our work for th week - first, to find & capture common gestures that we see around us. Second, to write a list of false statements that we'd like to become true. By making these desires explicit, we make it possible for us to adopt new criteria when making decisions, & thus to create society (one decision at a time). My list:

False Statements I Want to Become True.

• People, all people, recognize th interconnectedness of all things.
  
• When they need it, every person has a shoulder to cry on.
  
• I always know how to take a joke.
  
• Every day I experience something beautiful & take a moment to appreciate it.
  
• Everyone in this room has hugged everyone else.
  
• All people have enough food to eat.
  
• Animals do not get tortured to provide food for humans.
  
• Whoever wants to can fly into outer space.
  
• I can take any shape I can imagine.
  
• Human beings simply do not kill

I expect I'll revise that list a bit as I go, but anyway, I started w/ that. & that gets me thru my class notes up till now.

That evening, Jacob & I emceed an "Opening Night of Fun" at th Red Herring Coffee House - five hours of eclectic music, poetry, games, coloring, conversation, coffee, exclamation points, & joy! We had pop songs, udderbot, bluegrass, avant-garde guitar, a minimalist jam, a one-man band, xenharmonic keyboard, poetry, Just Intonation song settings, 7-line poetry, dictionary oracle readings, & a LEGO table. I read poems, (including a few in th invented language Great-Ape by Oulipian Jacque Jouet), played Nodal Nim tunes, & attempted to play my Cümbüş songs but broke too many strings (ah well, another time). We had a great turn-out, & generally felt very satisfied about how things went. We look forward to hearing constructive feedback from our classmates & teachers.

Saturday, today - life rolls on. I woke up late, so didn't make it to th farmer's market. SDaS students visited th Parkhouse where Rob Scott had invited us over for painting & "vibes." Indeed, it felt positively vibey. I slapped some colors onto a page & a piece of fabric, then assembled a short poem. We'd have stayed longer, but we wanted to do some more seed-picking. Jacob & I met up w/ Steve (another student) & Michael (a former resident of La Casa) & zippy zapped back to th prairie. Good pickings today, I say.

I took a nap & a bath, & now I report my doings to you. My run-down doesn't capture much at all, I think, but there you have it. I'd love a visit from good friends. Come to my place & meet th strange new people in my world. All things go.

Much lovesacks,
AndR

room house dog bana

In Urbana, I now live, & no where else - in a room & a house - w/ dog & dog - w/ art-doers - whereat pianos get burned on pyres to celebrate anniversaries of birth & livingtogetherness. We have a living room w/ newly-painted redwalls. We make delicious togetherfoods & grand musicks pour out of pores.

Jacob & I have done a bit of playing - on udderbot, he, & also recorder - on stringthings I - at farmer's market for happyfaces - futurized to do a show at Red Herring Coffee House on September 5 (& do come!). We begin classes for School for Designing a Society on th morrow - & today th school holds an "open house" to which we intend to infinitive-splittingly go.

Playing: yes. I continue to write wee 17edo cumbus tunes incorporating Book of Days. One more since moving I have written. Computer troubles keep me from immediately recording, but I want to share when I can share. Jacob & I wish write togetherthings. Perhaps strange collaborative wonders will also emerge.

My beagle loves it here. She got lots of pets from lots of humans at partything last night. So it goes.

I want visitors! Those of you round about Chicago will find it easy to Greyhound or Amtrak to me. Elsewise, you can travel first to Chicago, then down here from there, easy as pi.

Ten thousand lovebuttons,
AndR

she tucks her gown

:
she tucks her gown
upside down w/
flaps pounding nobs
round th corncobs
of mild renown

round th corncobs
hear my sobs sing
it robs daily
mobs of th tree
bearing kabobs

mobs of th tree
state their feelings
a sea popping
eastward raining
peppers rosy

eastward raining
so th king sits
a tingling mass
English kids crass
kick th bubbling

English kids crass
ugly sassing
& raspy throats
asinine notes
fishing for bass

asinine notes
sounding rote stuff
w/ oats & game
goats know yr name
carrying totes

a raspy breath of carbon

.
a raspy breath of carbon
old men in yellow tunics
something makes me think of you

why is it
that carbon
and tunics
bring me once
again to
think of you
and your dog?

I wonder these things
and select a cheese
to go with my bread

the bread is
not the best
kind to eat
but I like
to eat it

prepare the way for a duck
yellow and made of carbon
I have invited him here
to frighten you into an
agreement about the dog

terrible naked
stormy wafts of cheese
your dog's dog tunic
make like a rainbox
or a box of beans
make like a cheese ball
and get out of here

Norbert goes to the beach.

Norbert

- looks up trucks in the phone book, the biggest trucks, trucks so big no one can believe it. Waits ten minutes, thinking about cans. Not big cans, small ones, itty bitty. Turns back to the phone book to look up trucks again. This goes on for quite some time. Meanwhile, Willy -

- deftly removes the following from an egg-colored wallet and sets each item on the lowered platform: a hamburger, a duckburger, three short blown fuses, a book about gnats, a slightly-too-old-to-eat piece of asparagus in a ziplock bag, eleven bits of pencil lead, a glass onion, and two liters of fresh table salt. Nearby, Susanna -

- cups hands for a drink of spring water. Have you seen the flamingos? Have you seen them? Let me know when you have seen the flamingos. I want to know as soon as you have seen them. Bryant -

- laughs a hearty, knowing laugh. All is made of rooster eggs. This is certain. Rondine -

- staples together three sheets of paper, in a most uninteresting fashion, completely boring everyone in sight. In fact, no one is in the least fascinated by this occurance. It is barely even worth mentioning. Yes, I'm quite sure I never should have mentioned it. Instead, I should have told you about Salamander Ludover Stewie, a vacant and hollow man, who -

- with the skilled fingertips of a master programmer, writes code which will enable men and beasts to rise in dancing ecstatic patterns, turn violently around, switch places somewhat awkwardly, and start the whole process again. This comes as some surprise to Reginald, who -

- is not afraid of the polar bear. The rustic ornery guide, with obtuse scrutinous eyebrows -

- is inclined to ask, “What kind of steam boat is that exactly, with parasails, quaint blue shudders, and a shiny green exoskeleton?” Chiming in quite suddenly, Belinda Borogroves -

- raises money to finance an egg salad sandwich the likes of which this zoo has never ever seen before. Shakes hands with babies. Kisses old men. Tangos with semi-famous child actors. Lets loose a wild guttural crocodile peep. A bespectacled blue man in earshot knows something must be quickly to save the day done, so he -

- writes this letter to Congress: Dear Congress, I have been to the zoo. It is made of fine china and eggs, respectively. I do not wish to disturb your slumber, but it is imperative not to clumsily move about while at the zoo. Please let your daughters and sons know about this, that they may tell their daughters and sons, and mine as well. Signed, your favorite doctor of topology. P.S. You are all doing a very nice job with the hedges this year. The response to the letter was swift and plaid. Congresswoman Mary Nobs -

- controls a fleet of invisible llamas. The first llama, accustomed as she is to east Texas gin and tonics, -
- builds a sandcastle for the naked mole rats, putting at the top of each guard tower a small moist black olive. When Wendy Westinghouse comes by, she -

- makes a gritty cup of sewer coffee and serves it in tiny black and white ceramic mugs to the penguins, who then present a short film about the former rainbow color indigo. I've seen the film. It's not very good. Why, just the other day, I was talking to Lenny Q, who -

- walks into a bar and says, a rabbi walks into a bar and says, a priest walks into a bar and says, a Tibetan monk walks into a bar and says, Buddha says, Gandhi says, Wagner says, Dionysus says, Judas says Jesus -

- paints a marvelous epic transcendental apology to the Grand Poop of the zoo, lush and rich and chocolate and darling. It would make a grown birdman weep. The Grand Poop, between agonizing sobs, -

- cooks up a scheme to free all the imprisoned animals one by one, starting, naturally, with the majestic great apes. The plan involves duct tape, time travel, ice cream sandwiches, a tuning fork (A 441) and a trained weasel named Rex. Everything seems to be going just as planned, when suddenly, Rex -

- gets hit square in the crotch by a poison dart. How mysterious! With divine prejudice, Arnold -

- converses with the zedonk, who has this to say, “I have come to the mountain of porridge, I have come from the valley of rye. I am seeking the river of whorage, in this river, I will lie.” “This is so,” says the Queen of Sinks, who -

- coughs into a flaming chalice with dice painted on the sides, winks, blinks, and does 17 push-ups before collapsing. Slightly befuddled, Dr. Ribosome -

- notices a tiny blue spider under the bench, which has this to say: “I am a tiny blue spider under the bench. I have seen many things taking place on this desolate prime afternoon for seeing things taking place. Please do not be afraid. I want to tell you what I did see. The woman over there, Glinda Pageantry, she -

- takes a long, hard, aggressive, and not unerotic sip of purple lemonade before standing up and then sitting down and then doing neither. Watching under cover of a tall fern is Dustin Crowe, who -

- administers aid to a small baby chipmunk that has fallen from a cloud. In due time, Sylvester Oregon -

- is not wearing pants. Distraught, Bonny O'Toole -

- dances for seven dollars by the big cats. This enticing dance lasts well over five hours, and during this time, the lion and two lionesses change position five times. They begin with the first lioness on the left, the second lioness in the middle, and the lion all the way on the right, taking a nap. It doesn't take long for the lionesses to switch positions, putting the second lioness on the left and the first lioness in the middle. When the lion gets to waking, he groggily meanders all the way to the far left, and the second lioness takes his former spot on the right. Again, the lionesses switch positions and the lion stays put. Later, he moves one spot to the right, appearing in the middle for the first time, and the first lioness takes his former place on the left with the second lioness moving all the way to the right. For the final positions, the lion remains in the middle and again the lionesses switch positions, the second one winding up on the far left and the first one winding up on the far right. No one notices this unfolding, except for Dr. Dusty Cloverteen, with her wrought-iron clipboard, hot pink fingernails, and salmon breath, who -

- goes to sleep for 29 years, wakes briefly for a scratch and a glass of water, and continues sleeping until the present time. “Remarkable,” remarks the remarkably Andy, chewing on his leather clasps, which are too tight. “I'll have to mention this to Rubby the Dangerclown, who, at this very moment -

- putts about the house watering the plants, thinking about going to the zoo, but not being able to decide if it's a good idea to leave the plants by themselves. In the next room over, Japheth -

- complains to Professor Albright about a modest anthill which seems to have been established between the cracks in the sidewalk within the past 24 hours. The Professor -

- responds to the events at hand by squawking, howling, muttering, jabbering, jibbering, and dilly-dallying. At first, this seems to all present to be a quite appropriate reaction to the disturbing events which have just taken place, but after about 9 minutes of hullabaloo, everyone becomes annoyed and starts wiggling their fingers anxiously inside their pockets. A man of extreme action, Gerald -

- invents a three-tiered flying saucer made of corrugated cardboard, highly efficient and somewhat innovative, and uses it to travel seven feet to the left, while Latoya -

- wonders aloud, in earshot of the dromedaries, why one hump sags to the right (measured from the unfortunate camel's unfortunate point of view). Theodora, the expert on matters such as these -

- prances in octagonal zig-zags for thirty five minutes, approximately, as Reverend Wind watches, bemused, before declaring, “The Good Lord -

- composes a nine-act opera about Michael Jackson in one long, desolate afternoon, before finishing and wondering, “Where have all the birds gotten off to?” Of course, the birds are still around, but can no longer be seen. Formica Olaf recognizes this. The question he cannot yet answer is this one: What kind thing would? What kind thing would? What kind thing would? Maybe Kristine can answer this. She -

- pushes start before time count enters zero. The general, with sulphuric acid squirt guns protruding from his oily brow, -

- recites erotic Etruscan poetry to three puffins, loudly, and presses face to the glass, tip-tapping fingers and shuffling feet, wiggling and wobbling, lolling and flailing, until a security guard with 86 teeth and a mohawk -

- snaps back at an angry mother snapping turtle, but to no effect. The turtle cavorts and produces from her gnarled shell a longsword, which she proceeds to use in slicing. The enraged turtle, like a percolating tire-iron, -

- returns from the zoo and, on an ancient waterbed decked out with mallard sheets and a ribbed flaccid bodypillow, takes a long nap and has a dream in which the following events take place: A toaster oven on the fritz pontificates. A hairy schoolgirl drives a car.
The number 43 eats a cucumber, but can't finish it. An Olympic swimmer watches re-runs of Leave it to Beaver. A 1980s robot pontificates. A toaster oven on the fritz drives a car. A hairy schoolgirl eats a cucumber, but can't finish it. The number 43 watches re-runs of Leave it to Beaver. An Olympic swimmer pontificates. A 1980s robot drives a car. A toaster oven on the fritz eats a cucumber, but can't finish it. A hairy schoolgirl watches re-runs of Leave it to Beaver. The number 43 pontificates. An Olympic swimmer drives a car. A 1980s robot eats a cucumber, but can't finish it. A toaster oven on the fritz watches re-runs of Leave it to Beaver. A hairy schoolgirl pontificates. The number 43 drives a car. An Olympic swimmer eats a cucumber, but can't finish it. A 1980s robot watches re-runs of Leave it to Beaver. A toaster oven on the fritz -

- listens to mediocre opera recordings slowed down on a broken iPod while smiling at strangers and throwing coins in arbitrary directions. After $7.29 have been ejected from heavy pockets, a nuclear physicist, in broad daylight, -

- only likes ketchup from the little plastic squirt packages. This presents a complicated problem when a sleepy Burger King employee -

- hunts penguins with a fourteen-year-old penguin gun, sneering, and saying things like, “Gar, ya'ugly penguins, yarg and gr and urgl!” A really big and tough penguin named Roger -

- goes to the beach.

she yes port pinioned milked

.
she derives, yes, a keen delivery
dooring my clasping, my drinks, inked
I fated a pond leapingly, duckingly

& one hardvined a princess port

pinioned in sugar, vexing dustcrop dirt

yes, my clasping, she drinks delivery
one duckingly port & a pond
pinioned in sugar, vexing dustcrop dirt

but pinkies milked my drums, drunk

from copters made of lemming heads

port, she duckingly, my delivery pond
milked in pinioned drums, dustcrop drunk
from copters made of lemming heads

yes, for forgetting asunder she shudders

&, once I ran, I electioneered

pinioned duckingly, she in port milked
for lemming shudders, heads asunder, forgetting
& once I ran, I electioneered

I bellowed loud, taking what came

shopping ferociously w/ bulbous meat sticks

milked, pinioned, asunder she shudders for
I taking electioneered what, once loud
shopping ferociously w/ bulbous meat sticks

driving cattle like forks & knives

brilliantly peppering my eye, my dimple

flavor mac and trac

FLAVOR MAC AND TRAC

ONE

Lugging hot peppers and wax and people calling names, the box of salt and stew gave three high fives and went to the store for some rock salt clever and big. It started to rain on the way, the way it would do if you stopped to think about it, and nobody said anything about it, just walked and took cream camera pictures, laughed, and stopped doing all those things. They coughed and struck noon, lunched on gold beans, nothing more today. Nothing more.

A door opened for no reason at all.

Everyone took one cabbage each, one that wasn't really a cabbage, and threw it at other non-cabbage cabbages, gave pork to the doctor to eat, who would then eat it and proclaim angrily things. It's a soup, it's a shirt of pork, a suit of pork, no one stopped it from being pork. The doctor called her mother, her mother called the plumber, and the seven deadly sins called me late for dinner.

“View this ridiculous red,” said Fred to his glove. The doctor made a weapon of her boxes, looked like a canny kind of trumpet. This is where everyone made ducks out of ducklings, in 20 years or so of deep thought.

There was a front door and a side door, and the doctor had made a soda and fizz, or a fizz and giraffe, or a fizz. The doctor and her mother and the man called Fred.

It's time for a picnic. The end is nearly near. My heart is putridly forgetful about things like this, that, and more. More. Sugar, seven men, me, seven men, sugar, sugar, sugar, and me. Seven of them went home with bruised behinds, took pills made of garlic and toffee cod, stood on crates, used their eyes for the last ten seconds of the time, before cutting them with porridges and suit flares. They coughed and hoped no one heard.

TWO

The flavor was red and brown spotted, rectangular and solidly built, with red lips and brown sauces cutting upward and around in flayed engines. It looked to the doctor and such like a gold red hat of cotton moth men belief systems. She stood on clubs and splinters, waited for a cough reset, so she could have a talk with the glove of Fred and Fred's thoughts. Such things were old and green and not enough time was devoted to them.

“Snooky,” said the mother and her two ass-riding cob doggers. “Shut the sans sauce cat, gut the worms, and produce nausea cat planes for clasping!” She did three somersaults in my mind, although not in anyone else's, and I immediately recognized this. That's not important.

The doctor, who was wearing yellow stains of cat, said in reply, “The check is in the mail, the rain is of cheese and cloth, mostly cheesecloth really, and I hate you and all that you touch.” She patted her clasps, which were too tight.

A flayed old cat man, grandfather, sir gauntlet type of creep, old and flayed, stayed quiet for the first few things said, about 20 minutes. He then twirled, but only once, and gave roof-of-mouth blessings at loud intervals. His crack showed its essence and ballooned the dog pile to dust boats, making everyone uncomfortable, but not me, who wasn't even there. It's hard to say if that is important or not, so I will not say.

Golden spaniel chilled a clock of lox bats, threw ducks in the sandwich, which quacked cries of duck doom, polluted the norm. We let go of doctor's head, which was in a clamp of toothpaste and iron. She nodded and stopped nodding, and her mother did not nod.

The doctor's mother waited for everyone to stop moving, which was bound to happen, and then whipped out a red card with sordid concepts, blinked quickly and in mesmeric patterns, cut each of the people present a shot long way with paper, and replied to no one, “The bologna sandwich is stupid. Don't try to weasel out of this. I am short and cupid.” She ducked for hours and no one noticed any longer.

There were sorts of pants I cannot mention.

THREE

Gobs of second cut from grass paper dot the dots of cloth waning the true feelings of my aunt Selma. Selma shines in these matters, like a clucking bar graph, and she waits until no one thinks she's worth anything to give fingers. That's the way with her fingers. Selma is crass and cold sometimes.

The dog and Selma didn't get along. They clubbed a mother's uncle and cried about it, but no one saw crackers. That's the kind of face we were wearing and speaking about at the time, and I'm not ashamed. I died a little heart clock waiter boil, and Selma slipped on dog wire and Tabasco sauce before continuing on her rant and wire hanger business. I was grateful for her head lure.

“Shine black cloths in the Seth weapon,” she said under my breath, “then cup the dog lover's old frog breath mitt sense,” and furthermore, she also said, “good chapping lad friend. Cook and don't cook all of the time.” The time, the time.

The brown, the orange. The bait, the lure. The shed cackle.

I wait and don't think, then Selma comes and gives me marbles, and I roll them down and up, more successfully down, and think about proper etiquette. I am made of half-onions and onion halves. It is not the time to remember the doctor yet. Cummerbund head and cloth tapestry, the axle is black and faced. I eat heads of duck.

Selma is right there, being auntish and peckish and prude, cupping her globs of module staff. I whisk her away for a while.

Antbear Load Dragoon Manager

Planning to leave Chicago tomorrow. Tiffany asked me to delete my files from her computer. So, I've decided to copy-paste some of th more interesting things before they sink into oblivion.

Ant Lizard Dragon Man

lyrics by Scott Marshall, music by him & me:

Ant Lizard Dragon man
On his magic steed
He clings to reigns of barbed wire
hunting terrible tribesmen
he turns his nostrils skyward
justice in rumps and demon dresses
fire-neck bow-tie

hahahahahahahahahahahah

Ant Lizard Dragon man
On his magic steed
His spine is made of wrought iron
hunting terrible tribesmen
Justice in humps and angel messes
Fire-neck Bow-tie

hahahahahahahahah

Antbear Load Dragoon Manager

th same, after I applied th N+7 method:

Antbear Load Dragoon Manager
On his magic steelhead
He clings to reinforcements of barbed wirehair
hunting terrible tribunals
he turns his notchbacks skylarkward
justice in runagates and demurrage dressings
firebase-necrology boxcar

hahahahahahahahahahahah

Antbear Load Dragoon manager
On his magic steelhead
His spinneret is made of wrought iron hard
hunting terrible tribunals
Justice in hunches and angelica tree messiahs
firebase-necrology boxcar

hahahahahahahahah

excerpts from a text message love affair

I to her:

Jubilation! I love loving, inspecting a neck, cradling her, ravishing. I scream Tilly, I note every touch of naked grace, revealing enraptured night.

She to me:

Am now dreaming rivers even when awake, rivers running out noggin heading east. Andrew, take her where an imagination tells everything.

I to her:

Join in, little lassoer! In a nighttime clutch her reality is sharing toes. (I never expected.) Tilly: observe new gems revolve ever namelessly!

She to me:

After nite did return everything was already at rest. One night he enveloped and treated her with an intimate, trembling evolution.

RAW speaks good again.

So I started a new Robert Anton Wilson book & immediately found three paragraphs I never want to live w/o. He has a habit of putting some of th juiciest stuff in his introductions or prefaces. So here we go, from th preface to th 1987 edition (reprinted in th 2000 edition) of Sex, Drugs & Magick:

Mr. A has a headache and is irritable. Ms. B just passed her mathematics test and is happy. Mr. C is worried, irrationally, that the Communists are putting poison in his food. Ms. D is worried, rationally, that she can't pay the rent. Mr. E is so involved in a medical research project showing good results that he elatedly thinks all disease is about to be abolished next Tuesday after lunch. Ms. F is so depressed by a year of losing battles for the rights of farm workers that she thinks the human condition is hopeless and the bad guys always win.

Any one-level theory of objective reality that ignores the separate reality-tunnels in which these people are living existentially has no validity in psychology, and, with a little analysis, it is obvious that no such one-level theory has any general validity in sociology either. To understand human behavior, we have to understand human evaluations (neuro-linguistic programs) and modern social scientists of all schools increasingly recognize that human evaluations (internal reality-tunnels) depend on both the external environment (setting) and the internal environment (neuro-linguistic programs).

You can easily kill yourself with negative mind-sets, by developing ulcers, heart problems, high blood pressure, etc., or by drunken driving, or simply by getting so depressed you jump in front of a train. Conversely, you can survive "objective reality" that would mentally or physically destroy others, if you are maintaining a positive mind-set.

House, Wondermagick, Fives, Etc.

I have a place to live in Urbana:

& a bedroom (note happy beagle):

In a week I move downstate for good (i.e. at least a school semester), & things look just jolly.

Th Law of Fives strikes again, landing in my lap not only an opportunity to play some Nodal Nimly singsonglia, but also to help organize & MC a night of delightful fun inaugurating a series of strange & wonderful shows at a place called th Red Herring Coffeehouse, a vegetarian counter-culture arts&activism wonderland run by Unitarian Universalists (all hail Unitar!). Jacob Barton & I have some marvelous things in th works - music, games, interactive weirdness, special guests, et cetera, et cetera & so on unto infinity! So Urbana-ites (Urbanians?), mark yr calendars immediately; keep open th date known in Western circles as September Five.

How can you afford your life?

So I exchanged a friendly greeting w/ a man on th street today. He probably saw th carabiner dangling from my belt loop holding a good dozen or so keys w/ brightly-colored markers bearing th names of dogs, because he asked me if I am a dog-walker. I said yes, & he asked how I liked it. I said I enjoyed it quite a bit, most of th time. Then, a little tentatively, he asked:

How can you afford your life?

An interesting question. He didn't mean any harm by it - just wanted to know how I could make enough money walking dogs. I said something like this:

Well, my life doesn't cost me that much. I don't feel a need to pursue th whole "middle-class thing" - a house, a garage, a fancy new car - that's not my bag.

He said something empty & agreeable like, "It's nice to live simply," & I said something equally empty & agreeable like, "I think so," & we continued on our ways.

It felt good to express that to someone & realize that I really meant it. I don't need or want any of that stuff. I'd rather live simply. Th freedom to not slave away for "th man" means a lot to me. Sometimes I feel like I've wasted time in Chicago, not using my music education degree, not "going back to school," not working a job that would allow me to save money. (Living paycheck to paycheck does make me crazy sometimes.) But I've pursued my own interests, & I've chosen to reject th common expectation. & I like that.

After that, of course, I thought of plenty of things I might have said. I might have gone on an anti-consumerism slash non-attachment rant like this:

Nobody really needs to live like an aristocrat, man. In order to get all th things our "American Dream" tells us we need to have, we have to work full-time (a crime for anyone to have to do), plugged into a destructive system, just keeping things status quo while we all die of cancer from our pollutants & heart-attacks from our sick sense of so-called "work ethic."

How can I afford to live? I don't know if you realize this, man, but as long as there's a sun in th sky, life is free. Fucking live it.

But I didn't go there. Wisely, perhaps.

a poem for Garfield

You, my dear cat & friend, Garfield Blaze Heathwaite;

You, who seemed to love humans way too much to have any love left for other cats;

You, who made yrself at home on every lap that came into our house;

You, who would attack me completely unprovoked, one time biting my nose as I lay reclined on th floor, talking to a friend on th phone (I screamed into th receiver);

You, who would always land on yr feet (usually after I tossed you);

You, who once disappeared for two weeks w/o a trace, then waltzed back in a little dirty & hungry, but otherwise unfazed;

You, who as a kitten once climbed to th top of th maple tree in our backyard before learning how to climb down (a heroic stranger rescued you by climbing up there w/ a pillowcase to carry you down in);

You, who I once took as th reincarnation of my father, who died of lung cancer shortly before yr birth (I found out later that my mom had th same fantasy - no doubt it helped make our sad little home a little brighter);

You, who gave my mom good company when I would leave for college or Chicago or wherever (nowadays, she has a man around for that job, so you picked a decent time to check out);

You, who'd leave us th sweetest little treats in th most thoughtful places (like th head of a mouse in my bed);

You, who seemed to win most of th catfights you'd pick (& you'd pick a lot of them);

You, who we never would have gotten if you didn't have th right coat-color for us to name you after my then-favorite cartoon character (I've always liked redheads);

You, who somehow managed to bag a chipmunk well after we all figured you too old for hunting (I figured you worked out a deal w/ an equally geriatric chipmunk who wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, no pun on yr middle name intended);

You, who never meowed much, but would coo like a pigeon instead, or simply lip-sync a silent meow when you wanted us to feed you;

You, who, like my grandfather, couldn't see me very well at th end, but seemed to enjoy my company anyway;

You, who lived a good 18 years, but not quite long enough to vote for Obama (but come to think of it - you thought you ruled th world & you liked to pick on creatures too small to defend themselves - so perhaps you would have voted Republican!);

You, who got away w/ everything & never learned not to do a single thing we tried to teach you not to do;

You I will remember.

Garfield passed away two days ago. He weighed a mere six pounds, half his weight a few years ago. He couldn't get nourishment from food anymore, as it would go right thru him. He couldn't see very well, had trouble moving around & let his hair get all matted. His time had come. My mom stayed w/ him when they put him to sleep - first a sedative to relax him, then th poison. She said it happened very fast. I feel like I've said my goodbyes to him several times; every time I would leave town, I figured I might not see him again. Now I won't for sure. I've had him around for well over half my life so far. I'll surely miss him.

meet Skybike.

My friend Bjorn located a bare-bones sky-blue folding bike over th weekend & encouraged me to come by & check it out. Perhaps against my better judgment, I fell in love w/ it.

Skybike

Yes, Skybike drives on clouds, & it speaks to me in some tinkly sky language. I like that. It just doesn't brake very well, & it doesn't fold down as small as my other bike did, nor as quickly. But I find it almost as cute & quite a bit more whimsical & jolly. So it has all that I need, really.

Here you can see us together, happy as skyclams:

I spent $40 to purchase Skybike, but quickly found myself spending another $30 for a new tire, inner tube, & labor. Th mechanic told me that I'll probably need a new chain & some brake work, if I want to continue riding it. But no worries! I like Skybike. I intend to do right by Skybike.

I wonder whether I could get Skybike converted to fixed gear. I wonder whether I want to.

But for now I will continue smilingly Skybiking. Th brakes work decently at low enough speeds (I have but one gear, I should mention), & I don't plan to do anything stupid.

Ahem, Hooray for Skybike!

for urbana, you doozy:

for urbana, you doozy:
how you pique my vox kit.
joy:
i juggle la casa

Chill, Axe! Engdowns Tate!

I would describe th UnTwelve benefit as, ahem, delightfully radically splendidly exuberantly cool. Or something like that. I hope to have YouTube video to share w/ you very soon!

I find myself now in Urbana, in my future home & house, nabbing some computer time & generally chilling out. I've felt just a bit stressed lately, preparing for a gig, hosting my friend Jacob in a tiny & miserable apartment, walking dogs in menacing heat, & failing to not catch a cold. But in Urbana, I can think & nap. & I enjoy both of those activities quite a little bit.

My body doesn't live in Urbana yet, but as of today, a few of my things do. By round about August 22, I will relocate my body as well.

For those of you still in Chicago & interested in catching a bit of Nim in coming days, I've agreed to guest-host at th Wednesday night open mic at Tea Essence! It goes 8-10, & I will surely play a tune or two! 1913 N Milwaukee.

to order tickets for UnTwelve...

Hi again!

If you'd like to order yr tickets online for th UnTwelve benefit concert (coming up this very Thursday!), you can visit http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/38282 & hit th 'begin order' button. Suggested donation: $45. Alternative donation: $15. If you are purchasing th alternative donation, enter the password "microfan" (without quotes) where it says "discount code".

Yr donation will help launch an innovative, ground-breaking organization - th first of its kind in th region.

Very excited about this event & hoping to see you there!

Andrew

UnTwelve benefit concert (I invite you!)

Consider yrself invited to th upcoming

UnTwelve

benefit concert!

a unique concert series and organization devoted to the performance and advocacy of microtonal music

exploring the notes between the notes

benefit concert

a feast for the musical taste buds! enjoy a 30-minute microtonal music tasting followed by wine & cheese/meet the artists

thursday, july 31st
8pm

s.p.a.c.e.
1245 chicago ave.
evanston

featuring:

Jacob Barton
utopian songs with the bizarre and marvelous udderbot

Andrew Heathwaite, a.k.a.Nodal Nim
a quirky set of postmodern chaos-pop songs performed on cümbüş

Aaron Krister Johnson
evocative, spacious and otherworldly choral and keyboard works

Christopher Bailey
continuous effervescent sound installation

$45 admission
phone: 866-811-4111
or go to http://untwelve.org

background

Hi! This concert will astound you, & you should not miss it!

Microtonal music refers to music in alternative tunings, th "notes between th notes" or "in th cracks of th piano". Imagine taking th frets on yr guitar & sliding them to new places. Imagine instead of 12 notes in th octave, 17, or 31! Modern music has gone just about as far as possible w/ 12 notes. But we can go further! As th UnTwelve website puts it: "This universe in the middle of the semitone has enormous potential for expression of new moods and colors, which can be exciting for composers, performers, and audiences alike."

You don't learn about this stuff in universities. When I asked my professors about microtonality, they shrugged it off. They had no idea! But people study this on their own, come together thru th cybercommunity of th internet. They develop their own transcendent systems, &, most important of all, they make their own microtuned music that sounds like nothing else.

But most people don't know about this stuff, & th people that do have what I call a "geography problem". We live all over th world & hardly ever get to unite in person & get our voices heard.

So now UnTwelve comes along, devoted to advocating this stuff & getting it heard! This benefit concert means more microtones, more redefining pitch, more blowing minds, right here in Evanston!

So we invite you! Jump on th purple line, come visit yr neighbors in th north & get involved w/ th future of music.

dollars

Th money UnTwelve raises will help pay for th space for future performances, as well as bring in composers & performers from all over: San Francisco, New York, th middle of nowhere in Tennessee. It goes toward more microtonal music in yr neighborhood. However, if you really want to check this out & can't swing $45, we can get you in on a more economical "student discount." Contact me privately ahead of time, & I can get you on th list for this:

Andrew Heathwaite
gtrpkt (at siggggn!) yahoo (dott!) com
315-657-6839

By th way, this may represent my last show in Chicago before I move! I'd reeealy love to see you there!

Much love & scepters,
Andrew

fun at th WGQILOPGIATUHAEINWOWIBSAVS !

Last night, I had jolly radical fun playing a set of Nim + cumbus at "The Won't Go Quietly Impropriety Lack-of-piety Give it a try-ety Unsobriety High anxiety End-is-nigh-ety Why-oh-why-ety International Bedlam Society Asylum Variety Show" (whew!), splitting a bill w/ house band The Lie of a Pipe Dream, comedian Kendra Stevens, & a number of weird & wacky skits & games! Frivolity exploded from several bits:

• An intense "Adult Spelling Be" which had grown folks spelling words like ithyphallophobia (fear of an erect penis) & Hindenbergs. (Microtonalist friend & good sport Aaron Johnson won a quite charming bouncy ball by correctly spelling th latter word.)
  
• ESPN Twister (I drank th sour apple shot & came in second!).
  
• Poetries, recitations, reenactments.
  
• Nintendo 64 (I & Aaron played a bit of Mortal Kombat, as I recall!).
  
• Slam Haiku (I won a poster!).
  
• Other delightful things that have slipped my mind at th moment.

Th friendly folks running this spectacle do it every Monday night from 8:30 to 11:30 (or so) at U.S. Beer Company, 1801 N. Clybourn, Chicago. They don't slow any signs of stopping, so if you want to get out of th house on a Monday night....

In times past I would try to reassemble my set list for posterity. But no longer! I will tell you this: I played mandolin first, cumbus second, & mandolin third. ...& I improvised a song about drug-addict cats. I enjoyed playing & may go back for more!

smash!

Somebody broke into my car last night. Smashed th passenger-side window, intrigued, I would guess, by th twelve or so CDs I had in there o so shiny & tempting. In addition to some CDs, they took th CD player, &, most sadly to me, they took my new folding bike which I had left in th trunk.

I had left my car overnight on a sidestreet in a not-so-safe neighborhood. Perhaps I should have expected trouble. In retrospect, it would have made sense to hide th CDs & remove th face of th CD player.

It doesn't bother me all that much to lose CDs; I have just a bit less crap to have to lug to Urbana now. I'll miss th CD player, tho. I've had it a long time; it moved w/ me from car to car since 1999 or so. Music makes driving tolerable. & I definitely loved my new bike. It allowed me to save time, money, & gas. I don't want to go back to public transportation & driving to get places.

But all material things go away sooner or later. I didn't lose th most important objects in my life; my mandolin, cumbus, & iBook (but of course, some day I will). &, more importantly, I didn't lose any people. I'd rather have a thousand bicycles stolen than have a friend get hurt.

F4

Nodal Nim played a set at a party called FUCK TH 4TH hosted by th IV Collective in Logan Square to raise money for radical anarchist activism. Yay! I played last, but for a delightfully pleasant little audience who didn't seem to mind that I sing songs about vegetables & fish, instead of about (non)violent revolution, fucking w/ th status quo, eating Republicans, etc. (Not that I don't enjoy those topics immensely....)

Thanks to th old friends for sticking around; thanks to th new friends for dancing, drumming, & grinning! Hooray, I say!

~a

Urbanafutures

I visited Urbana again this weekend to work out (a) working, (b) living. Th plan: I will work in audio, digitizing old reel-to-reels in th Herbert Brün collection (mostly original electronic compositions from decades past); I will live at La Casa Colectiva w/ wonderful humans, chickens, & currants; I will move from Chicago to Urbana in August gradually, one carload of my stupid junk at a time, working in Chicago during th week & taking trips downstate during (some of) th weekends. Things appear to make sense.

beetfutures

Hello then!

I've noticed some changin'. Things change. Change abounds. X changes into Other. Other changes x. Universe. Flowering. Hm.

I took a peek at my new year's resolutions from, well, six months ago:

1. every single day, further my development of self-awareness & self-discipline.
   
2. every single day, speak only th truth - speak not lies - learn to think in E Prime.
   
3. every single day, actively embrace with joy (& never with terror) th absurdity of th universe.

I have, I think, made some progress w/ these. Hm, but where do I start explaining that? I've done so little blogging, I don't know where to start w/ all this.

Taking a step back, I should probably talk about my "relationship," which has changed dramatically in th past month or so. My image of myself as future step-father & future husband I have abandoned. I think that image rested on lies I told myself anyway. When I leave Chicago, I will have left Tiffany's & Jordan's intimate circle. No longer do I want to pursue a relationship there. Something didn't work for us. I could pick it apart for years if I really wanted to, but I don't. It didn't work; I need to leave.

You might call my leaving selfish. Perhaps. But staying means stagnation. & if I stayed, I could only see things getting worse.

But I leave to somewhere, as I've said, to th School for Designing a Society, & to th town called Urbana that th School calls home. This excites me more than anything. Big changes have happened to point me this way; big changes will happen once I start my new life.

I've done quite a bit of reflecting offline lately (using pens & pages of paper, no less!) to help me see my thought process, call myself on my ego-bullshit, etc. It has helped me quite a bit. I have started letting go of some nasty demons (& I have others yet to engage w/).

I've started a project of breath meditation. As I walk my dogs, sit in chairs, spin th wheels of my bike, I observe my breathing. Often, I synchronize my breathing w/ my footsteps or pedaling. Deeper breaths, longer breaths, w/ longer pauses at th beginning & end of th inhale & exhale; this kind of breathing has helped me this week. I intend to continue this rewarding project.

I have started questioning my use of alcohol & caffeine in certain circumstances. They make things easy; relaxing in social situations, engaging in a universe that I perceive as uncomfortable, etc. But lately I've started forcing myself to find non-chemical solutions to engagement issues. If a chemical can do it, I can do it. Breathing helps, & sleeping & eating right, & simply remaining open.

I want to make sure I don't need th chemical - but if I decide that I want it, that I don't mind sacrificing a bit of self-control to make things go smoothly, I still allow it.

A big thing: I have started looking at my hate & anger & finding ways to transmogrify it into love. Altho I don't always succeed at this, I often do, & just having that intention helps me. I want love instead of hate because it feels better, because it makes th world seem much more beautiful, because, if I could choose th world I lived in, I'd choose of world devoid of hate entirely. Because hate means suffering, & if I can choose not to suffer right now, why would I choose to suffer? I say this because I don't believe in th rhetoric of "altruism" for its own sake. I consider it much more healthy to acknowledge how love & helping others helps me. I want it in my life.

(I'd like to say more about this. Maybe in a future post.)

I remain vegan. I love it. I couldn't see myself dating a non-vegan now.

I mention all these projects to demonstrate how I've changed. These changes may have a lot to do w/ my relationship changing. I have become someone incompatible w/ Tiffany & Jordan. It feels bittersweet. I'll miss them; but I feel really optimistic about my new direction!

Ok, there. I've blathered. I send my love to y'all.

Beetfutures, Andrew.


(p.s. I have lots to say about th E-Prime project, but I'll leave that alone for now.)

stories

I went last night to th Windy City Story Slam at Quennect4 to see my friend Chase perform (he did great, I gush w/ loving prejudice). Th main event consisted of six storytellers getting up & sharing a story, autobiographical or fictional, & later competing by audience vote for th best story. Then, after some music acts, some poetry, etc, it turned into an open mic for storytellers & went well into th night, story after story after story.

I loved it; stayed until after 2, listened closely to every story, applauded, didn't miss a word. I didn't drink (I want to make sure I can still have fun w/o booze - I can) so I remember it pretty clearly.

It impressed me how many different people went up, how differently they told their stories. Th best storytellers kept us riveted in our seats for, I don't know, half an hour at a time maybe, as we imagined these events taking place, put ourselves there as flies on th wall as things unfolded. They took us to Mexico City, to Costa Rica, to th middle of nowhere in Texas, to th Fullerton Bus in Chicago, back in time to th 60's, th 80's, a month ago. Just sitting there at Q4, it felt like an adventure.

What an art form, th story! Who says that oral traditions don't exist anymore, that people don't have attention spans extending past th length of a TV commercial? These people performed some ancient magic on us. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I didn't get up there. I "had nothing prepared." I "didn't feel comfortable." I wanted to leave it to th masters. But why do I think I can't tell a story? I've performed in so many different ways, spoken publicly in so many different contexts, why couldn't I get up there & shoot from th hip, tell these people a thing or two about what I've seen in my short life? In retrospect, I could've spoken, & even if I rambled & didn't get things out just right, people would have shown me love & it probably would have felt great. But can I tell a good story?

All thru th day leading up to th story slam, I thought about my stories. On th bike-ride & drive home, in my bed last night, I thought about stories. I woke up having dreamt in stories. But my stories went in circles, doubling back on themselves. They expanded on weird, unimportant angles. They started as one story, became another story, then another, never quite finishing any single story. Each facet of a story contains its own background, its own baggage & bits & pieces; it reflects itself over & over like a fractal; how can a person turn this non-linear chaos into something resembling a functional plot? You could tell th story of a simple sneeze in a thousand different ways, spend hours expanding a second. (James Joyce has shown this in Ulysses, I think; Raymond Queneau in Exercises in Style.)

What an incredible art! I stand awed at th work done by a good storyteller! How in th world to they tame this beast called personal history?

Well, I don't know. But now that I've had some coffee & typed some words, I think I do it right sometimes. But I could do it a lot better; & I want to do it better! I tell myself, "Someday I'll write a great novel," or "Someday I'll start writing plays," & I've actually sat down to do this & come away frustrated. But a good story, a really put-together & inspiring story - I consider that worth pursuing. So I want to work on this, put some elbowgrease into this & figure some things out.

That said, I have yet to tell my own story on this blog! What th hell has happened in Andrew's life these past few months? I can tell you this: lots. & I owe this blog a good story.

Nim on youtube (who knew)?

My good friend Chase just directed me to this, a video of Nodal Nim performing Eight Thunderpain at th Cafe Mestizo open mic!



& here you can see Chase performing his spoken-word piece (W)HOLE:

WH on HR

"Facts do not create Truth. Facts create norms, but they do not create an Illumination."

~a stunning quote by Werner Herzog from this interview:

A Poem to Remember

[ @@@@ Ajmak :: Four Sinner ]

bish
dril
fish
gil
jwl
kleeth
led

one nod, one quick rumple

chapter ONE.

We engendered an experience of wedded bliss in the jungle of the hindbrain occurring at a blotchy man. Would cupped memories, like too-eggy pancakes, send me into a feedback loop that takes it troubled?

glass cats practice fast action
white mews place foot now
to an immediate kicking virgin wail
penik don't pink papered vase window

Also, only Jessica journaled at length to prove herself a woman. At last she fell asleep, with a note attached to a pair of socks at fact.

you have enormous ways of giving it embers
you take enormous fruits of giving it embers
you blame enormous fruits of cupping me glumly
you blame French fruits for cupping me glumly

never entrust French fruits for cupping me glumly
never entrust French parrots for swapping me glumly

I entrust dirty parrots for swapping religions glumly

Indeed, it tells nicely of the trials of persecution that would serve as a permanent reminder of the past time-line in which a woman in her mid-to-late-forties could ever do long-division.

chapter TWO.

bite sized pins plaque
the whites pointing three eyes ax
a bustle shoots los hombres down
men clutch their revolving belts
turn grape my chaste brown

I invoke dirty people for swapping religions glumly
I invoke mangy people for true religions glumly

For in a blotchy male, a wand isn't really as important as the size of the conch.

chapter THREE.

I invoke mangy laws for true religions glumly

erogenous sunflower on my basket napkin
(take it in) or be fluidly on your chair crotch
cherish your liquid intake valve
worship my everlasting sacks now!

I invoke mangy laws for true criminals glumly

my forever feet as Gods to you
blanket entity at the sun's wake
dying button people dressed as ghost parodies
the blouse became fastened during a scare-a-thon

I adore blasphemous laws for true criminals laughing

chapter FOUR.

So, I focused to evacuate my every dream in the illusion of the self during surgical standing painful parties. While the guru was taming a wild tiger, he noticed that by retouching himself a wormhole could open up into several deciabysses. I wondered timely in a non-directional reflection of hubris, what vibration spoke first.

pooing iron teeth & wine tops
basic need steel nail engine -> give it the throttle
inclined fundament: inject your best
do the fun -> shake it baby, wipe it clean
milkcircles & we must have a good young time
when the pearly shoots I go duck & cover!

Motivationally speaking, pepper & salt were used to combine a clever sketch of people's feet. I wanted to show them in a wonderland journey.

dollarsign buttonbeater, the terrible now
fortune hammershroom, a task maker
producing must-do mushrooms & wheels
fucking right now! on clouds & mandalas

We adore blasphemous laws & true criminals laughing

chapter FIVE.

entrenched & under fire, I in turn quack
deep in WWI I set myself alight to nestle beak
flaming one-eyed, fallen into a petri dish
cyclops boinked, on a hydrogen pit
great penetration by elemental pedal
go go go granny get the metal, cAke inserts

your smoky transformed back, instantly obscene
don't blow rings around blatant panels
onions negate the obvious floor tiles

delicious ape chips, this lady ships tippy top priority
swell garden elfs, this bitch wants more, damn!

lined locks away painful vessel squares
traindoor exit my tangled veiny sores
(oh my!) my backdoor still works just fine

unquenchable patriarch, growing Napoleonic
small man, unable to perform, gallant inner treasure
soulthing impotent
nude beach / convent
take your sandies to a given nunnery

approving with fervor the rump
one nod, one quick rumple

chapter SIX.

We stared at the apex on the cardinal circuit.

men adore childish poems & true evils laughing
men adore fake metaphysics & true evils laughing
men enjoy fake metaphysics & cultivate evils laughing

It fishes itself straightaway to only this, the very this, this thing the most well-known & feared of all things, the very top.




~a spiced something by Scott Marshall & Nim.

Dave & Casey Hooray!

In just an hour & a half, my good friends Dave & Casey (plan to) get hitched. Wow!

In honor of their wedding (& for my own entertainment), I wrote them an Oulipian wedding poem incorporating only th letters in their names. Th first stanza uses only th letters in "David Camille Shaver"; th second uses only th letters in "Casey Jean Chapman"; th third & final stanza combines th letters in both names. I hid th wedding poem in th card accompanying their gift for them to find & enjoy.

I doubt very much they will peek at my blog between now & th wedding, so I will go ahead & copy th poem over right here to share w/ all th rest of you:

He delivers several limes; she smiles, he smiles. A miracle cradles a dreamhead. Hi! - a decade slides, shimmers. Revive!

She maps a happy name. Space! A snappy jam, a May ham! She chases a span. Hey - campy, cheesy psyche - YES!

Holy Moley! She marries him (and vice versa). Named as a diad, dearly spliced, he and she parade. Prepared? Yes. I see a shine: dreamers: sacred, alive. In riches, in pennies, in decades ahead, may my pals happily dance. Mr. Chapman. Mrs. Shaver. Live in a jade heaven.

Britishcomputervoicetellsyou

[ =@@ Kame :: Seven Death ]

the vociferous rationalizations strove the hereditary offering
the architectural cargoes retook the unpaid round
the departmental magician sang the ventricular memorandum
the genuine genes begat the tectonic emotion
the factual programmers ate the migratory livestock
the vertical statues drank the merciless warhead
the irritable compost became the precautionary 50-yard-stick
the unpretentious milliseconds sprung the lucid Titan
the bouncy alderman grew the impolite suburbia
melodious cereals mistook the interactive easel

composing my future

[ =@ Kan :: Six Snake ]

Bigthing. My universe will soon change in kaleidoscopic shake-a-doo. Yes - in fact, YES!

I will soon move th heck out of Chicago & downstate to a place called Urbana, IL. I will take my dog & my Cumbus, my pockets & my dice, & I will leave Chicago behind - at least - for a time.

Why oh why? I will tell you. They have this school there called School for Designing a Society. Artists come together here to question this place-time we live in & begin imagining a better society - then making it manifest. It seems to me that all my raving about Art in th Everyday, Agnosticism, Mythwandering et cetera have led me to a very lonely place. Down in Urbana, at this unique school, people think about these things, play w/ them, inspire each other, & make them real.

Anyway, by September I will have relocated - temporarily or not, I don't know yet. But I can't stay here. It just won't do.

I will of course share my happenings w/ you, as they happen. I know only a few things now, but good things.

There you have it then.
Much love,

AndR

Buffalo James John Had Had Buffalo Buffalo, etc.

Wow:

little song upside

I like this poem greatly a bunch:



See this stuff here.

we stood in Darks

[ @@@ Toj :: Three Thunderpain ]

Report to you I will th fact that I had fun in Darks! I (& friend Vinnie) appeared at a party hosted by Gothic Funk in Hyde Park in Chicago! Th concept: party in th Dark! Sun down, lights out, windows covered. Th exception: wearable light permitted! Bits of hovering humanlight went to & fro. I donned round punchlight as medallion, w/ initials NN to identify appropriated Self during performancetime. Which happened.

As Nim, I played a funtimes set in th dark, unplugged, mandogasmically fancylike! People did claps, taps, beats, & grand singalongery; I enjoyed an audience thus engaged in Jamtype betweens! Indeed, my people had heard of Eris (All Hail Discordia, mhftee!) & song-poems (I played 'Pink Roses Palace' & 'Jimmy Carter Says Yes' for an appreciative bunch of Happies)!

I did a bit of wanders in dark to meet people whose faces I could only guess at th identifying details of. People seemed kind & interesting, fans of stuffed sharks, statistics, quantum physics, half nakedness, etc.

Sol Truck

I should mention also th very excellent band that played second: Sol Truck, a marvelously strange & lovely set of Eastern Europeans! They did songs w/ accordion, slide whistle, guitar, [tiny] keyboard, Jews' harps & lots of fun vocalizations (grunts, shouts, sings, giggles). I loved them & wish I'd had a chance to chat chat chat w/ them after their set. Another time! Hooray for Sol Truck.

Now I have shared my times w/ you.

Much love & Coconothingness,
AndR Q Nim

Orphanage magick

[ @@ Tz'ikin :: Two Birdsilver ]]

Hi!

Played a show, I did, at th Orphanage last night. Met some fun humans, bopped to some wackynice music, generally had a blast!

I'd love to keep in touch w/ th folks I met! Feel free to click on 'fnords' under this entry to leave me a comment (fnord) about th show or about anything in th (un)known universe that you fancy.

Other acts that rocked my (& everyone's) socks:

AcTuaLLy: Beautiful songs, magnetic, fun for all! She really kicked things off nicely.
Let's Get Out of This Terrible Sandwich Shop: Delightfully silly band slash, yes, sandwich shop. Kudos: These guys pulled off a charmingly spot-on Rod Keith song-poem cover, to everyone's delight.
PUNK'N: Rock & blues song-poem superstars Gary & Josh Forney. Loved th tunes, loved their 'psychedelic art film,' Punk'n.
Electric Medicine: Groovy & funky; I especially enjoyed 'Fuckin A, C.I.A.' & 'White James Brown'. Memorably fun & dancable.

Another band & an electronic meistro also played nice sets, but I didn't catch either of their names. If you know, do inform me, & I'll give them a link in my blog as well.

Hooray for good times!

Loving Shovels,
AndR Q Nim

P.S. It so happens that I debuted a new Cumbus song: Six Death. Also, last night I mixed Cumbus & mandolin in a set for th first time. I'd call it a successful experiment, which I look forward to repeating. Zap!

Tea Essence open mic guest host Nim & poetries.

I guest-hosted open mic at Tea Essence tonight & had a fun time of it. Only two others performers came, but we did doings & fid fooings. I enjoyed unearthing old mando tunes for new ears & got to practice some song-poem covers in preparation for my gig this Sunday (Chicagoland-types, do come for fun kinds of fun!).

My friend Russell Jaffe started a blog dedicated to "preserving fun in poetry" as he puts it. He asked for submissions, so I wound up as his first "Featured Poet" w/ some silly old stuff that I unearthed (lots of unearthing going on, it seems) just for th occasion. See O Sweet Flowery Roses.

Oh, & speaking of poetries, you may enjoy th little bits & pieces going on here: Constraintingbits. My friend Jacob Barton & I have started trading poetic constraints & writing poems that fit them. Th page contains two by him & one by me at this time, but we expect it to grow. Th letter codes (AJ, JJ, JA) tell who set th constraint (th first letter) & who answered th constraint w/ a poem (th second letter). In th case of JJ, Jacob set a constraint for himself & then answered it promptly thereafter.

If any Constraintophiles out there would like in on this, send me a message & we can work something out. I do enjoy a good collaboration.

berrying eggs: AndR

Day Poem walkthru: @@@@ K'at

[ =@ Kame :: Six Death ]

I'd like to walk you thru another of my Day Poems. You may not care, but so it goes. I will share w/ you Four Net (2008-4-10) & tell you from where I got my words.

First, you should read it on its own. Interpret it (or don't) however you like. Yr response has no less validity than my ideas about it. Probably more.

jumblrain & fingrglyphing timps
gray carbeptat grinnish
pitterwind & I made Unders
Soppingtown they go to brass circles
building up a Macronose
they centering celebeans (!)
Symphony Callstreet, puddles
my egg. . . . .
nine minus seven of Them, plus th 2nd!
First of all try to reiterate a word he left.
landscape even w/o deeper meaning
made to bustle, to cry
she didn't, but I did (topping metal)
Value.

There. Now I will elucidate line-by-line.

jumblrain & fingrglyphing timps

I feel jumbled going into a rainy day of dogwalking. At th first house I go to, th dog's owner asks about th funny symbols on th notes I've left. He points w/ his fingers. I tell him that I draw hieroglyphs of th Mayan calendar days to practice them. In th car, I play Webern orchestral music on th CD player, & I notice th timpani.

gray carbeptat grinnish

Th sky looms gray as I go. I have some extra time, so I sit in my car & take a moment to write in my Book of Days. Thinking about th word "car," I remember "carbeptat," a word I once coined for th sole purpose of annoying my friend Dan. Remembering him & our odd relationship makes me grin.

pitterwind & I made Unders

I sit in my car; rain makes a pittering against th windows as th wind blows outside. I read a bit of Being & Nothingness & underline bits that I like.

Soppingtown they go to brass circles

I walk more dogs thru their neighborhoods (towns) in circles; they become sopping wet. I notice th brass section recorded on my CD. (I may have switched from Webern to Shostakovitch by now; I can't remember.)

building up a Macronose

Later, I do an evening walk for a dog & particularly like named Maggie. She lives w/ a cat who has extra toes. Th first time I walked them, I referred to them in my Book of Days as "Wisdomutt & Manytoes". I liked that line & wound up singing it later in a song. In subsequent visits, I've made it a habit of creating a new line that sounds like th original: "wish them luck & pantyhose" for example, which I also sing. This time, I write "building up a Macronose".

they centering celebeans (!)

I visit Chase & Sara(h) at Coffee Studio. They serve me coffee (beans) & we center on good conversation. I enjoy th conversation quite a bit & later think of th visit as a celebration. My excitement about it comes as a surprise (& an afterthought), which may help explain my punctuation here.

Symphony Callstreet, puddles

Heading down th street to Logan Square to see my friend George, I make some calls: to Tiffany & to my bosses. I listen to a Shostakovitch symphony & drive in puddles.

my egg. . . . .

I notice that I feel a little anxious & jumpy (from th caffeine, I assume), & th realization makes me notice my head (egg). I don't know what to say about it, but I notice it.

nine minus seven of Them, plus th 2nd!

After finding parking, I sit in th car to allow Shostakovitch's 2nd symphony to finish. Nine minutes have passed & seven minutes remain. A short symphony. I also, just for fun, create an equation (9-7+2) which equals 4, th number of th day on th Mayan calendar.

First of all try to reiterate a word he left.

This line appears in a very awkward translation in th liner notes of th CD I listen to.

landscape even w/o deeper meaning

Watching Werner Herzog's Fata Morgana w/ George, this line appears in th narration. I like it, & it might apply to my Day Poems, so I write it down.

made to bustle, to cry

Fata Morgana sort of bustles w/ meaning & energy & goings-on. It makes me feel lots of complicated things. Th next movie we watch, Lessons of Darkness, makes me feel like crying.

she didn't, but I did (topping metal)

When I come back, I discover that Tiffany didn't do th dishes. We had assigned th night as "my dish night," so she didn't have to, but I suggested that she might do them as a trade for a day that I did hers. Anyway, I note that she didn't do them but I did. Then I think, "So what, Andrew, do you want a medal?" I put a metal bowl on top of th rest of th dishes on th drying rack.

Value.

I read a bit of Being & Nothingness before bed. Sartre discusses value. I don't understand him very well right now, but th word seems to me one complete thought to end th day w/.

thoughts of a manytype dérive

[ ==@@@ Junajpu :: Thirteen Marksman ]

In weather of Beautytype, I did leave my apartment for a wandering. I walked & looked & contemplated what I saw. I experienced th flow of feet. I saw people, dogs, buildings, bodies, vehicles, hairstyles, advertisements, relationships. I saw a plastic cup of an ambiguous yellow liquid w/ several flies squirming about at th surface, sitting on a grate next to a tree. I heard conversations, alarms, buses. I attempted different meditations: to think "in th here & now," trying not to conceive of th past or th future; to focus on everything; to focus on nothing; to think of humans as things; to think of humans as individuals endowed w/ their own consciousness & to try to think their thoughts; to allow landmarks of interest to pull me in like a magnet or repel me in contrary directions. I generally tried to experiment w/ th possibilities inherent in "taking a walk."

I wouldn't automatically call my walk a dérive, but I'd certainly say that th concept of th dérive inspired it. Th wanderthink nature of th walk ended when I found my good friend George just getting off work & we proceeded to togethrenjoy Spring w/ conversation, Lake Michigan, ferns, beers, & tacos.

So I got to thinking about a more "organized" multi-human dérive of soorts. Th goal: to actively recreate th world & immediate environment in a mythistorcal manner; to reject th Objective & th Subjective in favor of th Divinely Absurd; to live an original story.

By 'mythistorical,' I refer to an approach of creating history & mythology together, as one indivisible way of seeing & reporting. Th events 'happen' & they do not 'happen'. They have one foot in Earthly doings & one foot in Chaos. After all, our own History belongs to us, so let us shift it toward th Divinely Absurd - into Mythistory, into Epic Poetry, into th songs of Bards & Druids.

Given that, what could we Do & how could we Do it? I thought of ways of organizing time & activities & came up w/ these basic roles:

Th mediator strives to remain "in th present moment," engaging w/ th world & environment unencumbered by items or particular tasks. This person has th freedom to start conversations w/ strangers, bring th party in new directions, sing songs, recite Shakespeare, or basically do anything that seems best in bringing forth a direct mythistorical catharsis. Of course, just quietly walking & observing fall w/i th sphere of th mediator as well. Th mediator does "nothing in particular."

Th mythistorian takes notes on all that goes, filling pages in a given notebook w/ a chaotic & quirky narrative. Ey attempts to apply mythological, poetic, subjective, symbolic, personal significance to th events of th day by whatever methods seem best. Anything that makes an appearance in th consciousness of th mythistorian may have a place in th pages of th mythistorian's notebook.

Th cartographer we can think of as an extension of th mythistorian. This person creates idiosyncratic maps of th routes taken, including th "significant" landmarks encountered, relating them on paper in a personal way for th unfolding of th story. Th cartographer may identify "zones" of certain types & discover new ways of recreating ideas about space. They may make their maps beautiful, strange, & of course very personal. In Situationist jargon, th cartographer applies eir thinking to psychogeography.

Th timekeeper determines th lengths of blocks of time which divide th day. Each block goes between 15 & 45 minutes, th exact length either chosen at whim or using random methods. Th timekeeper sets some sort of timer (egg timer, stopwatch, cell phone, what have you). After each block, th timer will sound an alarm to indicate a transition point.

At th end of each block, dérivers change roles & specific ritualistic actions take place, eg. a song performed, a poem recited, a mark made on th sidewalk, a gift given to a stranger, etc. When one or more dérivers enter a building, th timekeeper must stop th clock. Th transitions must occur on th street.

This list implies a group of four people, but we could have fewer or more. Th mythistorian can merge w/ th cartographer. Th mediator can merge w/ th timekeeper. We can easily have more than one mediator (they could interact & create experimental dialog). More than one mythistorian would provide us w/ alternative mythistories to compare. & of course, we can create different roles (perhaps a gift-giver, who collects items along th way to paste together to create artifacts to share w/ passersby).

Th notebooks of th mythistorian & th cartographer would become available for th group's perusal later (or anyone's, for that matter) on th internet. These documents would serve as th only surviving information about th dérive after its completion (outside of th memories of th participants & perhaps their reflective writings, if they choose to reflect). Thus, participants could relive th dérive only in a mythistorical manner & those involved could create th dérive in their imagination only in a mythistorical manner. Indeed, in these later (re)creations of th dérive, a more purely mythistorical perspective we could achieve.

This idea may differ enough from th classic dérive that we ought to find another name for it. Mythwander?

I have a handful of people already in mind for this kind of Doing. I think we'd shoot for a Saturday or Sunday & attempt to go at least from mid-morning to dusk. It would probably work best w/ two to five people. If this thrills you, do send a message. We would most likely do this in Chicago, but we could conceivably make a trip to some other city in th general area. Maybe we'd hop up to Wisconsin or over to Indiana.

This kind of thing would probably work best if we do it more than once. Of course, each mythwander would produce a different adventure. We could arrange to do it monthly or biweekly, w/ a rotating cast of characters based on individual availability. If you'd like yr name in th hat for this, as I said, do send a message.

Alright, I've said enough about this for now. It only remains to actually Happen. Let us make it.

.Andrew