I hate being an onlooker, though that's where I excel, where I feel most comfortable, letting other peoples' ideas take shape, while I race to meet the product documentation deadline. I stick my head into the specifications and code that made the product possible, understanding its purpose, limitations, intended users, and how I should tell others about it through the written word.
How could I help people in need that are really far away, stranded wandering inhospitable lands.. What if I could make something that helps people far away, that delivers aid by air, yes! A humanitarian aid drone! That must exist, surely! It does! Better yet, Windhorse Aerospace is working to make an edible drone! The latest article is from February. I sent them an offer to help get their drone, the "Pouncer" airborn and landing safely. If they don't respond I'll have to try contacting them on a business day. Next: Tabla I've had my tabla set for over three years, but haven't gone much further than mimicking classical taals, using the standard bols, which are the notes produced by specific techniques on the drums. The first test was to see how well the tabla notes harmonize with a Tangos in A (Phrygian Dominant) scale. As my daiyan is tuned to A#, the flat 2 of the A Phrygian Dominant, Na on the tabla matches the root of the A# chord on guitar. The note Tun conveniently produces approximately the note C, which is the flat 3 of the A Phrygian dominant scale, and works well enough when transitioning from say a A# major chord to a C7 chord. While there are surely other sounds and rhythmic effects yet discovered, finding the tones on the tabla is an important step for trying to incorporate the instrument gracefully into Flamenco music. I downloaded GarageBand to support the tracks I'll record to compose a Tangos piece with tabla.
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Walk into any Open Mic, and a rush of emotions and lackluster memories of songs and covers past try to reveal themselves from the darker neural pathways of the brain.
I suppressed all that.and went to the bar with purpose,for a fernet and coke. Some sort of nostalgia and intolerance for an entire beer after dinner. so I knew better. I left on a high note, no pun, with a hearty American feeling rendition of Norwegian Wood, from a Philadelphian man. He dug into some deeppower chords and twanged it up, and I had never heard any cover as ballsy for that tune. It was perhaps the most uneventful open mic I had ever seen, so much so the wrestling on tv outperformed most, but that is ok. It's for the performer, and a little bit for the crowd. One ad came on the screen - compreairdragon.com [buy air dragon.com]. I'll never come closer to buying such a thing 'Harmonizing the scale
Practice writing out a "setup".. Start by memorizing the steps between notes of a major scale (1-7) w w half w w w half List the chord types in Major scale Ionian Major minor minor major major minor minor Whether a triad is major or minor all depends on the third note of the triad What are the triads? major triad, minor triad, dim triad etc.? What are the chords that make up the scale. For the major Ionian mode, C major scale Harmonize the major scale by building a minor scale from the 6th scale degree, so take A for example. Build the harmonized minor scale from the A. Am ... For harmonized minor scales the steps go in this order (1-7) w h w w w h w w A BC D EF G A Going further the chords that work in the harmonized A minor scale are, in order 1-7 m dim aug m m M M Am Bdim C Dm Em F G Notice the I chord in the harmonic minor scale is minor. Remembering the modes: 'I don't particularly like modes any longer.' Ionian Dorian Phrygian Lydian Mixolydian Aeolian Locrian Seven or more years into the flamenco game, I am beginning to solidify my vocabulary by memorization. Going beyond just vocabulary, I am studying to know how to form my own sentences, to be able to say more than what has been said.
The challenge now is to understand music in terms of the Phrygian mode, its major, minor, augmented and diminished triads. seventh chords, relative major and minor modes -- how those play together to form the harmonic basis for Flamenco. If we are to compare ancient Greek bravery, agathos to the form we appreciate and is accepted as social currency today - only a twisted comparison can be drawn. Bravery would be earned outright through war and submission of another.. The competitive aspect of Greek life as a means of personal improvement and achievement has held in some way today across many societies. Bravery itself is hardly measurable, it's subjective, and perhaps it is this such feature that allows this value to persist as a measure of manhood, as it can be shaped across a man's life. Men can be brave as housedads, as cybersecurity experts. These constructs have killed only assumptions of manhood, and that is brave by today's standards, this is what passes as revolutionary!
Even enemies can hold some muted, reptilian form of respect for each other.. Look at the press, in awe at figures they hated yeserday who today claim they misjudged. This is not bravery on the part of politicians, but survival-- not progress, but manipulation, sold to the people, consumed by the gullible ones every day, as proof of a strength in their character the public had not noticed during the grueling campaign "season". The only fights we are fighting are those of popularity. The stoic militar-istocrats can hardly find a seat at the political table today. The public wants blood, for a public figure to play all parts before his tragedy unfolds is the character arc so to speak that gathers people to vote for them. Forget governance. Not so dedicated as to lock myself in a room and memorize a Paco de Lucia piece, not so lazy as to play one thing and be satisfied to claim greatness. At some point in a long game I do want to take credit for my progress. There is a delicate balance.
I've played to be able to play basic Sevillanas, Tangos, all the basic palos - I've reached a level where the chords patterns are intuitive, the pinky stretches, bar chords, some picado runs-- the sounds are familiar, and I can play most of this stuff,I mean I can play most of this flamenco at a certain level - perhaps not as fast, strong or dynamic as a pro, but I can play. Executing like the greats is another story. I won't ever execute nor attain such a stage I don't think, unless I quit my day job today. Even if I did make an attempt to be really flamenco, there is no point in claiming any ancestral or heartfelt link between me and a certain flamenco teacher, as I have had many. Certainly, there have been some teachers that stand out, for their tireless approach to excellence and expression of the form and of course for having their own approach - propio sello - to the flamencos. The heavy cannon leaded thumb should plow through the strings when you want to emphasize the gravity of the strum. I practiced this last night with Fandangos, exploring the harmonic A minor scale and why these notes played in a traditional Fandangos de Huelva way have such an excellent grounding, solid effect - it has a sort of gallop or trot. Where does its trot take us flamenco players? Where does it take people who have never heard this? I would like to find out, and experiment with the compás. What does it sound like when filtered, slowed down, played with a tres and a flamenco guitar. Here in NoiseBridge I'm asking this question. There is supposed to be some tech-music mashup night, but I hear nothing but video game music bubbling out of the speaker behind my head, it's soothing, but artificial, reminding us of a world we used to find solace in, the video game console connected to a second string television in our parent's guest room or living room. Can we find solace through flamenco, filtered through computers - how quickly does its relevance to its origins get lost when you mess with it? When does it stop becoming flamenco or has it stopped becoming that already, from merely subtracting the place from the form of Fandangos, or any palo. Nobody knows how many words I've written. Even a fancy algorithm couldn't grep and count all those words. For that matter, how much writing can be done can hardly be known about anyone, except perhaps the kids who have been increasingly relying on digital implements. We leave traces of ourselves in our writing, from childhood to adolescence and onward. Doesn't it seem we have been putting these words down on the page, or screen, more these days and if so how much more? There are various levels of speech now on various networks and messaging systems, and the way you speak to a friend, as opposed to a group of friends, colleagues, strangers, varies in all these scenarios. When it comes to producing a written piece as a work of art, an autobiography, story or other, does this matter more or less than what we have written otherwise, for school regarding topics of academic interest?
I'm not sure people really care that much to read a story about a secret society of vampire bartenders, but then it doesn't quite come down to just legacy. People write to write, to figure stuff out, see what happens along the way, whether for work or not. But, as I've done less writing now than in the past three years for work, I want to be able to rest at night, knowing I've written something that is just my own, my own words, free of the trademarks, names and symbols that I've been processing through my brain, ingesting the terms and use cases, using more words, general words to formulate the reader's perception of whatever manmade thing or idea I need to describe, writing to ensure intended functionality, per design. It is tantalizing to write that vampire story, or any story, and I suppose that even if I start now, it would take a long way for those brief words, a book, to become my legacy against those hundreds, maybe thousands of pages I have translated to English or edited. In the digital realm, if I were to vanish, my words are really someone else's or feeling only partially mine. Nobody sees my signature or handwriting in this place. Perhaps I should focus on publishing more in my own hand. My boss asserted people don't read anymore. I get what he means. They read fewer books, fewer fiction than they did previously. While that may be true, it doesn't deter me from writing to claim a new idea, to win my mind back after years of writing for others (for a living, a good one I think). Another thing: software code is writing. If I write a durable framework for music education - tracking progress allowing students to reference standard metronomes, falsetas, and educational resources in one dashboard. That could be just as worthwhile as a good vampire story, and in the case of software, few would even read the code. Even better : ) Group messaging is scary. Is that why chatrooms went away and now we have something in between with Twitter? Not quite static but not real time either. There is so much noise and malfeasance it's harder than ever to be heard and get a response in real time. As a result, we get the default treatment, and retreat into peer-to-peer digital worlds, where conversations revolve around consensus as the basis, the baseline, which comes with a sense of safety that was otherwise gained by political and group action out on the streets, discussions and political force was aligned in person, naysayers squelched. It all feels foreign and real, too real, having attended a political roundtable following this most recent election, where panelists framed the current predicament, who on the left and right are to blame, who are those around us who kill advancement toward a true liberal democracy..
Has group chat lost its currency to the forum, to the semi-live safety and "followerships" of Twitter and Facebook? When you get a default version of a browser you get news, mainstream outlets, you don't get a direct means to connect to others. With AOL that seemed to be the point. You instantly were connected through Aol's instant messenger. This felt like the whole point of the internet; now it's all gummed up with media. That whole idea that this was meant to connect people has been lost in favor of cornering the individual into a mindset; to sell them ideas.. Maybe Twitter is supposed to be that version of a group online platform, but it is still feeling static, with each user accessing their account through their own page, cross-posting, direct posting; it is jockeying based on identity as much as it is about proposing some idea about politics, art, or publishing truth about recent events, your own events or others. Even if a group assembles its numbers via an online platform, it is really a bunch of individuals in separate rooms creating peer-to-peer connections - publishing something to a group kind of feels cheap and invisible. The closest thing approximating an online group conversation is the chatroom, it solidified each person's opinions in a single group thread, in real time and their wasn't an ego aspect like there is today - Twitter handles are equated with identity (nobody makes a silly username or handle anymore that would obscure their id) because improving your identity on the internet is valued as it is memorable and lasting, so there is a strong disincentive to tarnishing it. The medium was the conversation, a thread which was condensed into continuous lines that wouldn't have to be presented via a browser refresh. I find few platforms provide that room mechanism in their usual service and they do so to reduce noise and increase quality of service, but the price we pay is that the noise adds an atmosphere, a human element that allows us to realize that conversation is inherently fallible, dependent on a certain timeframe, context. While a forum conversation allows fully formed ideas to persist, I think it gives a false idea that it suffices as conversation. Therefore, to find any group online in a facebook group or meetup group is you getting the static representation, at the date last updated. You wouldn't know from the platform what the group is like. The real time conversation is lost and the image the group fabricates to gain followers and traction in a mediated society, is what you see as the group: the salient viewpoints on a poster, which is an image, not a conversation. See NYTimes posts that have a gold seal at the corner of the post window. On Twitter you are presented with the person's handle, who they directed their message to, and their character-limited message, all these aspects of conversation undermine the message. When we focus on individuals, we focus less on actual progress toward a goal and instead indulge in the legend of an image, how this can prop up identity and lore in the virtual world. Being human today is more about fabricating a virtual self and proving it via platforms than it is about solidifying positive impact in real terms, and I feel sorry that I have not been more aware to frame my own impact in real terms, following the impact my work has had. As a translator, I haven't been able to that. All the typos corrected and words written are not consumable or enjoyable moments. They are preventive measures. To see nothing would be to see success, contradicting the whole purpose of following my work to see its effect. Why did the growth of social platforms outpace that of groups with the old school chatroom? This reason may have more to do with how humans identify with each other, and prefer talking to one another than a group, because it feels safer. Nobody can gang up on you at that instant, you can more easily hide away. Of course, bullying can transcend instances and be constant and relentless. When it comes to gaining a consensus and support, it's ostensibly more effective to raise funds for a cause if you do so for a single person, suggesting you can drive change more effectively by informing about the cause via the case of a single individual, rather than a disadvantaged group: http://ww2.kqed.org/news/2017/01/06/nicholas-kristof-how-do-we-change-the-world/ [at around 21 minutes]. I think aid organizations have caught onto this, but people are smarter than to believe they are donating to the person they see in a promotional pamphlet. Day 1 Torres to Serón - Bathrooms in the reception area, oddly fancy, no signs as to which are men's or women's - that was a theme in the park...Like they said at Erratic Rock in Puerto Natales - Keep eating. Keep moving. From the dropoff point at Hotel Las Torres, us trekkers received steady rain, pressed between the drops and mud, a full pack, fresh with dry gear and food for approximately a week's journey. A few birds scampered about, and the peace of the journey was established under dreary afternoon skies. There was a group of women affirming their fortitude to complete the O circuit and we shared a few steps before I stopped to assess my durability in wet conditions. They were faster than me. I was weighed down and had to rearrange the pack, a ritual I would repeat for the next few days. The trail was one of the flattest from Torres to Serón (approximate location), but the soggiest and loneliest. Several people crossed a shallow series of streams meant for horse crossing. I put sandles on and was one of the first to cross., but these weren't worn again and became wet weight on my back. Trudging past docile horses I arrived in camp, a crowded shelter with wet clothes hanging out about excited backpackers - they all attempted to dry as I checked in to camp the night. I had bought dinner and breakfast, which also afforded me some heat before I went to my tent, no sleeping bag - some blanket, a liner, and an emergency mylar blanket. A pro tip is to make sure this blanket is surrounding you as much as possible, else the wet ground will continue to reduce the effectiveness of the emergency blanket. Inside the warmth of an 8 x 4 kitchen I warmed up and became glued to my chair, content at consuming everything put on the table. Food is pricy in the park and I needed the energy, well salted bread and butter, soup, salmon, potatoes and peppers - I had no idea how they lugged it all into the park, on horse. "Pollo", the camp chef for "Vertice Patagonia" the company running the park campsites on the backside of the circuit said the only vehicle allowed in to that side was the gas delivery man. No matter, I was fed, and I went back to my tent to assess my accomodations. and wondered if my knee would hold up through the next days hikes. It rained and rained and night fell, bringing some trepidation and discomfort, processing the potential that I could be walking days in the rain, soaked through. When would I meet the limits of my mind and body? Was I already there? I awoke to the rain hitting the tent. I heard it through my ear plugs I wanted to drown it out with. The tent is a drum that intesifies the beat and volume of rain. My body was cold after night fell and threw me into a full panic. I felt I had to go back in the morning. down to the Hotel Las Torres to gather myself and plan to meet my friend via different route. (I told him I would find him at Refugio Grey on the 21st.) If it was raining at this elevation it surely meant there was snow on the Garner Pass and it would be closed, I said to myself. Out came my mylar blanket, my last defense. I felt the warmth reflected back onto my chest as I pulled it over me and I was soon asleep, but I awoke to doubt in the morning as the rain hadn't ceased. Day 2 Back in the warm kitchen I dried my rain fly, seeing as I wanted to put my air mattress in there, keeping my bedding dry would be essential to my comfort and even survival. I stumbled into the kitchen and felt I was a ball of fear, asking Pollo if the Pass would be happen. He allayed that fear, I ate quickly, packed up my things, and was on my way. The wet hiking boots soon became warm, and my feet, boots and mud underneath were all the same. I was moving and I felt I could complete the circuit for the first time since early the first day. Two figures stopped and started not too far in front of me in some bright colored jackets. I eagerly introduced myself, fearing a lonely hypothermic death on the trail. My new friends Marc and Kenny kept me moving, and my spirits up, that second day. We were making our way on the trail, which goes one way to Camp/Refugio Dickson, stopping first at the ranger station at Coirón. They set a brisk pace with their compact packs, me with mine barely able to keep up. Day 2 brought us around and over the north side of the hills that overlooked the Lago Paine and Río Paine. The sun broke through and we found peace. The cameras came out to photograph the scenery. Kenny sold me a memory card for my GoPro. The rangers who checked our camp reservations looked on studying the transaction, unamused, perhaps despising the park's welcome to everyone and their belongings, at the peril of losing focus on the natural surroundings. The rangers exchanged a few words with us. They are all young, proud, exemplary Chileans that exercise pride and confidence. They are strong and can run the trails, probably traversing twice the distances a tourist with a pack can. Through some tall grasses, Marc and Kenny rushed on toward Dickson, and I passed them and them me at various intervals. I saw Dickson from a loop, and they were probably already setting up camp. I was going on to Los Perros. After Dickson I walked through a valley south along Río del los Perros. After a 4/5 hour journey I had the same amount of time to get to the Los Perros camp. Now I was on the trail having it all to myself, the sound of the rushing river, checking constantly the boot prints giving me peace of mind I was on the right trail, thick forest, mud. occasionally popping out to miradores, nestled in the mountains. I had enough light to enjoy the sights, and I drew deep breaths at the splendor of snow capped giants around me with me pack, water, snacks. The comfort of knowing I was among great natural forces. It started raining again as I scrambled over rocks toward Los Perros, the last 2km seeming to take longer than an hour, I was huffing and puffing, my discomfort growing at each step on the rocks, an introduction of what was to come on Day 3. I could barely fill out the sign in sheet at the ranger station, or set up my tent. My exhaustion was present, but I felt I was going to make it to Refugio Grey the next day. Day 3 3:30am - The ranger said the absolute last time to depart for the pass was 8am. They would ensure all who left make it safely. So early, I was ready to move, start cooking corn soup, granola, the biggest day called for the most energy. Mice had eaten through my snack pocket in my backpack, which was not safe even under a rain fly of course, safe from rain, not from critters. Three hours up and up to the rocks then climbing more toward the Pass, the Garner Pass. I hardly looked back, I wanted to fly up to the top, my legs were strong, hands were cold. The gusts became stronger, and as I got closer, I started breathing, the expanses, the views got wider. There were snowflakes coming from a different direction then wind gusts from Glacier Grey. I was between a valley of rocks, a forest, a glacial ice field (Glacier Grey) on the opposite side, I saw nearly all levels of the cake from atop that pass and my two legs had walked it. Then what followed was a six hour descent through mud steps, so many steps and then back up to a ranger station. I applied tiger balm to my knee. It was red, inflamed, still is today from that hike. It wasn't nearly over after the climb. I had bridges, two spills, forded a river, scrambled up a sandy cliff, nearly got blown off the cliff rounding the west side against the glacier. The hardest part of the circuit was the last part of the hike after making it up the pass. At the end, I found George, spotless, his new gear hadn't felt dust before, and his glasses reflected rays from all sides. I was in tatters and seeing him was the ultimate comic relief. Later, i took two Advil (too many), nearly fainted in my soup, and moved my bum left leg/knee around using my arms. I was safe at Refugio Grey but in pain. The safety of establishment politics was effectively breached by a juggernaut, perfectly bankrupt by every standard, convinced one half of America was that it was their better choice.
A day after the results came in, it was like the results of a final exam just ended. A brief period of review began Wednesday, but before long comes another semester, except it is a whole four years, and the law is mighty explicit when it comes to removing the man, or woman if ever, in the top office. It is difficult, especially now with majority idiocies in both houses. Americans are united in this review of the personality of Trump. This is a dangerous product of a post-war America, an America that never wrongs in its gut feeling, that being white is equal to a moral right, and any contradiction of that essence is a shame, if not a crime. I suppose in a way we are like the opposite of North Korea, the America it loves to hate. One other item that is assumed in the shock of this election is that the sanctity of POTUS has been truly tarnished. Another is that the office was perhaps so tarnished before, for a black man having been elected to it. Could only a reciprocal, the polar opposite be the way to "correct" that for a great plurality of the right? What a strong dose of ignorance the people must have been given for that to be true? We stare at a long list of challenges on every front, and these are the big hold ups in the media, race, violence, our safety, our money, all our stuff. Dealing with the rest of the world's problems are not our own, secondary in a country, naturally, to the country's own problems, but the second class handling of the facts by all is so atrocious as to render this a total collapse of judgment on the part of the American people. We activate our senses so naturally for this political beauty pageant, and so intensely for morals, and try so painstakingly to work out diversity in clean terms, and we take for granted the real work in a democracy, which is to just fucking protect everyone as best as possible with all the wealth and help we are afforded, fought for by local politicians. It is a luxury to have that system, but it is killing us for being so selfish to hold ourselves to these dual tasks of being local and macro at once. We are simply fucking up on this high up island away from the rest of the world's problems. To hell with us, finally. |
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