Got a little sound issue. Gotta post this to verify. A piece from a suite by Carlo Domeniconi.
Monthly Archive for April, 2009
My apologies to all who’ve posted comments on this site. Your remarks are all lost to the world but I know your words and I thank you for them. In an act of temporary insanity caused by the relentless spammers I apparently happened to press the delete key one to many times. But it brings to the table the query: Spam. Who needs it? Who wants it? Who the fuck sends it and finally what evil demon wants people to check out their crap through an illicit mail?
I’m not gonna pretend I truly comprehend the ways of these wicked and lesser beings, but I have taken necessary measures against them by providing the reCAPTCHA WordPress plugin. It takes you another 15 seconds to post your much appreciated comment, but saves me a lot of time and wasted energy. But wait, as the creators explain, there’s more:
“While the world is in the process of digitizing books, sometimes certain words cannot be read. reCAPTCHA uses a combination of these words, further distorts them, and then constructs a CAPTCHA image. After a ceratin percentage of users solve the ‘uknown’ word the same way it is assumed that it is the correct spelling of the word. This helps digitize books, giving users a reason to solve reCAPTCHA forms. Because the industry level scanners and OCR software which are used to digitize the books can’t read the words with which the CAPTCHAs are constructed, it is safe to assume that in-house spam-bot OCR techniques will not be able to bypass the CAPTCHA either.”
So please keep them comments coming. You might “save the world” a smidgen while you do it. At least it doesn’t hurt. Download the file below and loop it at home and after an hour at max volume, you’ll know how much I enjoy spam.
Here I go again. This song started out as a personal challenge. Having made and played the most intricate music, both metal and classical, I figured it was time for a twist. How simple a song could i write musically and lyrically, and could I get away with it? Happy Buoy too is part of this experiment which, successful or not, at least gave me plenty inspiration and a new understanding of my favorite pastime.
It’s called playing music, and that’s what I do. I play. In the norwegian language there are two words (at least) for the english word play: “spille” and “leke”. As in for instance “play an instrument” (spille), and “play in the yard with the other kids” (leke). I very much prefer the english word. You don’t have to take people seriously just because they have a sullen expression. It’s more than likely they’re just acting busy.
Don’t take me seriously anyway. I’m just playing.
Africa, anyone? I lived in Africa, in fact for a period of two years. My parents made the incredibly wise decision to join the Peace Corps so in November -76 the family of six moved to Botswana. Which is where I evolved into music.
Unlike the other “white” kids who went to a european/american boarding school in the capital city Gaborone, we luckily attended local schools. We lived about 40 km north of Gaborone, in Mochudi, a village with six primary and two secondary schools. I am personally a proud graduate from Isang Primary School 1978. One of the mandatory subjects was apparently choral singing, and all the schools met, twice a year I think, in a singing competition at a local church, a kind of battle of the choirboys (and girls).
We had a fantastic, enthusiastic, vibrant lady as a conductor. My African mom: Mrs. Hersey. I can’t remember exactly the different melodies we performed but the mood they created as well as the indomitable enthusiasm and faith dear Mrs. Hersey diligently and pure at heart spread upon our world will always remain at the base of my character and help me define myself and my surroundings.
We were quite successful my choir, winning prizes and actually moving on to the national finals. You can imagine: School uniforms, girls in green dresses and all the boys in khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirts. And in the middle, first row, a little to the left, Grim, blond hair, blue eyes, red sunburnt skin. Sore thumb?
Not really. It wasn’t until we returned to Norway, December -78, that I got a taste of what it’s like to be different. I mean, in Botswana my appearance gave me away but it didn’t matter to my friends: Black, white, red, blue, yellow, green. It meant fuckall. A boy’s a boy. A man’s a man. Also it didn’t hurt to not suck in tennisfootball. But when we returned to Norway, at school the kids were hateful towards me, dubbing me “nigger” and other supposedly derogatory remarks, behaving in ridiculous ways they’re probably shameful of to this day. But they were apparently, besides being insecure hormonal teens desperately trying to fit in, carrying a message from around the dinner tables at home: Who do you think you are doing something none of us could even conjure up a dream about doing? Well, I was 11years. So… I dunno
Seeing this contrast of behavior is of course also a defining scene for me. Those who had no possessions take you in with love and trust, while those who have all the stash in the catalogue, and then some, chase you away with hate and suspicion.
I know where I belong. Yet in retrospect I wouldn’t be without any of these experiences. To live and learn you have to live at least a little.
I’m glad in any case to have been there and there. And I’m glad I’m here. And wherever I am at anytime really. Man, I hope that’s what I learned from this. That would make a great story.
Have switched all technological gadgets off so as to not be disturbed by irrelevance. Find myself disturbed just by going to the baker for bread and being cut in line by a ‘human’
