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This Fabled Island
Disconnected and Incongruent Ramblings of an obsessive compulsive artist
Come check out the NEW and Improved "This Fabled Island."
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Yes, I like all the LJ features that I won't be getting over at blogger. Yes I appreciate the open source philosophy more than I appreciate the proprietorial nature of Blogger. Yes, this journal LOOKS better and FEELS better and simply works better. But I can't have it on my own domain.

So I'm switching to http://journal.novachild.com instead.

I will keep this one going for some things. Maybe the little polls, blogger-y things and such. We'll see.

The thing I will miss the most is LochJournal. It's a great client that I can't use with Blogger. And now I have to figure out if there's any possible way to import LJ entries into blogger, or if I just LOSE them (which sucks).

So follow me over there and update your links!

Current Mood: contemplative contemplative
Current Music: Novachild - late sun smooth asphalt

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Yep. My second album is ready for pre-order. Visit http://www.novachild.com/music.html for more info.

Meanwhile, I still haven't made a decision about what journal to nix. So I'm just going to have to post to them both until I can. Sheesh.
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Not sure why I'm so torn between this journal and the blogger journal that's installed on my local site. While this journal has more features and is easier to use (for me), the Blogger journal also has its pros (being on my own web site is one of them). So I'm stuck posting to both of them until I can make a bloody decision one way or the other.

Anybody have feedback as to what they think I should do?
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I couldn't help but laugh, reading this statement on a blog over at The Nation's web site.

Life is better than war, hate, fear, death, decay, and the stinking filth of our wasted opportunities. My day to day is better spent with better things than this. Better people than these. Let's get the buggers out.

While there is a certain saccharine nature of these Political Conventions, I must say that this is the first time in my life that I've felt politics actually mattered. In some small way, if these lesser-evil Democrats can ease up on things and work to preserve the Environment (unlike the 'other' side), it is worth at least a vote. We shall see.
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I'm considering moving my journal, but I can't be sure. I love the ease and open-source philosophy of LiveJournal, but at the same time, I can't upload it to my web site like other journals (blogger, MT, etc.). I know LJ has some security issues as well.

Check out the potential home of my new journal, and let me know what you think (if there is anyone reading this): http://journal.novachild.com/. Even the MIBs are invited. I know you're watching.

Haven't updated the journal with the happenings at Conestoga 8. I'll keep it short and sweet: the best time I've ever had at Conestoga. After the travesty of last year, I actually vowed to NOT attend again because of the sheer boredom I experienced. However, being somewhat obligated to attend (because of the whole TDWVS thing), I MADE myself have a good time this year. Played a 'new' game that simply rocks (Munchkin!), met some new people, hung out with a DALEK and Crow T. Robot, made some TDWVS flyers and got to see my good friend James all weekend long. The best part about the weekend was James being here; Tulsa is just not the same without him, and I have nobody to play GURPS with these days.

Work is utter and complete hell this week (two words: server crash, and two more words: backup failure). I don't enjoy 24/7 panic, and it isn't good for my creative senses. I was planning to get more into my poetry, write some music, concentrate on wrapping up an album and get some web site work done for my wife. Now I just don't have the energy to be creative when I get home. I'm zapped, useless, and angry. On top of that, I can't take vacation until someone else is instructed on how to do the menial tasks that I do. Which adds its own little stomache-tightening flavor to the situation. Sometimes, life just takes you for a ride, while others, it takes you for a nice beating in the back alley by a dozen fat nazi skinheads with smelly armpits.

More later, perhaps. I'm a bit exhausted.

Current Mood: quixotic quixotic
Current Music: Aphex Twin - Xepha

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http://www.spychips.com/tag_images.html

Dig this. Yet another reason to stay awake at night, searching and destroying all of your consumer products for little RFID antennas. This aint' no picnic. I've been hearing about these for several months, though they are nearly unheard of in the nightly news and the papers.

Imagine: You're a company, and you want to obtain accurate demographics of a certain city. Your products all contain little RFID chips in them, so it's easy to send out a single signal and map each point to a central database. Heck, one could tie this system with a 3rd-party system that tracks other purchases, so marketing organizations can find out who is most likely to buy and what sort of tactics they will need to get those left behind.

Remember the scene in Minority Report where his new eyes were scanned? The holographic hostesses at the shopping centers all greeted him as a Japanese fellow instead of himself. This would be a simple matter if we all started carrying identification containing RFID chips. I don't think I would like to live in a society like that.

Eventually, there will be no escaping the 'little brothers' of Global Corporations. They are governments and powers within themselves, able to pull strings, turn blind eyes the other way, and use global populations as experimental substrate. Politicians are their middle-men, their public servants, and we are nothing more than contributing cells. Mindless sources of sustainability. And the more we buy, throw away, waste, and decide to ignore, the more power we give away, until eventually, the truth will fit the mold we have created for ourselves.

Current Music: 08 - UBERZONE - Faith in the Future

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Friend and fellow blogging recording artist J. Leroy has begun what he describes as a 'low-impact community that we could engage in.' It's a place where a group of gathered musicians can post new tracks and discuss them. We're not giving it a lot of focus, but perhaps it could lead to some collaboration, evolution, growth, community whatever. I'm all for it. I even reposted my latest track over there.

http://www.soundbag.com/musophobia

Check it out. Support it. If you have a site or a blog, link to it. We would definitely appreciate the added traffic.

Another TDWVS Saturday. We were a small group today, but we played The Daemons so it was all good. It's amazing what a little lighthearted riffing can do to make a day brighter and more entertaining. The DW episode was followed by a foray into one of the "Plays" that a friend and his troupe perform each year at Conestoga. It was 1998, titled "Hair Salon 5," and was a hilarious (when audible) parody of Season 5 of Babylon 5. This coming Saturday, I will be exposed to yet another one of these hideous performances, but it's what we go for and the laughs are cheap and plentiful. Here's the Conestoga Web Site.

Looks like Gary Flint is the GoH this year; Sadly, I've never read anything by him, but it seems he co-wrote a novel by another Tulsa acquaintence and past TDWVS benefactor, K.D. Wentworth. She's a very nice lady.

Well, I'm really rambling 2nite. It's late. Sleepy. Just finished a bottle of Jones soda, and the sugar's getting to my brain.

Cheers.
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This recent urge within me to get back to my roots has led me to pick up the pen. Again. I had forgotten how cruel it can be, how utterly tormenting and inhumane it can be to entertain the urge to write down every fucking thing that seems like it should be recorded. Poetry is like journaling, except that the mind reaches a bit further to encapsulate a moment in fewer words. Or if not fewer words, then words not uttered in normal speech. I used to like calling it "The Experience of The Experience."

Whatever the heck poetry is, I'm writing it again. It's a good venue for me, a good release. I get out a lot of anger, sarcasm, joy, sexuality and madness when I write poetry. Same way with music, though music is much more methodical, meticulous, and involved. It takes days, sometimes weeks to perfect a song, but a good poem can be ejaculated in less than twenty minutes.

When I stopped writing poetry in 1997, it was mostly because I felt like I HAD to write at least one a day. When I began failing that goal, I began to criticize my poems more strictly. Now, I'm older and less determined to make my poetry work. I just want to get it out of my head and somewhere else. And because I'm a little bit older, I don't have quite the sense of urgency that I did back then. It comes out more naturally this time round, it seems. But maybe I'm fooling myself?

A good friend of mine, who is going through some real life challenges and is a true and noble soul, told me of Guardjeff's (sp?) opinion of poetry, and that he agreed with him. Apparently, there have only ever been a dozen or less true poets, and the rest are insane, rambling lunatics that want their every word to be revered as art. While I can agree that there are a lot of people like that, I don't think it's close to being 99.99% of all poets. I personally don't care if anyone reads my poetry or not, and I don't mind being called a lunatic. And, since I'm pretty much the millionth strand on the giant web of life, being revered isn't really a goal for me. So maybe I'm a true poet?

I used to write poetry so the bartendress would give me free beer at the Wednesday Night readings. That wasn't the only reason, but it was good enough at the time. Mark and I would hop up on stage, me with my cold American piss (the free beer was the cheapest on tap) and him with his straight-edge, skinny bald italian thing going on, his leather jacket and 12-string guitar (a beautiful guitar, I remember). I would scream, whisper, or sing my poems while he strummed, banged, or scraped his strings. It was all about the intensity of the moment, not about harmony, or polished, refined presentation, or showbusiness, or entertainment. It was about communicating something much deeper than words or music. It kept us going, and it probably kept me out of more trouble than it caused.

We recorded an album of this material, though we polished it up quite a bit for the recording. While it doesn't contain the real charm of our live 'performances,' it's still nevertheless an interesting little escapade. Maybe I'll post some of it here someday? Then again, some of it's rather embarrassing and dated. But it doesn't really matter.

Speaking of music, I've finally uploaded a new Novachild Track:
Thin Blades of Cloud (15.5 Mb MP3). It's named after a line of poetry from one of my favorites, Kenneth Rexroth. Plus, many times throughout the making of the song, I would go outside and witness the evening sky, with its wispy, pointy fingers of clouds smeared over the orange sun, turning purple and pink as the night drew closer. That's the sort of picture I wanted to paint with the song. Hope you like it.

This is getting to be a novel. So enough already. Back to my Over The Edge show....

Current Mood: relaxed relaxed
Current Music: Over The Edge - Space For Kids

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On stage left, a pack of pitt bulls, trained to respond to the slightest weakness of character, are writhing and choking themselves on their chains. Just waiting for prey to come just close enough.

Enter one meek little human creature, inching closer and closer, cautious yet curious, Closer, closer still.

Snap! They have the poor fucker by the throat, and he's being tossed all over the ground, little pieces of his soul escaping to the heavens with each jerk of their vicious necks. And because they are pit bulls, their jaws lock tightly down, and nothing can pry them apart, not even their own will.

'Life' is a game of everybody doing what's in their nature to do. Higher awareness never plays the cards; all the real soul-growing stuff happens once the game ends and everybody shows their true faces. This is the difference between 'life' and 'living.' The longer one waits to show their true face, the more hideous their chosen 'false' masks becomes. And eventually, they will carry a trace of that illusion with them - their soul will warp and meld into the shape of the creature they pretend to be.

Humans create their nature based on the choices they make, and the main choice is whether or not they wish to be aware of what the fuck they are doing.

You don't need to be patted on the back for it to set in. Your bones and your muscles just remember, and get used to the discomfort - to the point where there IS NO OTHER WAY for your face to be. Well, that's the illusion, at any rate.

Current Mood: disappointed disappointed

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