Reverb 3

Push, Pop, and Stack the Human Brain – 8/24/2003

Secretary:"Hello, Gail Wynand’s office." Caller #1: "Hello, I’d like to speak with-" Secretary:"Please hold a moment, there’s another call coming in. Hello, Gail Wynand’s office." Caller #2: "Yes, ma’am, I’d like to inform your company that-" Secretary:"Hold on sir, there’s another call coming in. Hello, Gail Wynand’s office." Caller #3: "Oh Gail… Gaaaiilll….. doobie-doobie-do-" Puzzled, the Secretary hangs up on caller number three an returns to two. Secretary: "Thank you for holding." Caller #2: "Yes, I would like to inform your company that there will be a man calling, asking for Gail Wynand." The caller hangs up, the Secretary returns to the first caller. Secretary: "Thank you for holding." Caller #1: "Hello, I’d like to speak with Gail Wynand."
Any piece of music that is written is always written in a specific key. Most commonly the key of C. It is also the first and last note to be played. A home base note. Once a song is opened by a note, the subconcious picks it up as the first, and awaits the satisfaction of hearing it again. The rest of the piece is more or less to lead you astray, fake you out, and toy with your emmotions. That’s not saying that the note can’t be played anywhere else in the song, but the final note must return to the first.
In the next installment I’l discuss the specifics of the relationships betwen these two parts.

Push, Pop, and Stack some more – 9/2/2003

Escher was born on a tuesday. He was pulled out of non-existance completely helpless and completely innocent. He wore diapers until he was three. Happy kid, loved fish and listen to his mother play the violin. The unknown world around him both excited and frightened him. Eventually he grew up tall and he grew up smart, gave up fishing and and the like to destroy the secrets of the world around him. The more he progressed and learned, the more of his childish innocence he destroyed. One day, in his early forties, he came to a sad realization…there was nothing of interest left to learn. All the little secrets that made the world magical to him had been unveiled. The only unknown left was death. He turned his attention inward… He began putting his efforts and curiosities into his own family; took his son on walks; got his old fishing pole out of the garage rafters. After his son graduated and moved south to attend university, Escher’s cholesteral went to shit. He spent most of his time fishing in his boat while listening to Ali Bain play her violin on NPR. His brain started breaking down around age seventy four. He wasn’t able to do all the things he used to; a little senile, a little silly, he spent most of his time watching his grandchildren. Their predictable antics both excited and frightened him. He couldn’t remember loving life this much since he was a young boy. By age eighty he was back in diapers, he spoke his last word on friday, and died the following wednesday; slipping back into the mysterious land of the non-existant soon after the last traces of his humanity slipped away.
The following are lyrics to the first verse of a song you should know, followed by the chord progression that goes with it.
I am just a poor boy though my story’s seldom told. I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles such are promises. All lies in jest, still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest, hmm mm mmm….
C – Am
Am – G – G7 – G6 – C
C – Am – G – F – Am – C

Push, Pop, and Stack – Conclusion – 9/3/2003

The first attempt at programming artificial intelligence was done using what was called "Push, Pop, and Stack Programming." If a programmer was writing a line of code, and wanted to further detail a specific part of the code, he would "Push" into a sub-level, write the code for that, and "Pop" back to the original line when completed. Of course there were sub-levels within sub-levels; details within each detail. The programmer could Push and Pop freely in what was called the "Stack." This method of programming is very similar to how the mechanical human brain functions. I’ll provide a short allegorical example… Mr. Brown was walking through the woods when he found Mr. Rabbit reading a book on a log. "What are you reading there, Mr. Rabbit?" "Why, it’s actually a book about you and I, ironic you should be passing by at just this moment." "Will you read some to me?" "Sure" Mr. Rabbit begins reading aloud where he left off. "…although Mr. Rabbit wouldn’t share his canteen with Mr. Brown, he did offer him a piece of beef jerky for the long walk through the desert. "Thank you, Mr. Rabbit, I’m sure there will be an oasis somewhere along the path that I can drink from. Have a good day." With that Mr. Brown continued on down the desert path until he came apon a small shrine next to the road. In the shrine there was an oil painting of a garden and a small potion labeled "to Push, drink me." This made Mr. Brown curious, so he took a swig from the little bottle and immediately found himself inside a lush and beautiful garden. He bent down by a stream and took a long drink….
This is essentially a story, within a story, within a story. The end of my story doesn’t seem quite right, does it? That’s because I failed to "Pop" back up to the top level, back to the woods where Mr. Rabbit is reading to Mr. Brown. Much like any piece of music, the phone conversations with Gail Wynands secretary, and the life of Escher, a loop must be made…in other words, a paradox. This core theory is the center of my focus, and I believe it to be a good tool in answering some extreamly unanswerable questions. Why do we like music? What is God’s true face? How much potential can man kind truely have?

The Stranger – 9/6/2003

"The stranger is not just the person who arrives today and walks off tomorow. The stranger is the person who arrives today and stays on both tomorrow and maybe forever, but all the time with the potentiality to leave. Even if he or she does not go away, they have not quite abandoned the freedom in the possibility of leaving. This they know. So do their surroundings. He or she is a participant, a member, but less so than other people. The surroundings do not quite have a total grip on him. Often people are not more kind to eachother or more careful in respecting other people’s honour. The general explanation is simply that there is not so much to lose. Honour is not so important any more that one goes to the authorities when it is offended. Modern societies have an abundance of arrangments – intended and not so intended – which have as their end result that other people do not matter to the extent they once did. Our destiny is to be alone – private – or surrounded by people we only know to a limited extent, if we even know them at all." -Nils Christie "Crime Control as Industry"

Johnny Cash – 9/13/2003

"Well I woke up Sunday morning, with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt. And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad, so I had one more fo

r dessert. Then I fumbled through my closet, through my clothes, and found my cleanest dirty shirt. Then I washed my face and combed my hair, and stumbled down the stairs to meet the day. I smoked my mind the night before, with cigarettes and songs I’d been picking. So I lit my purse and watched a small kid, playing with a can that he was kicking. Then I stumbled down the street, and caught the Sunday smell of someone’s frying chicken. And Lord it took me back to something, that I lost somewhere somehow along the way. On a Sunday morning sidewalk, I’m wishing Lord that I was stoned. Cause there’s something in a Sunday, that makes a body feel alone. And there’s nothing short of dying, that’s half as lonesome as the south. Off these sleeping city sidewalks, and Sunday morning coming down." My obsession with Cash is simple. Honest virtue versus reckless abandon. Paradox artist, as well as a follower of my favorite moral code. Sad, though perhaps now I’ll be able to get some documentaries. "As the riders loped on by him, he heard one call his name; ‘If you want to save your soul from hell, or riding on our range, then cowboy change your ways tonight, or with us you will ride, trying to catch the devil’s herd, across these numerous skies.’"
"When I was just a baby my mamma told me ‘son, always be a good boy, don’t ever play with guns,’ but I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die. When I hear that whistle blowin’ I hang my head and cry,"

Crossing the Line – 9/16/2003

"And the mercy seat is waiting, and I think my head is burning, and in a way I’m yearning to be done with all this weighing of the truth, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, and anyway I told the truth, and I’m not afraid to die." When I was little there was something I always looked for; in every new territory that scratched innocence away one line at a time; I was always on the lookout for the portal. The hole. The door to that other world. My worst nightmares were of being left behind. People flying into the sky while I was stuck on the ground. I enjoyed jumping out to the last boulder that poked out of the water, and leaning over the deep blue eternity of the lake. My biggest facination and obsession as an innocent mind was finding impossible lines and trying to cross them. I never figured out how to dodge my clone in the mirror. When I was a teenager I finally found a portal. Several of them. Each had a different name, (Cocane, Cannibus, Acid, etc.). The early freedoms of adulthood brought further access to similar portals. Each group of friends I had, being as diverse as they were, were quite like completely different worlds. Though I lost the childish innocence, the great unknown of adulthood still loomed ahead, providing a large grey area to "escape" to. After having the option to cross the lines I recognised, I noticed something unexpected. My urge to to cross never receded. Once I crossed over to plane B, I was interested only in crossing back to plane A. Whenever I did a line or smoked a big fattie, all I wanted was something to make me sober again. And once I was sober, all I wanted was to get un-sober again. Whenever I walked into a house, all I wanted was to walk back outside again. I’ve trod on my lines so much so often that now they’re really quite vague…at least there’s always death. "And the mercy seat is burning, and I think my head is melting, and in a way it’s helping to be done with all this weighing of the truth, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, and anyway I told the truth, but I’m afraid I told a lie."

Brother Crows – 9/17/2003

"Three brother crows wheel, beak to heel, cutting a circle into the bruised and troubled sky, making fast, dark rings through the thicksome bloats of smoke. For so long the lid of the valley was clear and blue but now, by God, it roars. From where I lie the clouds look prehistorical, belching forth great faceless beasts that curl ‘n’ die, like that, above. And the crows – they still wing, still wheel, only closer now – closer now – closer now to me. These sly corbies are birds of death. They’ve shadowed me all my life. It’s only now that I can reel them in. With my eyes. I think I could almost remember how to sleep on this soft, warm circle of mud, for my rythms differ. They do. Sucked by the gums of this toothless grave, I go – into this fen, this pit, though I fear to get my kill-hand wet. In truth and as I speak, the two crows have staked out my eyes – like a couple of bad pennies they wheel and wait, while the rolling smoke curls and dies above, and I see that it turns darker now and I am by one full quarter gone under – or nearly and gaining."

From Emily, Wherever She May Find Me. – 9/18/2003

A friend of mine was required to write a character sketch of someone she knew in order to get into film school. The rest of this entry I quote from her. "At a window overlooking the bay I watch a character staring into the window, not out of it, peacefully sipping from a cup of steaming black coffee, waiting in perpetual expectation for something even he does not know. At about five foot ten inches he stands not tall but firm in a body with no overbearing or large features, pacing back and forth, forth and back again. As he saunters into the room with a confidence in his voice, a deep, smooth voice, and in his step, a comfortable, assured step, he reminds me of a classy star of film’s golden age. His style is just as simple and effective: sandy pants, a white shirt, and classic black pea coat. This figure is recognized by everyone, but those he recognizes with esteem are few. Most who know him know the depth of his emotions no clearer than the clouds of smoke he exhales from his cigarettes. His face is round and boyish and pallid, like the one spot on earth that the sun has not marred. Framing his face is his hair, as dark as solemn midnight, parted in the center in the style of his idols from Liverpool. His visage is anything but appealing in the typical way; he would not be considered by most typically handsome. However, a certain charm within him, an intangible quality, makes him appear to be even what he is not; like an unlikely hero who has a seemingly overwhelming handicap. Few can cause the appeal of inner beauty to seem so genuine and so effortless as he does. The power this attribute unleashes is what he carries with him, like a secret kept in a small box, and when necessary, he unleashes it-sometimes for good, other times for evil purposes. Like any charismatic character, a piper fights the temptation to lead his disciples to the pit of Hell, just for fun – and sometimes the piper gives in. In fact, often he gives in. He has the power to lead almost anyone into sin, just by being near him. Yet, this evil is somehow alluring to most of those he contacts. This is what perplexes and engages even me. His eyes are also dark and carry in them the mystery of a sparkling twinkle which sometimes spreads down to his lips in the quiet way of a small, placid grin. His eyes are always large, always wide, always observing – almost staring – always alive. This is where his intelligence shows. He was brought up to study and observe the traditions of his devout Catholic family. In the twenty years he has lived he has learned the doctrine – has been practically

immersed in it – and has spent years defending and debating with those who disagree, but he has never fully embraced the discipline of his faith. Thus, his very person is based on the instability, the hypocrisy, of his integrity. He prefers to look around, take everything in, rather than commit to anything. But this has come to nothing for him in his life experience, which has yielded many a friend but few solid confidants; many an ambition with little success; many a lover but never a true soul mate. These failures give him an inward melancholy air, one only the perceptive can see, and only that when he is alone and he thinks no one is watching. His persona carries around with him the impression of a classy Clark Gable, sometimes a tough but tortured Bogey from Casablanca, but always the dark, luscious villain he has created for himself, a Devil’s advocate, an Al Pacino; he combines all three in a clever disguise, a self-contrived enigma. He invents and reinvents the character he wants to play by manipulating his three core principles, his idea of character immortality: simple kindness, simple confidence, and simple intelligence. This simplicity is only, of course, in his attitude, which makes these attributes appear genuine. He knows his actions and he knows himself – a different person than he lets anyone see – because he forces his mind to control his actions instead of his instincts. This ability to conceal his emotions makes it possible for him to embody his character ideals, all at one time. He is fully concentrated on not only appearing to be but being the person he wants to be, the character he things he aught to be, his ultimate design of perfection. He is the character who drives the story and makes it real. Through a forceful, powerful personality he creates drama with everything he touches, everyone who confides in him, anything that comes his way. He is the ideal image of a conflict between good and evil, charm and deception, emotion and ambiguity. But the only way his character can come to resolution is by realizing he does not have to be any of these things."

Spoiled – 9/21/2003

Spoiled children soon to fall. Freedom is the vibe we live. We will wait in tragedy. And scatter helpless to the fire. Sorry for ourselves, sorry for the things we’ve sinned. No one cries for help, waiting for the fire.