Dr. Sarturnian’s Writing Machine, image by Pedro R. Rivadeneira
Ending section of “Dr. Sarturnian’s Monologue”
fourth and last section of “Song of Anonymous”
a novel in progress by Pedro R. Rivadeneira
this I see hear when I’m writing the words themselves broken their sounds their images fragments of materials adrift like flotsam debris from a wreckage in the onrushing current of circumstances that is our existence the writing itself the drifting words a kind of mapping of catastrophe bumping into each other searching each other’s jagged edges like chunks of ice floating refuse drifting down river towards the falls like flotsam jagged white grayish shapes puzzle-like slowly swirling round and round caught in a whirlpool like jetsam near the river’s edge where the bend begins blindly searching each others’ edges shapes erratically bumping into each other never quite fitting in
some jetsam to forget
me knots as ever present in this content
foiled me messy
a ripple of pink tinged with
forest green rustling in
Pronunciation Key (fltsm) n.
1. a. Wreckage or cargo that remains afloat after a ship has sunk.
b. Floating refuse or debris.
2. Discarded odds and ends.
3. Vagrant, usually destitute people.
Pronunciation Key (jtsm) n.
1. Cargo or equipment thrown overboard to lighten a ship in distress.
2. Discarded cargo or equipment found washed ashore. See Usage Note at flotsam.
3. Discarded odds and ends
washed shh- d
after oh- r
destitute a rrr- eh- ku- found
to lighten juh
oh- found floating refuse
washed ashore mm- ay- a wreckage mm- ay-
after odds afloat after
odds and ends sss
dih- usually destitute
k- found floating
d- eh- d
overboard sh- washed ashore odds afloat after
oh- in distress a wreckage or what remains ah- people dss
rrr after discarded odds afloat after debris
fff- floating refuse ou- debris discarded vagrant usually a- cargo fff- ull-
thrown nn- discarded duh destitute thrown overboard cargo refuse oh-vv- usually ay- destitute found floating refuse and ends t people ll- and ends
people gr- after ah- sunk nn- to lighten a ship in distress after I- usually t-
wreckage t cargo and equipment washed ashore eh- destitute nn afloat
d- eh- ss- found floating in distress overboard you- washed je-
tih- too- vagrant, usually destitute people afloat oo-
t ss- after a ship has sunk, floating refuse or ah- equipment ll-
uh- floating refuse or nn- debris, discarded odds and ends ee
k usually destitute d- refuse or eh- refuse or brr- found floating ee
th- eh- destitute nn afloat d- wah-
washed shh- d
after oh- r
destitute a rrr- eh- ku- found
to lighten juh
oh- found floating refuse
eh- ss- in distress overboard
you- washed je-
tih- in distress too- vagrant, people afloat oo-
t debris, discarded ss- after a ship has sunk, ah- equipment ll-
uh- nn- odds and ends ee
rr- oh- oo-
nn fff- floating refuse ou- discarded vagrant
a- cargo fff- ull-
thrown nn- discarded duh destitute oh-
vv- usually ay- destitute found floating t people ll- and ends
people gr- after ah- sunk nn- to lighten I- usually t-
wreckage t cargo a eh- destitute nn afloat
washed ashore mm- ay- a wreckage mm- ay-
after odds afloat after
odds and ends sss
dih- usually destitute
k- found floating
d- eh- d
eh- in distress you- washed je-
vagrant, usually destitute people afloat oo-
t after a ship ss- has sunk ah- equipment ll-
uh- nn- debris, discarded ee
odds and ends
k remains t
odds ee- washed ashore mm- ay- a wreckage mm- ay-
after odds afloat after
odds and ends sss
dih- usually destitute
sss- keh- found floatin
- outside the window I see dark, heavy clouds lying low in the sky, impenetrable, the trees tremble almost imperceptibly as a light breeze wanders through them carrying a fine drizzle in the late afternoon light, the garden is suddenly imbued with an unforeseen clarity, I can see the cracks, fissures and grooves in the trees’ moist black bark, the veins in the parched, translucent bright yellow of the few leaves that still linger on the branches, the varied lines and shapes crisscrossing each other in the etiolated, unkept grasses and weeds, a plastic bag, an empty bottle, garbage randomly scattered about the grounds, each thing seeming to have a light of its own, giving the entire area a serene sense of place in the present moment -
not knowing why I raise myself up – the professor suddenly says in a quiet, gruff voice - my body my mind my thoughts and feelings I who am a car . . . a car . . . a carcajando me like carne nigra gran ganando gangrenous carcass amid a mist mu . . . mue . . . muerto mujer rota morta est amidst a buca rest with fallen teeth out off rotten gums and tongue’s unrest deceased by disease by disease deceased so I raise myself up off the bed and sitting on the edge gaze out the window at the trees outside at the branches intertwined crisscrossing each other forming complex shapes and textures this is what I see see as an example of what to do where to go not only what to write but how to write their lonely lovely brightly colored autumnal leaves seeming to have a light of their own they have a light of their own the luminous bushes and the colors of the fallen leaves replicating themselves spinning in my room like the leaves outside turning in the wind in my head this of course is an allusion but we are tired I can no longer go on like this all thoughts all words are excremental – he whispers gently with eyes closed sniffing the air - what we tried to get at with words for years now centuries is it meaning in the commotion of its gleaming or yet another voice in a turbulent night of dreaming? motions of something reading itself reading itself was something in motion with a voice for propulsion rather agitated antiquated yet still effective looking for a purpose ‘neath the sun’s glaring stare bare of all intent one notion will suffice to organize a life and project it into unusual but viable forms so that they become a luminous backdrop to ever-repeated gestures do you know any Ashbery? – he asks looking up at me - Ashbery and Stevens are my favorite poets but then there’s Artaud who destroys all that . . . but . . . as I may have already said writing can be a demonic endeavor . . . writing is primarily a kind of activity I mean to say a kind of physical activity which is to say a kind of bodily function as is thinking an excretion if you will all writing is excremental the brain’s electricity bleeding into the surrounding atmosphere only through this destructiveness can one speak freely you see it is only through this disintegration this ongoing destruction that one can think and speak freely alienation becomes the singularity that allows for total freedom
but no! – he suddenly blurts out – I must tell you! show you something! the machine I’ve been working on for years! no one has seen it what it can do! with the exception of my sister of course but you’d be the first! you must see it! what it can do my writing machine! perhaps you can try it yourself! – he exclaims again this time giggling nervously – it has something in common with Raymond Roussel’s writing machine but of course with today’s technology . . . – he trails off then continues energetically - actually it differs greatly in that with my machine I can work directly with the brain’s waves the machine opened up territories in me I didn’t know existed the dreams I have are extraordinary unprecedented I see landscapes that can only belong to other worlds I mean to say those territories are in me but the me no longer is that is to say I become an otherness it seems . . . come I will show you! – he suddenly gestures at me with his cigarette hand while at the same time jumping out of his chair with the spontaneous agility of a child and walks toward the studio door the threshold of which he crosses instantly with an effortless skip, he then turns his head toward me and gesturing again, disappears into the darkness of the hallway laughing. I remain still for a few seconds until I hear him shout - come on! - Slugishly, I begin to move toward the door which seems far away, impossible to reach, as if I were stuck in a kind of dreamlike Zeno’s paradox; the distance between myself and the door, though short
getting shorter, never seeming to end, I hear his voice as if from a long distance away even never seeming to end. Finally, as I’m approaching the professor’s studio door, a sinewy hand suddenly pops out of the darkness and gripping my forearm with surprising force drags me into the hallway. With lead feet and wobbly legs, I stumble along behind the professor who, cackling maniacally, pulls me along by the sleeve. I see a light pouring from an open door at the end of the hall - voilå! - the old man exclaims gesturing with widespread arms – this is our laboratory! our playground! – he squeals - this is where my sister and I conduct our experiments with language and perception with brain waves and sound manipulating our brain waves with negative feedback – he says smiling at me with glee as he stands sideways in the doorway with one hand on his hip, the other, with cigarette between index and middle finger, palm facing upwards raised above his shoulder gesturing toward the interior of the room like a proud house wife. I enter into a windowless, rectangular room with a high ceiling filled with all kinds of electronic equipment, old and new. The room reminds me of an old analogue electronic music studio. The dust-covered walls are painted in a faded institutional gray-green color. Against the opposite wall, along the length of the room, are two long worktables, and on the wall above them are shelves stacked with books and papers. On the tables stand four large LCD computer monitors. Below the tables, resting on wooden pallets that sit on the dusty wooden floor, among stacks of books and papers, cables and power strips, sit four state of the art computer towers linked to each other, seemingly working in tandem. Against the rear wall stands a table with a large multichannel sound mixer and a tall equipment rack that includes a patch bay full of connecting cables. There are also several synthesizers; an old Arp 2600 and an even older Moog synthesizer complete with all its modules, patch cables arching and dangling from their dark surfaces. I also see old multichannel tape recorders, oscilloscopes and filters, and an old ring modulator and harmonizer stacked upon each other in the rear corners of the room along with the latest model digital signal processor and other equipment which reminds me somewhat of medical equipment one sees in hospitals. Among them, I recognize an electro-encephalogram machine that seems to be connected to the synthesizers via some kind of interface unit. In the middle of the room I see what appears to be a reclining dentist chair at the head of which rests a kind of helmet with a mass of thin, multicolored wires emanating from its surface. The wires cascade behind the chair toward the floor in a swooping curve and then, several meters later, ascend coming together into a large horizontal connector plugged into a console in the equipment rack in the back of the room. The rest of the room’s walls are covered with paintings of unfamiliar landscapes and objects, presumably the work of the professor’s sister. Charts of various sorts, as well as scraps of paper with notes and odd symbols scribbled on them in ink or pencil are tacked or stuck with scotch tape onto some of the paintings and whatever spaces are left available on the walls. The professor suddenly halts and speaks up with a wheezing voice - as stated in his “Journey to the Taraumara” according to Artaud and also certain phenomenologists all of reality is a kind of language all of reality speaks all of reality is an intricate web of signs signs and languages that speak about us and our predicament signs which forever point to each other in an infinite web of relationships all of reality a veritable morass of languages criss crossing interrupting and dialoguing with each other in an interminable tangle an entanglemeant in fact – he states emphatically – a meaningful tangle of events a polysemous tangle of meanings all of life the entire universe in fact is a koan as Dogen Kigen the thirteenth century Japanese Buddhist monk would have it a web of languages most of which remain and will remain unintelligible to us – he says wheezing softly – we are lost in a maze an interminable eternal maze from which there is no escape except for those few whose actions are lacking in self interest – he says grimacing –
. . . my sister’s digital art work and her scanned paintings . . . I mean thanks to an algorhythm I wrote which permits us to take the digital information from her works her scanned paintings and her digital art works by means of a kind of mapping that is to say we take the values from the digital and scanned works and map them unto the brain’s waveforms I mean to say the computer translates the information from the visual imagery into wave forms that by means of reverse feed-back are fed directly into my brain but first of course – he grumbles - my mind must be made blank the original brain waves must be as it were erased in order to do this one must use phase cancellation this is produced by the sum of two waves of the same frequency and amplitude that are out of phase with each other the end result is a wave that has less overall amplitude than both original waves
in other words modeled after an electroencephalogram of my brain the computer generates a new set of brain waves just like mine in frequency and amplitude the only difference is that they differ in phase it then feeds them back into my brain thus adding them on to the ones my brain is already producing so creating the desired effect of phase cancellation – he grins briefly - in this manner the brain is made considerably more quiet more receptive than it usually is with its usual internal noises monologues and other mechanisms by which the mind defends itself against reality the eternal silence once this is achieved little by little the computer begins to feed the brain the new values the new information taken from my sister’s digital and scanned works and this information begins to alter the comportment of the brain’s waves by changing the values of their parameters to match those of the art works that is to say their frequency and amplitude values as well as their density the brain begins to function in frequency and amplitude ranges unknown this of course will alter the brain’s chemistry and most certainly at the molecular level its structure producing highly unusual states of perception of consciousness quite literally one comes into contact with landscapes with views sounds textures and colors one has never encountered before
of course this is quite a dangerous endeavor all manner of things can go wrong one could conceivably end up brain dead or the brain begin to produce a jumble of waveforms the brain would become infinitely more noisy than what it already is one wouldn’t be able to function one would go mad to be sure or collapse in the throes of endless seizures the brain being caught up in a chaotic cascading feed-back loop – he says whispering cautiously - but perhaps the most dangerous thing would be to be hacked while in the midst of the computer induced hypnogogic trance necessary to undergo the feed-back process hacked by some exterior some unknown source someone hacking into our computers could cause all manner of havoc this person this entity – he says suddenly coughing agitated – could change the information going from the computer into the brain this person this being I mean to say the hacker could alter the values the information taken from my sister’s works transferred into the computers and from the computers into the brain this person or whatever could very well reconfigure one’s brain as he or she or maybe it sees fit this person this creature could in fact edit the contents of one’s brain of one’s mind and therefore one’s thoughts one’s perceptions would be completely transfigured such a person such a being such a creature would have complete control over one’s mind over one’s body over one’s body and mind - he says fidgeting and looking around nervously - complete access to one’s thoughts and feelings one’s dreams such an entity would have access to the deepest recesses of one’s mind knowing things about myself that not even I know it would thus be able to manipulate me with impunity without my knowing anything about it while you normally think of yourself as being in charge of your thoughts and actions your dreams and feelings your desires your physical motions in reality there is someone or some thing who is controlling them making all those decisions for you – he says – no longer belonging to yourself you’d find if you’re aware that you are completely lost in a veritable forest of dreams a labyrinth of mirages from which you can’t awake set adrift in an ever changing reality controlled and defined in fact created by that unknown other to which you now belong – he whispers slowly and softly - of course one night it did indeed happen we were hacked by an unknown source an unknown force highjacked our system and began changing things around . . . from the someone hacked into the something system jacked into it into me and started changing things around and round slowly swirling perpetual system dismantling perceptions in re-creation breaking down matter down to its smallest elements – he says with agitagion - one night my sister and I were here in the computer lab working we had been working for hours we were working on transferring data of the various parameters of her visual works the colors the textures the shapes the lines and intersections the various patterns from some of her paintings from some of what she calls her oneiric landscapes transferring that data into our computers and applying it to the parameters of sound that is to say mapping all that visual data to frequency amplitude rhythm timbre and spectral information in other words taking all that data and turning it into potential musical information the values from the data we then plugged into the patches I wrote in SuperCollider 3 the various instruments I had created using the SuperCollider 3 program which would take all that information and manipulate and transform it into different kinds of waveforms sound structures of varying textural densities timbres frequencies and amplitudes using different types of envelope generators to produce different kinds of attacks and durations using random number generators that is to say noise generators to control the values of the various parameters in each instrument so as to add unpredictability needless to say the complexity and variety produced was enormous one of my favorite patches is the FM synthesis patch with multiple carriers and modulators which produces an incredible variety of timbres attacks and textures it’s various parameters it’s envelope generators also controlled by random number generators so as to produce as unpredictable a number and types of attacks and durations for each event as is possible I applied various sound prosessing techniques with the instruments I wrote in SC3 such as various types of filtering FFTs[i] for spectral processesing various types of granulation aliasing the afore mentioned FM synthesis all of whose parameters were controlled by random number generators the brain being the greatest random number generator of all! – he suddenly squeals with excitement - all of these instruments and processesors I put in a kind of list we call an Array and this Array I nest inside a Routine which is a virtual object that generates events at given times these times too were controlled randomly – he says wheezing - all of this produced an effect of great variety and unpredictabiltity textures would change in surprising ways all kinds of unheard of tone colors durations and articulations creating a sound scape that unfolded and developed in a virtually infinite number of ways a sound scape into which we would go exploring in a state of complete wonderment – he says with excitement, smiling with pleasure revealing his stained, rotting teeth – yet one night one night something happened something terrible something truly horrendous – he says barely whispering in a trembling voice – a door was opened somehow somewhere we don’t know how a door was thrown open perhaps in my mind my mind as conduit a doorway into a world of an infinite variety of languages words and voices bumping into each other in a haphazard manner snaking around each other in a frenzy – he says barely audible – as I was sitting in our modified dentist’s chair wearing the headset you see there with all the electrodes and wires coming out of it deeply plunged into a completely relaxed and open hypnagogic state our computers all of a sudden began to act erratically my sister who was sitting at the monitors lost control of the machines as they began to scroll data up and down the screens with maniacal speed I began to hear at first a faint humming sound like the metallic humming of insects insect mandibules clicking and clacking obsessively insect wings in the distance humming maniacally then growing louder and louder and among the humming sounds I also began to hear what seemed like voices metallic insect-like voices laced with occasional bands of staticky noise nervously chattering mandibules and sharp fidgety claws clickety clacketing and in the midst of the images I was receiving from the computers of my sister’s intra-psychic landscapes there began to appear pitch black angular shapes heads with angular pointy ears on wide angular shoulders from which issued black pointy bat-like wings with sharp claws at their ends but somehow these were flat two dimensional shapes gliding without effort among the images of the varied tissue-like geological structures textures and colors of my sister’s landscapes as I looked more intently into my self into my mind I saw that the flat bat-like shapes where issueing from one central place one central point an annulus perhaps the very center of my mind gliding rapidly they began to form circles of flat sharp angular bat-like shapes turning clockwise and counterclockwise one circle within another suddenly reminding me of M.C. Escher’s woodcut “Circle Limit IV” with it’s concentric circles of black bats their humming mumbling chatter the electrical humming of their metallic mandibules chattering ringing in my ears and in my insides driving me mad tearing at the tissues of my mind tickling me in different areas of my body from the inside out from inside my body I began to wonder if he too Escher had encountered these creatures these dark angels that now swarmed in my insides the static of their electric thoughts buzzing in my ears mumbling mindlessly they began to nip and cut nibble bite and tear at my insides with their razor sharp angular shoulders and pointy ears they slashed and stabbed at my flesh from within first at my liver and spleen then with their razor sharp claws they tore at my kidneys my bladder and intestines scooping out my insides slashing at the connective tissues that keep the organs in place puncturing my lungs till they collapsed stabbing at my heart with their scorpion-like tails in the far distance I could hear a terrifying scream as if the sky was being ripped asunder as the scream got deafeningly closer I opened my eyes only to realize the scream was mine I saw my sister mouth agape staring at the wall in front of her paralyzed with fear I turned my eyes in the direction she was looking and saw a swarm of the shadow-like two-dimensional creatures swirling round the room they glided effortlessly along the walls ceiling and floor their point of origin seeming to be the vertices of the room’s corners – he says with agitation - instinctively I pulled off the electrode headset and jumping out of the chair ran as fast as I could to the equipment rack in the back of the room and immediately killed the master power switch to which all of the lab’s electronic equipment is connected the mayhem disappeared almost instantly – he says with a grimace – they exist in the electrical system you see in the flow of electrons it may very well be that another dimension another universe exists in the electrical system the flow of electric current the stream of particles of electrons opens up doorways into other worlds where these beings exist perhaps electricity itself is alive a kind of living process with a mind a consciousness of its own perhaps through the quantum processes that go on in our brains something like quantum entanglement ocurrs our brains our minds share the same particles with other beings in other dimensions enabling our minds to connect with theirs I must admit a frightening thought – he says whispering softly – it may very well be that these beings these entities have been my editors all along cutting and pasting rearranging my writings turning them into something I can’t recognize as my own . . .
it was the editors I’m sure – he says gasping for air - and if it wasn’t them then it was . . . just as they rearranged my insides my organs they started to change things around change my brain waves put thoughts language voices in my head I didn’t have there before I didn’t want there they put writing in my head on my pages I didn’t want never meant to be . . .
it was the editors – he mutters cautiously - I’m sure who nearly killed me they might as well have just as they scooped all my organs out they took my works away from me they took my words away from me my writings my excretions they obviously wanted me dead dead in life a kind of living death is what they had in store for me keeping me half alive this is the torment they’ve had in store for me all along they scrambled my brains my thoughts so that I could not have a single clear thought or insight anymore I could never love anything I wrote after they finished with me my body my mind after they finished with it my writings completely destroyed – he says with desperation - they destroyed the original intention the original vision under the pretext of producing something they said the public wants to read as if anyone knows what the public wants or even if the public reads at all or if the public even exists for that matter! they destroyed the structure of my works in most cases it is the structure that says everything just as much if not more than the words themselves I mean to say the internal relationships between the sections and subsections of the work as well as the relationship between each of the works themselves they completely erased the experimental exploratory nature of my works turning them into the opposite turning them into the conformist complacent kind of literature one finds everywhere I could never love any of my books after that I could never consider them mine anymore they merely had my name on them but it wasn’t me who wrote those books not after they finished with them they changed everything in them in my books they altered everything after they completely rearranged them beyond recognition I could never see them read them again consider them as mine consider them mine they claimed the main idea was still there in the books that it was the best part of the books this they said patronizing me as if I couldn’t see what they had done but of course the main idea was the experimental nature of the works which they discarded completely they claimed the main idea as theirs which they completely changed into the usual drab linear narrative thus erasing it the main idea so-called of course there was more than one main idea as they called it they were complex you couldn’t reduce them down to just one idea it was censorship plain and simple it was politically ideologically motivated without a doubt the philistines wanted narrative they wanted narrative stories they said the public wanted something they were familiar with something they knew they said the public liked that that they like what they know and that they didn’t want any changes made they said the public knows what it likes and it likes what it knows it likes what it knows and it knows what it likes tight little circle this pretty as the truth tied at both ends – the old man says bitingly - they said they didn’t want this little circle this vicious little circle of theirs this nasty little limit cycle of theirs broken this was not the time to inject new information into it they said the public doesn’t want its little habits changed its reading and thinking habits the public’s perceptual habits should not be changed should not be challenged in any way – the old man says annoyed - this is what they said that the time was not ripe for change but of course it never is! – he gestures angrily - of course by doing this by re-interpreting my writings in their own image and releasing them to the public as mine the so-called public of which I know nothing and for which I have nothing but contempt they the editors were preparing the way for my suicide I am discarded I am discharged like so much refuse a vagrant so much jetsam
the I is discarded this whole story was is about the destruction of the self this gradual process of degradation a long process of erosion that takes years and which got me to where I am now living in the rubble of what was once myself – he mutters slowly with trembling voice holding on to what’s left of his cigarette with a shaky hand, his knees too tremble, his entire body shudders with dread like an animal in a slaughterhouse sensing the nearness of its time – they took me away from myself you see – he whimpers - they made sure my voice had been made ineffective I had never even met them this Mr. Q and this Ms. Z my editors I never met them in the flesh face to face I don’t even know if they exist I called the publishers enquiring after them but they were always out they worked from their homes I was told and were not to be bothered as they were now involved in an enormous translation project and had no time for me and my petty problems so I was told of course by changing my writings my language they were changing my thinking by changing the structure of my writings they were changing my insides by re-arranging the structure of my writings they were re-arranging my insides by changing my language they were also changing my perceptions pushing me ever closer to madness it was becoming necessary that I change things back to the way they were originally I needed to protect myself – he says with increasing desperation – I found it necessary to re-write everything I had written until then until now everything that had been published in my name in an attempt to repossess my work my legacy rescue it from these horrendous misrepresentations of course in order to do that I had to misrepresent the published works again misquote and plagiarize the books and writings that had been published in my name this was a kind of ritual for purifying myself a self purifying ritual I mean to say
certain rites are necessary to purify and protect the space around oneself in which one works you see this is an absolute necessity of course it was this obsession with the main themes in my works that of the destruction of the individual of the self and that of how language can re-shape redefine reality and the self how it can influence and change our perception of reality and therefore how it language
can re-define and change us as individuals the map may not be the territory but it is most definitely part of it and what’s more the map itself is a kind of territory – he emphasizes vehemently wheezing – it was these two recurrent themes that brought me to the place where I find myself today my self demolished a veritable collection of rubble unable to find the energy the peace of mind with which to collect myself pick up the pieces literally – he says sighing again – it was these two recurrent themes in my work one: the destruction of the individual and two: language as a determining factor in how we think and perceive reality its hallucinogenic properties and its role as a determining factor in the construction of identity and therefore the individual these two themes that ironically have led to my destruction – he slumps back down into his chair exhausted breathing again with difficulty - if only I could tell someone about this if only I could tell people about this but nowadays no one talks to anybody no one listens to anybody there are all these barriers everywhere you go everywhere you look there are barriers walls and moats trenches and barbed wire fences endless divisors and mazes erected first in our minds then all around us in the so-called world outside as excretions of our insides of course I talk to all kinds of people people of all ages you see I mean to say if I could talk if I could go outside leave this house if I could walk I would speak to anybody a child an old person a teenager a young adult a student I could speak to anyone if I could speak if I could walk their age their station would be irrelevant we’ve all been there at some point in our lives as youngsters or will soon be there when we get older all these barriers we have erected and maintain in ourselves and around each other why do we go on like this? – he enquires barely audible as he stares vacantly at the wall in front of him – I look to the sky the night sky and no longer see the stars it has been years since I’ve seen stars in this city of gray gray skies gray walls and gray foggy nights there are no stars to be seen anywhere the world is a progressive dimming of light it is only the incomprehensible that has any conviction . . .
liking disliking what does any of that mean? – he says pensively drifting off into silence - hob knobbing with hobgoblins! – he suddenly cries out - I care not for extracting more than utter gloom from this our human landscape of inconceivable devastation! to ward off the contingent toward warding off the contained offerings con . . . con . . . contaminated! as I’ve already said this is what we struggle with throughout our lives – he mutters softly almost sobbing - those scenes lifted from real life so-called the storm reasserts itself unable to let go yet at the same time unable to hold on all of the arts all such endeavors are dead pointless – he says softly with mild derision – have been for quite some time now as well they should be for they are expressions of a time long gone it is the silence we must now face together only one moment of silence and darkness brings us all together unites us all in a single terrifying realization that of our bare naked existence – he mutters distractedly staring at the floor as the light suddenly shifts in the room - all of the twentieth century with its various schools its various movements its avant gardes with its aspirations to revolution and changing the world all of the twentieth century with its sacrificial heroic movements was nothing more than an extension of Romanticism and the acknowledgement of the latter’s failure to achieve its goals we flail haplessly in our self made prisons helplessly unable to face the hopelessness of hoping of course to exist is to exert conditioning power on the world it’s a two way street why doesn’t anybody see this? – he asks almost squealing -
killing life killing the world with our thoughts they force me to repeat myself you see they take me away from myself from my body they make me choke on mine own words subject to a naïve a simplistic conception of matter we turn life into so much inert material over analyzing everything to death into death with our deadly beliefs we turn the entire world into one large necrotic mass one gigantic heap of corpses the new born come into this world among so much death the muck of putrefaction why! ones semen is black necrotic! in the end only kindness mutters to itself – he chuckles softly – what more is left us the tedious mendacious lot but to destroy ourselves and each other and everything else we hate everything anything anyone that makes us feel lesser inferior inadequate and life the universe makes us feel very small insignificant we can’t stand it we can’t take it we are incapable of accepting it you see and we can’t change it control it nor can we destroy it but out of spite then we will destroy one of its creations ourselves! ourselves and this world our planet and everything in it poisoning everything to death! the life of the intellectual is a dry meaningless lonely life after all this time aah aaah I’ve arrived at this realization only to see that all my accomplishments are vain and empty and that reality is so much more than I in my arrogant myopic view had envisioned reality is so much more complex and magical than we can grasp with our words our thoughts the most astute verbal descriptions and constructions the most clever forms of thinking don’t come close to grasping what’s happening all around us and in ourselves and what we do to the world subject as we are have been for centuries to a naïve simplistic conception of matter of materialism turning life into so much inert matter over analyzing everything to death into death I should say it is into death that we analyze everything killing life killing the world with our thoughts of course they are all fighting each other all the time killing each other in the most insidious ways in an attempt to consolidate their turf what they see as their turf their territory in an attempt to establish superiority intellectuals and artists writers poets and composers everywhere fighting each other fighting each other over bits of scrap thrown at them by the philistines the business class they fight each other over beauty what they think is beautiful beauty and truth wanting to be the first the only ones who express the truth wanting to be right always right wanting to be the only direct conduit the only messengers of the Gods of the truth and therefore establish their superiority over everyone else all along blind to the fact that all the fighting and its ensuing nastiness is the only truth and it isn’t a beautiful one quite the contrary it’s very ugly it has the ugliness of ego of selfishness behind it motivating it it is the same nastiness behind all the wars all the ugliness and suffering we humans are capable of and have seen throughout the hundreds the thousands of years of our sordid history wanting to feel superior all this born out of a sense of disdain for the human the mortal the body and its imperfections our fear of what’s inevitable our fear of death and decay our fear of life - he suddenly looks at me grinning and swivels around playfully in his chair tapping his feet on the dusty floor displacing dust balls and cigarette butts -
those there are who think me negative – he says derisively – negative positive what’s it all mean? more dualism more fragmentation which is at the root of all our problems – he snickers - just think of this all those wonderful people – he says again mockingly – all those artists and scientist those teachers and composers with all their wonderful works their contributions to history to culture to knowledge to so-called humanity – he emphasizes snidely – not to mention all those wonderful positive human beings who shall remain forever anonymous those loving mothers and fathers who had nothing but kindness to give their children all those teachers who had nothing but support to offer their students all those wonderful anonymous people with all their positive thinking their optimism and perseverance their love for humanity none of that managed to prevent to stop the First World War the massacre of one million Armenians at the hands of the Turks the horrendous exploitation of the Congolese by the Belgian the extermination of the indigenous peoples of the Americas the death camps and all the other horrors of the Second World War the Vietnam War the rise of all manner of brutal totalitarianisms global Capitalism being the latest incarnation the ongoing conquest and destruction of the natural world this sort of thing this rage against life against ourselves and each other this has been going on for hundreds thousands of years this destructive movement evolving throughout time becoming more and more devastating like a growing wave a sunami an avalanche
all that positive thinking all that love and optimism all that hope has proven useless in face of the destructive force that is humanity for we are a destructive force obviously just being positive and optimistic is not enough especially when such optimism entails denial closing off the so-called negative within ourselves not facing and dealing with it head on
obviously avoiding these things doesn’t make them go away all the deathly weariness of human existence as we have seen throughout the centuries quite the contrary it comes back with a vengeance
our country all of humanity in fact is shock shock and awe as the military strategic term goes a totality involving a ruthless and brain destroying recipe that corrodes one’s resolve to the core
in such a weakened state everyone including one’s closest family and friends turns on you they do everything they can to make you falter to undermine you drive you over the edge to suicide they have no interest in seeing who and what you really are only in so far as they can use you exploit you in some manner this is what they do to you they judge you label you brand you with an image they have concocted in their twisted minds and then treat you accordingly for the rest of your life in effect freezing you into a position into a collection of habits and behaviours from which you can’t break free and which serve as justification for the punishment the violence they enjoy inflicting on you – he says in a loud hoarse whisper - this destructiveness we see everywhere in our society in our world this unabashed hostility is especially directed at thinkers intellectuals and artists people who think and question people who create new ways of seeing listening thinking and feeling it is directed also at sensitives seers people of deep spirituality . . . this has been going on for centuries thousands of years in fact but in recent history it has taken an especially nasty turn with the rise of the industrial age and capitalism this in combination with anglo-saxon Protestantism and positivism – he says smirking again – anglo-saxon capitalist pragmatism in combination with positivism has completely enslaved our world has turned our world ourselves included – he says grimacing again – into so much raw material to be dissected and exploited with impunity . . . an environment a society that is itself obsessive fixated on denial it society obsesively looks away from the suffering it has caused and is actively involved in causing even now as we speak – he frowns and coughs, then continues – as I’ve already said by talking incessantly and walking around in circles I keep them at bay it is a kind of ritual dance an ancient ritual dance you see to scare away evil spirits I learned it from the Abipon an indigenous people of South America you know they lived in the lower Bermejo River area in the Gran Chaco of Argentina it is more effective if more people are involved forming a large circle walking around in circles chanting and talking sometimes shouting so as to generate a field of energy the spirits can’t penetrate . . . we are surrounded by them here our cities are crawling with them you know we attract them with our negative thoughts and violent ways they love our gossip our mendacity as do we you might say they feed on it . . . but if . . . as it is claimed . . . the Buddhists say in the Lankavatara Suttra that we create reality with our minds that we create objective reality with our minds and presumably that means with our brains . . . – he mutters desperately, aimlessly shuffling about mechanically on the floor – but no . . . no . . . – he stands still for a moment, cigarette in hand, staring vacantly at the wall in front of him, drool dangling from his lower lip and then he suddenly exclaims - what am I saying! here I go again talking my head off I meant to show you! I wanted to show you how this contraption of ours works! the very interesting results we get with it – he walks toward the equipment rack and flicks on the main power switch, all of the equipment lights up, he then sits at the computers and turns them on, the screens light up and he boots into the system and opens several applications and programs, SuperCollider 3.8 among them, the lights on the interface units blinking - I’m sure that as an artist yourself as a composer you will find these results to be very interesting – he says enthusiastically. In one of the screens I see images consisting of complex textures and shapes of varying colors and hues, they look like electron microscope images of different kinds of tissues. Some of the images also look like landscapes consisting of various geological terrains. The colors, shapes and textures seem to shift slowly as if they were alive, breathing. I assume these are examples of his sister’s visual art. On the other screen I see a window with code and another window for a DAW; the digital to analog interface unit that controls up to thirty two channels through which signals are routed. He gets up and asks me to sit at one of the screens and instructs me to click on three virtual buttons with the mouse cursor when he tells me to. He quickly walks over to the modified dentist’s chair and nimbly jumps into it, then, reaching above and behind him with his hands, he takes hold of the headset with the electrodes and fits it onto his head with ease. He then lays back into the chair and closes his eyes. Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, gently, he seems to sink into a deep state of relaxation. In a soft voice, he directs me to click the first button. I suddenly see on the SuperCollider oscilloscope window an image of several very low frequency sine waves. Their frequencies are so low I can’t hear any of them. I look over to the old man and see a gentle smile on his face. I assume this must be the phase cancellation process he had described earlier. I look at the old man and he seems to be in a very deep sleep, his eyes appear to be moving behind his closed eyelids as it happens in REM sleep. About a minute later I’m startled by a very low and distant voice; a basso profundo coming from the professor, a voice I don’t recognize as his. The voice tells me to click on the next two buttons in sequence, which I do with a growing sense of unease. I look at the screens and see the images of his sister’s artwork becoming more active; their shapes, textures and colors mutating, changing over time into very different patterns and landscapes from where they had original begun. This seems to have activated the SuperCollider synthesis program that is now producing sounds of different frequencies, amplitudes, timbre and articulation; creating shifting textures of varying complexity that seem to correspond to the changing images of his sister’s art. The sounds are projected through an array of eight speakers the professor has distributed around the room creating a surround-sound effect that gives me the sensation of being immersed in a kind of environment, a kind of substance: a veritable roiling ocean of sounds and images. For several minutes I sit watching and listening enthralled, I look over at the professor and see that except for very shallow breathing, he is absolutely motionless. I turn my head back toward the computer screens and as I do I seem to hear a low frequency humming or churning sound. I move my head slightly to the left and then slightly to the right and I think I hear something like a low-pitched mumbling or chanting whose origin I can’t place. I get up from the chair and walk around the studio slowly moving my head in one direction and then the other trying to locate the source. I hear a sudden sound coming from the professor and see he is clutching frenetically at the armrests of the chair and shaking violently from head to toe. In a panic I leap back toward the desk realizing the old man never explained how to get him out of his trance should anything go wrong. I look at the computer monitors and see a dark figure dart across the screen where the artworks are. Another figure quickly glides past and then another. The ceiling and the desk lamps begin to flicker wildly. The monitor where the sound synthesis code was has now gone black and a stream of large, bright green symbols unknown to me stream up and down the screen in a kind of cascading motion. I look back at the professor and see he is now convulsing madly and foaming at the mouth. In the other monitor screen I see the dark, bat-like figures the professor had described earlier, arrayed in concentric circles turning in opposite directions from each other and I begin to hear too a kind of speech consisting of metallic like clicking and electric buzzing sounds coming through the studio’s speakers. All of a sudden a terrifying scream rents the room like a lightning bolt and I see the professor sitting up straight in his chair, eyes and mouth wide open as he screams hysterically at the top of his lungs grasping at his head with both hands. Flinging his arms toward the ceiling he collapses onto the floor sobbing as the studio door flings open and Helena, the old man’s sister, rushes in – Allan! Allan! – she screams – what have you done! what have you done! – she screams again and running toward him falls to her knees and puts her arms around him. Angular shadows are now cropping up from behind the work bench, the shelves and stacks of equipment, they glide effortlessly along the walls, ceiling and floor seeming to issue from the vertices of the room’s corners. In sheer terror, I pull myself together and lurch toward the study door and in one sudden move push myself through the threshold and sluggishly, as if in a dream, amble down the darkened hallway toward the glass paneled door and the foyer behind it awkwardly bumping into the paper clad walls in a daze. I reach the foyer door and clutching the handle fling it open in a fury. The door slams against the wall shattering several of the glass panels, the shards fall to the carpeted floor with a muffled clinking sound. In a frenzy I pull at the front door [stop??] and throw it to the side and frenetically begin fumbling with the many bolts, latches and locks the door is fitted with. Behind me I hear cries and screams issuing from the professor and his sister and behind them, the hypnotic chanting of the metallic, insect-like voices of the shadow creatues. Seconds seem to stretch into minutes and minutes into hours as I struggle with the door until finally, I undo the last latch and unlock the last lock and mustering all my strength pull the heavy metal door open and leap onto the steps that lead to the side walk outside. I turn around and with fear and anger, slam the door shut. I stand still listening. All I hear are the normal street sounds of a late fall afternoon; the occasional sound of traffic and passersby and a few sparrows squabbling over some crumbs of food on the sidewalk. Puting the hood of my coat over my head I turn north and begin walking at a fast pace
up Noordeinde street into the late afternoon’s drizzle, past the queen’s working palace, heading out of the old Zeeheldenkwartier. I walk up to Mauritskade and the canal that runs along side it and cross over onto Zeestraat heading north toward Scheveningseweg. In a few minutes I reach the inersection of Javastraat and Scheveningseweg and veer slightly to the west onto the latter. In a few more minutes I’m walking past Carnegie Plain and the Vredespaleis; the Peace Palace where the International Tribunal resides.
as I walk on in a panic frenetically against the north wind every so often turning my head looking back over my shoulder I begin to mutter I don’t know what I’m uttering perhaps out of fear and anger I’m cursing I mutter to myself as I walk along I can’t understand what I’m saying I seem to hear myself say my dreams disown me perhaps I’m chanting at the wind and rain at the dark rolling sky soon Scheveningseweg bends straight north and as I reach the old sycamore trees that line the avenue not knowing why I begin to run at first slowly then at an even and moderate pace the cold drizzle-laden breeze gently caresses my face as I run I settle into a kind of mesmerized state soon I’m running through the Scheveningse Bosjes park on my right and the Zorgvliet park on my left in time I begin to sing perhaps I’m chanting maybe I’m speaking in tongues as I seem to hear another voice whispering again a life still mine it says a still life mine in bits and pieces girones de viento in shreds of breezes speaking
all sorts of things rush by,
all that and much more rushed by,
what does it river mean?
by foot or on the wing becoming and going
into off course with a smile
a stray stream into endings just beginning
accidental and resisting foiled interest into messy logic
other territories from discourses ended
divisive islets of meaning
meandering as growing sand banks move across the page careening
whenever and ever as whatever it means to mean
the sea helps to place a space a splace
splicing the place and the space into two overlapping waves licking
there is why a wall to ask a mark
because becomes turned alleged question before to
speak in knots which is to say what a cul de sac
a ledge where a voice is what and who speaks of it
terminated breathing as song initiated at
moments before a blank page
wavefunction as what
be before becomes comes into
being be cuase be becomes why
laid bare bore because agape in cloudlessness
be because becomes be caused
became turned away things turned out
commencing here against each other and
one another as be before goes round unfolding into answer
wrapped around which wrap around what
which wrap round afternoon moment turned
unfolding said it is said and what of it
is what and why the in as it is a trace to sentence falling
the only of which it is the of
of it itself as de-forming into chiaroscuro
as eye language just begun
by no to something nothing is but
what to remains of motions terminated
there is and much more that is to say what
and then pushing what words wait for thought
sign flotsam discombobulation
some jetsam to forget
and then some more again so what of it
it means what it is what means it is
-guished from each other
nobody now knows what dissipation’s wren
a talk in a breeze of doubt
to what of it and then some edges left to the to
undo the what it is that these are a tangent of
is almost a say
the page where on when
the moment to each and away
another to which
is or is not on debris is on
on as away
is a bare is a or is on a cloudlesssstreaming
so what of it
it means a what
it is it means
we each kept each we kept
a then now and when in what to which to say a violet
Listening to the whirls.
Una maraña de cosas, all tangled up in sound
In formation with - or lately at least –
More variety in the form of repetition
another time around;
This continuity to which “I” belongs.
means by a sea repeating
reproduced enough becomes into being because
such that enough again restriction ended
to antipathy this day of clear cut divisions
moans by a sea retreating so tiresome the things
and meaning the names now droop away
what breath blows what leaves into sun’s waves coalesce
whose inflection beyond prone
language something sometimes remains ended
motions piece a blank plank across out by the telling reasons with light interjections scrambled
howl’s appropriate place is when
and now a remains
from which broken erroneous formation message
continuity gap agape frozen circuit explosive
meaning “I” as of in the with what distinction plenty marks a place
enough more resting just begun
endings growing again meaning laid bare because things and one answers became speak
a ledge terminated and then it is what –sively and then these the page away is then by now a means
such that this day of clear cut erosions began deforming
landscapes of languages colliding as wheat against blue to light of fiction
fricative nasal plosives in-
formation with or lately at least all sorts,
all that what and does rushed by on foot talking
at speaking becomes smile
knots freely disproportionate into a reduced version of this continuity
as something other than working against the shaping
final fallen repetition I mean
plenty marks a place
some so such and so such is enough
such that enough some so much said made so
gives this constantly summer into
interactive about which just then so remembers
what this is stories foreigneous ‘n everything
just because discovered at intrusive of when is then
windblown light about which of these so figured words
wait in wobbly places
so much so words
more much so that then enough much so
that made when is said so much
so said that them words
again seldom said begun again so said and
Interjections with scrambled howls approximate
change remains sometimes appropriate wandering
up ended motions now piece a blank page
listening to the whereabouts of when
what words were saying in swirls churning this thought in
something making here a petal
liking them they think not only who as much or any some not what
will they when a knot make unwinding pauses
what when were you saying what an intent was
that were saying is overgrown
should be in thought translated as
whisper interjections change up-ended listening
were saying something think not will they what
that translating whisper howls at blank page
so much across coalescing language
telling reasons said so much more than enough
I find myself wandering near the area where Scheveningseweg bends slightly east becoming Prins Willemstraat which, in turn, veers north-east becoming Juriaan Kokstraat taking me into the town of Scheveningen proper where the street changes name again becoming Gevers Deynootweg; the large avenue that runs parallel to the Scheveningen beach on the North Sea.
I walk in a daze for a while oblivious of the traffic and the crowds that frequent this busy part of the town and then head for the beach. Once there I make a sharp right toward the east in the direction of a town called Wassenaar. I walk past the old hotel, the Kuurhuis, the Skyview pier and the vacant nudist beach, then, onward to Het Puntje and the wooden stairs that will lead me up the dune to where the old German bunkers stand.
The beach extends for miles and miles, not a soul can be seen. In the distance, I hear a ship’s foghorn. The night is rapidly closing in. A cold, damp breeze picks up from the sea bringing in more rain down from a roiling, dark gray sky. In time, I see Het Puntje and the wooden stairs that rise up to the dark silent shapes of the bunkers on the grassy dune-tops. They look like patient sentinels, silently looking out to the watery horizon, reminding me of the moai of Easter Island. I amble up the old wooden stairs toward the dark looming shapes of the bunkers. Once there, standing at the top of the dune, I turn my gaze back to the sea I feel the cold breeze pleasantly caress my face and see a heavy bank of fog moving slowly on the surface of the water toward the shore I mutter to the sea I mutter to the darkness as I turn around and move further on up the dune until I reach a rusty old sign that says Verboten!: Forbidden! hanging from the fence that separates the field of bunkers from the pedestrian path.
I reach for the fence’s barbed wires and with both hands pull them apart. I duck under and in between and soon find myself in a field of tall, blond grasses heading uneasily toward a bunker.
I wonder if there might be any old land mines left over from the war. Inland, in the distance behind me, in the midst of the Scheveningen wilderness-preserve, the old water tower’s light dimly illuminates the southern façade of the bunker; it is covered in graffiti. I wander aimlessly for a while among the tall grasses and weeds that grow everywhere until I find what I’m looking for
muttering to the breeze I lay myself down in a furrow carved out in the sand by the north wind covered over by a scrub of weeds and grasses snug in my overcoat feet pointing toward the gray North Sea belly warm with the contents of the flask in my pocket I mutter again to the breeze
a life still mine I hear it whisper back in bits and pieces strung together in word metal scraps a still life mine I hear it whisper a life in bits and pieces strung together in word metal scraps same old words same old scraps a patch work a million times over and then some more and then again I mutter to the sand again
I mutter to the sea to the sand to the pale tall grasses leaning over me I mutter to the dark rolling sky I mutter to the graffiti covered walls of the bunkers nearby and the fog . . . the cold gray fog seeping into everything
Some sections of Dr. Sarturnian’s Monologue are composites made of bits and pieces taken
from other texts, whether in
the form of a direct quote or as paraphrases, which when put together in
collage or bricollage fashion, constitute the professor’s “voice” or rather,
his many voices. A list of these sources is provided below.
1) Adorno, Th. W., “La posición del narrador en la novella contemporánea,” Notas Sobre Literatura, Obra Completa, 11, De la edición de bolsillo, Ediciones Akal, S.A., 2003, Sector Foresta, 1, 28760 Tres Cantos, Madrid, España. My translation.
(Adorno, Theodor W., “The Position of the Narrator in the Contemporary Novel,” Notes on Literature, Complete Works, 11, From the pocket editions, Ediciones Akal, S.A., 2003, Sector Foresta, 1, 28760 Tres Cantos, Madrid, España. My translation.)
________________, “La forma en la nueva música,” Escritos Musicales III, Escritos Musicales I – III, Obra Completa, 16, Ediciones Akal, S.A., 2006, Sector Foresta, 1, 28760 Tres Cantos, Madrid, España. My translation.
(_______________, “Form in New Music,” Musical Writings III, Musical Writings I – III, Complete Works, 16, Ediciones Akal, S.A., 2006, Sector Foresta, 1, 28760 Tres Cantos, Madrid, España. My translation.)
2) Artaud, Antonin, “Artaud the Momo,” Watchfiends & Rack Screams: Works From The Final Period, Ed. And trans. By Clayton Eshleman and Bernard Bador, Boston, Exact Change, 1995.
3) Barthes, Roland, “Writing and the Novel,” Writing Degree Zero, trans. Annette Lavers and Colin Smith, Hill and Wang, 1977.
4) Bataille, Georges, “Oresteia,” The Impossible, trans. Robert Hurley, City Lights Books, San Francisco, 1991.
5) Bernhard, Thomas, Gargoyles, trans. Richard and Clara Winston, The University of Chicago Press, 1986.
__________________, Gathering Evidence: A Memoire and My Prizes, translated from the German by Carol Brown Janeway, Second Vintage International Edition, November 2011.
__________________, Old Masters: A Comedy, translated from the German by Ewald Osers, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 1992.
__________________, The Loser, translated from the German by Jack Dawson, Afterword by Mark M. Anderson, Vintage International, Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, October 2006.
6) Bernstein, Charles, “Artifice of Absorption,” A Poetics, Harvard University Press, 1992.
_______________, “Hearing Voices,” in The Sound of Poetry, the Poetry of Sound edited by Marjorie Perloff and Craig Dworkin, University of Chicago Press, Chicago and London 2009.
7) Bonca, Cornel, Don Delillo’s White Noise: The Natural Language of the Species, in White Noise: Text and Criticism, Don Dellilo, ed. Mark Osteen (New York: Viking critical library, Published by the Penguin Group 1998).
8) Deleuze, Gilles, Guattari, Felix, “Becoming Intense, Becoming Animal, Becoming Imperceptible,” A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, Translation and Forward by Brian Massumi, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 2009.
9) Dworkin, Craig, “The Stutter of Form,” in The Sound of Poetry, the Poetry of Sound edited by Marjorie Perloff and Craig Dworkin, University of Chicago Press, Chicago and London 2009.
10) Ehresman, David E., Wessel, David L., Perception of Timbral Analogies, IRCAM, 31 rue Saint-Merri, F-75004, Paris and, Department of Psychology, Michigan State University, East Lansing, Michigan 48824, U.S.A.
11) Flowers, Brandon, “Spaceman,” Day & Age, The Killers, Island Records, 2008.
12) Gallup, Smith, Tolhurst, “Charlotte Sometimes,” Standing on a Beach, The Cure, Elektra Records, 1986.
13) Goldsmith, Kenneth, “Introduction,” in Uncreative Writing: Managing Language in the Digital Age, New York: Columbia University Press 2011.
_______________, “Language as Material,” in Uncreative Writing: Managing Language in the Digital Age, New York: Columbia University Press 2011.
_______________, “Revenge of the Text,” in Uncreative Writing: Managing Language in the Digital Age, New York: Columbia University Press 2011.
14) Paulson, William R., “Literature and the Division of Knowledge,” The Noise of Culture: Literary Texts in a World of Information, Cornell University Press, 1988.
15) Perloff, Marjorie, “After Language Poetry: Innovation and Its Theoretical Discontents,” in Differentials: Poetry, Poetics, Pedagogy, Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press 2004.
____________, “Language Poetry and the Lyric Subject: Ron Silliman’s Albany, Susan Howe’s Buffalo in Differentials: Poetry, Poetics, Pedagogy, Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press 2004.
____________, “Unoriginal Genius: An Introduction,” in Unoriginal Genius: Poetry by Other Means in the New Century, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press 2010.
16) Serres, Michel, “Rats’ Meals – Cascades,” The Parasite, trans. Lawrence R. Schehr, University of Minnesotta Press, Minneapolis, London, 2007.
17) Silliman, Ron, “Who Speaks: Ventriloquism and the Self in the Poetry Reading” in Close Listening: Poetry and the Performed Word, ed. Charles Bernstein, New York, New York, Oxford University Press 1998).
18) Stevens, Wallace, Collected Poetry and Prose, The Library of America, 1996.
2. The loudeness (or volume) of a sound which is a function of how much energy a sound has.
3. The frequency and amplitude information in the attack of a sound which are determining factors in that sound’s timbre (or tone color) and which enable our ears to identify the source of sounds and, distinguish one sound from another, e.g., the sound of a violin from that of a flute
4. In Electronic and computer music, a patch is a constellation or system of generators and processors (also known as Unit Generators or UG) which are connected to each other and which generate and process signals. There are different types of generators and processors. For example, a White Noise generador generates a kind of noise called White Noise. A High Pass Filter is a type of signal processor which allows through only high frequencies from a signal. If we were to connect the White Noise generador to the High Pass Filter, we would only hear the higher frequencies of the White Noise.
5. SuperCollider 3 is an object-oriented programing language for sound synthesis and digital signal processing originally created by James McCartney in 1996. In 2002, when he joined the Apple Core Audio Team, he released SC under the terms of the GNU General Public License. SC3 is now developed and maintained by an active and enthusiastic community. It can be downloaded for free at http://supercollider.sourceforge.net.
6. i.e., patches.
7. A kind of Unit Generator that controls a signal’s attack, sustain, amplitude and duration.
8. Frequency Modulation syntesis is an electronic music technique where the timbre of a waveform (the carrier) is changed by modulating its frequency with the frequency of another waveform (the modulator) that is also in the audio range. The result is a more complex waveform with a different timbre. There can be multiple Carriers and modulators which make for even more complex timbres and sound textures.
9. Fast Fourier Transform is a technique used in computer music to analyze the frequency content of a sound’s spectra. Complex waveforms can be deconstructed into combinations of simple waves of different amplitudes, frequencies and phases.
10. Granulation or Granulation Synthesis is a technique used in computer music in which an electronically generated sound or a sound file is broken up into very small fragments called grains. These grains can be used as building blocks for larger sound objects as when they are scattered to form cloud-like structures or organizad into streams.
11. In digital signal processing, aliasing (also known as foldover) is a kind of distortion that occurs when the sampling rate of a sound is more than one-half of the sampling rate. Half of the sampling rate is called the Nyquist frequency. So, if we have a sampling rate of 20,000 Hz (where the Nyquist frequency is 10,000 Hz) and we are trying to sample a sound that has a frequency of 12,000Hz (2000Hz higher than the Nyquist frequency) we will get foldover or aliasing with a resulting sound that has a frequency of 8000 Hz. Aliasing can produce some interesting sound artifacts.