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.