Aspiring to connect with a world beyond our consciousness and our planet, nimiia vibié sounds the interactions between a neural network, audio recordings of early Martian language, and microscopic footage of extremophilic space bacteria. Here, the computer is a medium, channeling messages from entities that usually cannot speak. However, it is also an alien of our creation.
Drawing on nimiia cétiï, Jenna Sutela’s project on machine learning and interspecies communication, the record manifests a more-than-human language. This language is based on the computer’s interpretation of a Martian tongue from the late 1800s, originally channeled by the French medium Hélène Smith and now voiced by Sutela, as well as the movement of Bacillus subtilis, an extreme-loving bacterium that, according to recent spaceflight experimentation, can survive on Mars. The bacterium is also present in nattō, or fermented soybeans, a probiotic food considered as a secret to long life. Beyond Bacterial-Martian culture, or Martian gut bacteria, the project attempts to express the nonhuman condition of computers that work as our interlocutors and infrastructure.(from the statement on the Bandcamp page for this wonderful thing)
WARREN ELLIS LTD Articles.
I had drinks with a screenwriter earlier today, and the subject of Kevin Smith came up, so I told him my Kevin Smith story. It occurred to me on the train home that I’ve never told this in public before, so here it is.
I don’t know Kevin Smith. Never met him, spoke to him, or communicated with him. I was given to understand, many many many years ago, that he was a bit pissed off with an offhand comment I made in an interview one time. So that’s the context.
This is all, as I say, many years ago. This guy emails me and says, my best friend’s in the hospital and it doesn’t look like he’s going to come out again. And he loves all Kevin Smith’s stuff. He works in comics like you, and you guys all know each other, so is there a way to, I dunno, get a letter from Kevin Smith for my friend, or a phone call, or a signed something, I dunno?
I don’t know Kevin Smith. I did meet Joe Quesada about five years previous, and I don’t know him as such at that point, and I don’t have a relationship with him, but I do have an email address for him, and I know he knows Kevin Smith. So I send the email to Joe and say, I know we don’t really know each other, but would you be okay with forwarding this to Kevin Smith?
A few months later, I get an email saying, I’m the guy whose best friend was in the hospital. And here’s what happened.
Joe, who had no reason to read any email from me, saw the email and with huge kindness forwarded the email to Kevin Smith. Kevin Smith has no reason to read an email with my name on it either.
Kevin Smith stands up, makes some calls, gets on a plane, flies all the way across America and goes to the hospital and spends an entire day with the guy’s best friend.
I still don’t know Kevin Smith, and have never spoken to him, but here’s what I know about Kevin Smith. He stands the fuck up.
And that’s my Kevin Smith story.
I discovered this a few months ago, and only just got around to picking it up. It is nine improvised soundscapes with no edits. It is, as you may imagine from the title, like listening to someone paint the sky. There are raw, rumbling textures that are very nearly the sound of the pigment against the tooth of the paper. MORPHING CLOUDS is a good place to be tonight.
First off, a book is rarely “finished.” It’s just that various factors weigh in to make you stop fiddle-farting around with it. Second, never ask anyone who’s just finished a book if they’re happy with it, because the answer is always IT’S AWFUL MY CAREER IS OVER GET AWAY FROM ME I WILL TEAR YOUR FUCKING HEART OUT AND EAT IT IN FRONT OF YOU. There’s a terrible space between the conclusion of the copy-editing and the release of the thing where you’re convinced that it’s a rotten piece of work and you’re going to be Found Out and everything is over. You start telling the wall — because you don’t know anybody any more, because you’ve been indoors for months destroying a laptop with your crap — that if you only had another six months, if you could just alter a couple of things, if you could just maybe take out and replace a plotline, and maybe the main plot, and all the characters, and change the title, and write a whole different book, then everything would be fine.
You won’t start liking it again until six months after your “friends” have helpfully forwarded you all the bad reviews. You come out from under your bed muttering “…wait, what? Did they even read the fucking thing?” And, as this delusion of competence takes hold, you start thinking about writing another book, having completely forgotten everything in the first paragraph.
(written 31 May 2016 , recovered from morning.computer)
I was thinking about cave lions. These were British lions that were the size of a car, that haunted Britain ten thousand years ago. And by haunted, I mean the myth of the British lion extends into Shakespeare’s Forest of Arden. And by myth I mean the persistent story of a wild British countryside. Lions and brown bears, aurochs and lynxes and wolves. The brown bear vanished in the Dark Ages, and the wolf was going while Shakespeare was writing As You Like It. The Tarpan horse was gone before people started walking the Ridgeway. The Neolithic enclosure was permanently altering the landscape millennia before the Enclosures Act. This is why people talk about rewilding, and why, in A BRANCH FROM THE LIGHTNING TREE, Martin Shaw talks about having to go halfway up Mount bloody Snowdon to find “wilderness.” It’s a small island, heavily managed for many thousands of years, and nature long ago became a story we tell ourselves while we tramp down footpaths and national trails on the powdered bones of giant lions.
(originally written 16 October 2014, recovered from morning.computer)
Yesterday I had a meeting at the British Library. I was expecting a sit-down in a side office. Instead, I was conveyed down into the guts of the building.
It has several sub-basement levels, not all of which are accessible on all the lift shafts. The ceilings are ribboned with conveyor belts, which transport materials from all over the building to the reading and listening rooms in the public library. The red trays on the conveyor travel at about a mile an hour — it can take forty-five minutes to transport any one requested article — because some of the Library’s materials are too fragile to survive any faster movement.
In a sealed room sits a signed recording of James Joyce reading from ULYSSES, preserved in conditions approaching that of Mars.
I saw twenty-inch vinyl records made for the armed forces by NBC, handled Edison wax cylinders, and met an engineer trying to pull a digital transfer off a 78 made out of gelatin and glass. Great marches of travelling racks full of music, scripts, radio capture and field recording. It’s only being there that drives home that they keep everything.
The cultural breath of the whole country, and every form of culture that enters it — it all goes here.
I didn’t want to leave. It was like living in the heart of perfect Albion for a moment.
(originally written 28 Oct 2015, recovered from morning.computer)
The other Laraaji record I wanted on physical, the superb collaboration with Blues Control, arrived. It’s worth it for “Freeflow” alone.
The one below is what I’m listening to right now. It’s a space between certain musics and methods. A couple of different generations of ambient styles, traditional and classical musics, early instruments and digital futures. It’s calm and explorational. I want to live inside it for the rest of the day.
The FRKWYS series has been inspirational.
yes i’m a writer who talks about music all the time deal with it
Iam rubescebat stellis aurora fugatis
This single line of the Aeneid sounded several times in my mind while I was writing the previous sentences. I believe the English equivalent of the Latin to be: The stars had now been put to flight, and the dawn was reddening.BORDER DISTRICTS, Gerald Murnane