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yamamanama46 days until the vernal equinox
Or in other words, seven weeks. If I think in terms of "winter's halfway over, fuck yeah, we even get a brief respite from the polar vortices," it's great, but when I think of winter in terms of "there are seven weeks to go," those seven weeks feel like a long fucking time.
I'm not going to update until later on the 2nd because fuck this. Or rather, "fuck gthis." Or rather "for rather." And that's why. Or rather "that's hwy." Because when I'm overstimulated, that means I can't type for beans.
See, I brought my sketchbook with me on the T. Some of them came out really good (this guy in a hoody and the guy with long hair, a receding hairline, a long beard, and a spiderman t-shirt), some of them not so good because the train was going THUNK THUNK and jolting my pen around (I'll get to this), and some people, and I mean you, both the dark-skinned young lady in about three layers of shirts and coats on the Red Line, and to the freckled young lady with really short hair in a white hat and a pearl earring and dark purple coat on the Green Line. I'm not posting them right now because I need batteries and it's very overcast.
I think they were laughing at a private joke or shared hallucination. I looked at her like she's absolutely bonkers, and she's waving HEYYYYYY! back to me. How odd.
This guy at Pita did the same thing once I did last time I was there: forgetting something in a restaurant and having to run back a mile to get it. I mean, I didn't have to run back a mile. But I left things behind. Twice. On the same day. And I've also lost things and then forgot about them until much later.
***
Let me tell you about Maurice Ravel and temporal diffraction.
The first one, Alborada del Gracioso, like all first ones, I don't really remember. Like Debussy, except louder. Somebody describes as being more controlled than Debussy. I'm not sure, but he's definitely louder than Debussy here.
Shéhérazade makes me think of some of the operatic vocal stuff in the Seduction of Claude Debussy, it made think of Rimsky-Korsakov because of the title, it makes me feel like it was summer.
Since I had Rimsky Korsakov on the brain here, I described Daphnis et Chloé to myself as "… holy fuck," "I think I lost all perception of spacetime," and "this sounds like Claude Debussy trying to imitate Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, or possibly the other way around." Daphnis et Chloé is a ballet about the love between Daphnis the goatherd and Chloé the shepherd, and the pirate Bryaxis' efforts to capture Chloé, and the great god Pan shows up.
***
By this time, I'm thinking, yeah, when I get home, I'll just post my thoughts on Ravel and his music, leave that note to both people who are interesting but spent too much time looking at their phone, being blocked by other people, or simply twirling twirling twirling towards freedom.
Let me tell you about my trip home.
The fire alarm was blaring at Park Street and I'm very happy the Braintree train arrived within three minutes of my arrival.
And then this happened.
I was drawing some people, and I told her that I can do better, when I'm not on a moving train.
Casey's picture came out rather good. She likes it, she likes how I put her gauge earrings there. I'm pretty sure her name is Casey because her friend was explaining the directions to her house by tracing her finger on her other friend's leg. There was Taylor, but I didn't draw Taylor. I'm pretty sure at least one person in the group was named Sara, or Ssara, or Ssra.
I said that I'd leave the typos but my will to leave them like that is overpowered by my will to immediately correct my spelling upon fucking up.
Another ended up with Jay Leno's chin. I told her about how I wanted to draw people on the T and how I finally got a small sketchbook for that purpose, and she told me (or Casey told me) that she (I mean the unnamed woman, kupo) did the same thing, except she didn't draw people, she wrote stories about random people, and I asked her if she ever feels disheartened when they don't live up to her dreams and phantasies about them, and she's like "nah."
She's right, people are more interesting than others give them credit for. Try it some day.
The third person had a rather cool cameo necklace with a sun motif around it. She was trying really hard to not giggle at the situation, and I kept apologizing for what was the train's problem. She asked if I did this professionally (I don't) and after showing her more complete and refined works, if I went to art school (I didn't).
It is as I said, art and baby raccoons are the best way to initiate a conversation.
So I was happy, despite la grande conspiration de la machine, and I have no idea how to say that, (and I hit the space bar after typing out the English "grand") not letting me get a drink from the fugging machine, and also not letting me put paper money in the first two Charlie Card machines I tried.
***
So, (I heard this afterwards, by the way, not live), Erwin Schulhoff, was drafted into the Austrian-Hungarian Army in world war I. He was a composer. Before the war, he wrote romantic stuff, after the war, he went completely out there, composing a work of music that was nothing but an insanely complex series of rests. Eat your heart out, John Cage.
Alas, the Nazis killed him during World War II.
***
Burning question: where does Link disappear to when he plays the song of double time?
Come to think of it, I wonder if Link continues to age during his excursions through the same three days. I wonder if there was a rumor out there that you could play as Adult Link in Majora's Mask by playing to the third day without skipping ahead and then resetting time 2500 times.
Or in other words, seven weeks. If I think in terms of "winter's halfway over, fuck yeah, we even get a brief respite from the polar vortices," it's great, but when I think of winter in terms of "there are seven weeks to go," those seven weeks feel like a long fucking time.
I'm not going to update until later on the 2nd because fuck this. Or rather, "fuck gthis." Or rather "for rather." And that's why. Or rather "that's hwy." Because when I'm overstimulated, that means I can't type for beans.
See, I brought my sketchbook with me on the T. Some of them came out really good (this guy in a hoody and the guy with long hair, a receding hairline, a long beard, and a spiderman t-shirt), some of them not so good because the train was going THUNK THUNK and jolting my pen around (I'll get to this), and some people, and I mean you, both the dark-skinned young lady in about three layers of shirts and coats on the Red Line, and to the freckled young lady with really short hair in a white hat and a pearl earring and dark purple coat on the Green Line. I'm not posting them right now because I need batteries and it's very overcast.
I think they were laughing at a private joke or shared hallucination. I looked at her like she's absolutely bonkers, and she's waving HEYYYYYY! back to me. How odd.
This guy at Pita did the same thing once I did last time I was there: forgetting something in a restaurant and having to run back a mile to get it. I mean, I didn't have to run back a mile. But I left things behind. Twice. On the same day. And I've also lost things and then forgot about them until much later.
***
Let me tell you about Maurice Ravel and temporal diffraction.
The first one, Alborada del Gracioso, like all first ones, I don't really remember. Like Debussy, except louder. Somebody describes as being more controlled than Debussy. I'm not sure, but he's definitely louder than Debussy here.
Shéhérazade makes me think of some of the operatic vocal stuff in the Seduction of Claude Debussy, it made think of Rimsky-Korsakov because of the title, it makes me feel like it was summer.
Since I had Rimsky Korsakov on the brain here, I described Daphnis et Chloé to myself as "… holy fuck," "I think I lost all perception of spacetime," and "this sounds like Claude Debussy trying to imitate Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, or possibly the other way around." Daphnis et Chloé is a ballet about the love between Daphnis the goatherd and Chloé the shepherd, and the pirate Bryaxis' efforts to capture Chloé, and the great god Pan shows up.
***
By this time, I'm thinking, yeah, when I get home, I'll just post my thoughts on Ravel and his music, leave that note to both people who are interesting but spent too much time looking at their phone, being blocked by other people, or simply twirling twirling twirling towards freedom.
Let me tell you about my trip home.
The fire alarm was blaring at Park Street and I'm very happy the Braintree train arrived within three minutes of my arrival.
And then this happened.
I was drawing some people, and I told her that I can do better, when I'm not on a moving train.
Casey's picture came out rather good. She likes it, she likes how I put her gauge earrings there. I'm pretty sure her name is Casey because her friend was explaining the directions to her house by tracing her finger on her other friend's leg. There was Taylor, but I didn't draw Taylor. I'm pretty sure at least one person in the group was named Sara, or Ssara, or Ssra.
I said that I'd leave the typos but my will to leave them like that is overpowered by my will to immediately correct my spelling upon fucking up.
Another ended up with Jay Leno's chin. I told her about how I wanted to draw people on the T and how I finally got a small sketchbook for that purpose, and she told me (or Casey told me) that she (I mean the unnamed woman, kupo) did the same thing, except she didn't draw people, she wrote stories about random people, and I asked her if she ever feels disheartened when they don't live up to her dreams and phantasies about them, and she's like "nah."
She's right, people are more interesting than others give them credit for. Try it some day.
The third person had a rather cool cameo necklace with a sun motif around it. She was trying really hard to not giggle at the situation, and I kept apologizing for what was the train's problem. She asked if I did this professionally (I don't) and after showing her more complete and refined works, if I went to art school (I didn't).
It is as I said, art and baby raccoons are the best way to initiate a conversation.
So I was happy, despite la grande conspiration de la machine, and I have no idea how to say that, (and I hit the space bar after typing out the English "grand") not letting me get a drink from the fugging machine, and also not letting me put paper money in the first two Charlie Card machines I tried.
***
So, (I heard this afterwards, by the way, not live), Erwin Schulhoff, was drafted into the Austrian-Hungarian Army in world war I. He was a composer. Before the war, he wrote romantic stuff, after the war, he went completely out there, composing a work of music that was nothing but an insanely complex series of rests. Eat your heart out, John Cage.
Alas, the Nazis killed him during World War II.
***
Burning question: where does Link disappear to when he plays the song of double time?
Come to think of it, I wonder if Link continues to age during his excursions through the same three days. I wonder if there was a rumor out there that you could play as Adult Link in Majora's Mask by playing to the third day without skipping ahead and then resetting time 2500 times.
