Thursday, August 27, 2009
Walt Whitman - Pioneers! O Pioneers!
Come my tan-faced children,
Follow well in order, get your weapons ready,
Have you your pistols? have you your sharp-edged axes?
Pioneers! O pioneers!
For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O you youths, Western youths,
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship,
Plain I see you Western youths, see you tramping with the foremost,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Have the elder races halted?
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied over there beyond the seas?
We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the lesson,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the past we leave behind,
We debouch upon a newer mightier world, varied world,
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
We detachments steady throwing,
Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing as we go the unknown ways,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
We primeval forests felling,
We the rivers stemming, vexing we and piercing deep the mines within,
We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Colorado men are we,
From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high plateaus,
From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
From Nebraska, from Arkansas,
Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental
blood intervein'd,
All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the Northern,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O resistless restless race!
O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all!
O I mourn and yet exult, I am rapt with love for all,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Raise the mighty mother mistress,
Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress,
(bend your heads all,)
Raise the fang'd and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon'd mistress,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
See my children, resolute children,
By those swarms upon our rear we must never yield or falter,
Ages back in ghostly millions frowning there behind us urging,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
On and on the compact ranks,
With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly fill'd,
Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O to die advancing on!
Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come?
Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill'd.
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the pulses of the world,
Falling in they beat for us, with the Western movement beat,
Holding single or together, steady moving to the front, all for us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Life's involv'd and varied pageants,
All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work,
All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the hapless silent lovers,
All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
I too with my soul and body,
We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way,
Through these shores amid the shadows, with the apparitions pressing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Lo, the darting bowling orb!
Lo, the brother orbs around, all the clustering suns and planets,
All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
These are of us, they are with us,
All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait behind,
We to-day's procession heading, we the route for travel clearing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O you daughters of the West!
O you young and elder daughters! O you mothers and you wives!
Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Minstrels latent on the prairies!
(Shrouded bards of other lands, you may rest, you have done your work,)
Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Not for delectations sweet,
Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the studious,
Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Do the feasters gluttonous feast?
Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock'd and bolted doors?
Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Has the night descended?
Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged nodding
on our way?
Yet a passing hour I yield you in your tracks to pause oblivious,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Till with sound of trumpet,
Far, far off the daybreak call--hark! how loud and clear I hear it wind,
Swift! to the head of the army!--swift! spring to your places,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
An Open Letter to Rupert Murdoch Regarding Paid, Subscription News Services
Dear Sir,
Business strategies that are hinged on turning a free, non-subscription based service into a subscribed, paid service - ideas generally purported by silent generation dinosaurs; persons with "few standards, few ideals, and an education increasingly specialized [and] without cultural breadth" [Silent Generation, Time, 1951.] are doomed to a quiet, predictable failure.
Rupert Murdoch is a decaying, fossilised caricature of the anti-capitalists who once controlled every piece of industry and infrastructure; men who believed markets must be monopolised to create effective revenue. Surely this persistence of leadership is indicative of the state of our capitalist economy? How else could a toothless wolf survive unless it begins to regulate and exploit those beneath them? And surely the subordinates are just as guilty; where is the Darwinian beauty of the capitalistic ideals when it is most needed? How can a free market be extolled as so virtuous by the same persons who would commit the ultimate perversion of allowing the most inefficient strategies to survive?
In short, dear Rupert, the horse has long since bolted and you are proceeding to flog a putrid corpse. Attempting to SELL INFORMATION ON THE INTERNET (especially that with a half-life of 30 minutes or less) is akin to teaching a dead horse with five legs how to square dance: IT'S A BAD FUCKING IDEA. You are attempting to monopolise the unmonopoliseable (sic); the internet was proposed as method of protecting information exchange from a nuclear attack - It can be pretty much guaranteed that it can protect us FROM YOU!
Forever Yours,
Wild Oscar
Business strategies that are hinged on turning a free, non-subscription based service into a subscribed, paid service - ideas generally purported by silent generation dinosaurs; persons with "few standards, few ideals, and an education increasingly specialized [and] without cultural breadth" [Silent Generation, Time, 1951.] are doomed to a quiet, predictable failure.
Rupert Murdoch is a decaying, fossilised caricature of the anti-capitalists who once controlled every piece of industry and infrastructure; men who believed markets must be monopolised to create effective revenue. Surely this persistence of leadership is indicative of the state of our capitalist economy? How else could a toothless wolf survive unless it begins to regulate and exploit those beneath them? And surely the subordinates are just as guilty; where is the Darwinian beauty of the capitalistic ideals when it is most needed? How can a free market be extolled as so virtuous by the same persons who would commit the ultimate perversion of allowing the most inefficient strategies to survive?
In short, dear Rupert, the horse has long since bolted and you are proceeding to flog a putrid corpse. Attempting to SELL INFORMATION ON THE INTERNET (especially that with a half-life of 30 minutes or less) is akin to teaching a dead horse with five legs how to square dance: IT'S A BAD FUCKING IDEA. You are attempting to monopolise the unmonopoliseable (sic); the internet was proposed as method of protecting information exchange from a nuclear attack - It can be pretty much guaranteed that it can protect us FROM YOU!
Forever Yours,
Wild Oscar
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Dear Esther
I'm pretty late to the party on this one (version 1.1 was released early this year) but I cannot recommend Dear Esther highly enough.
Created as a research piece by Dan Pinchbeck, it is less a game (there is no real gameplay, just moving through the world) than an experiment with narrative and storytelling.
As the player explores the environment the narrators exposition is gradually unfolded from a tree of dialogue that presents the story differently with each play-through (well, for the first three times anyway!). The non-linear narrative and presentation add to the power of the story and a very real sense of anxiety, fear, loss and despair is perfectly conveyed.
As the narrative approaches climax and begins to decay - reflected by the increasingly surreal images, ideas and soundtrack - it becomes clear that in a very short space of time (40 minutes-ish go-to-wow) the player/participant has, through the seemingly passive act of controlling movement and viewpoint, become far more involved than would be possible in a more conventional literary medium. The psychosis of the protagonist becomes almost tangible within the players psyche; insanity is simulated with surprising acumen.
The fear created by the final scene is the real deal, crafted from suspense and trepidation rather than cheap ghost-train style fright tricks (of which there are none) and conclusion is elusive at best. The player is left not fulfilled but engaged, forced into placing a personal interpretation on what cannot ever be a closed narrative and left with the distinct impression that for a short time the fourth wall has been blurred out of existence.
The question, then, is not whether Dear Esther is a piece of art but whether its influence will be lost in an industry that spectacularly delivers to the base urges of the 18-35 male demographic. At the very least this experiment is a window onto where our interactive media could (should) be headed; a place where emotional interaction and exchange is far more sophisticated than the violent dynamic that currently pervades and defines an entire industry.
Here is the first three minutes, just to give you a taste - although I would recommend jumping straight into it without spoilers for best effect!
Best consumed alone, in darkness, wearing headphones.
Dear Esther is a free "mod" or modification created by Dan Pinchbeck and constructed using publicly available tools for Half Life 2. You must have a copy of HL2 to be able to play.
A few links:
Official download
Here is a better article on Dear Ester.
A 3rd party remake of Dear Ester is already in progress...
Created as a research piece by Dan Pinchbeck, it is less a game (there is no real gameplay, just moving through the world) than an experiment with narrative and storytelling.
As the player explores the environment the narrators exposition is gradually unfolded from a tree of dialogue that presents the story differently with each play-through (well, for the first three times anyway!). The non-linear narrative and presentation add to the power of the story and a very real sense of anxiety, fear, loss and despair is perfectly conveyed.
As the narrative approaches climax and begins to decay - reflected by the increasingly surreal images, ideas and soundtrack - it becomes clear that in a very short space of time (40 minutes-ish go-to-wow) the player/participant has, through the seemingly passive act of controlling movement and viewpoint, become far more involved than would be possible in a more conventional literary medium. The psychosis of the protagonist becomes almost tangible within the players psyche; insanity is simulated with surprising acumen.
The fear created by the final scene is the real deal, crafted from suspense and trepidation rather than cheap ghost-train style fright tricks (of which there are none) and conclusion is elusive at best. The player is left not fulfilled but engaged, forced into placing a personal interpretation on what cannot ever be a closed narrative and left with the distinct impression that for a short time the fourth wall has been blurred out of existence.
The question, then, is not whether Dear Esther is a piece of art but whether its influence will be lost in an industry that spectacularly delivers to the base urges of the 18-35 male demographic. At the very least this experiment is a window onto where our interactive media could (should) be headed; a place where emotional interaction and exchange is far more sophisticated than the violent dynamic that currently pervades and defines an entire industry.
Here is the first three minutes, just to give you a taste - although I would recommend jumping straight into it without spoilers for best effect!
Best consumed alone, in darkness, wearing headphones.
Dear Esther is a free "mod" or modification created by Dan Pinchbeck and constructed using publicly available tools for Half Life 2. You must have a copy of HL2 to be able to play.
A few links:
Official download
Here is a better article on Dear Ester.
A 3rd party remake of Dear Ester is already in progress...
Blurb Blurb... No sincerity or danger today, t'anks!
Wow. My eyes: they burn!
I have to admit I am not an Animal Collective fan; I guess that up to - uh, I dunno, this morning sometime - I must have had my massive, studio sized mixing board tuned to the exact frequency of suck. But whatever I did to my dials and whidgets and MULTITUDE of sliders last night (isn't it funny how the times we don't remember can often be the most productive) I am now sure that Merriweather Post Pavilion is fucking amazing.
*Fires up time machine*
Black Monk Time is a bit of a rarity in the sense that five American soldiers stationed in West-Germany managed to produce an early Vietnam era anti-war album that purportedly stands as one of the founding documents of Krautrock. Angry and inspired and without tolerance for the glorification of slaughter that seems to be the eternal media legacy of every foreign policy interaction enacted by the US since 1941.
But still, c'mon guys, you won the war (and you insist on reminding me of that one moment of glory over and over AND OVER AGAIN), let them found their own damn genre.
Both these albums seem to encapsulate an alienating sense of weirdness which becomes their most salacious asset - just as long as it can be remembered that idiosyncrasies are nothing without strong song writing.
Letterman strikes again! The Ed Sullivan Theater seems to lean itself to memorable performances, as Youtube can attest. Bat For Lashes serves to remind me that I don't have to automatically despise tambourine-welding, overly made-up, neck-tutu clad English lasses. I like suprises!
This is the first few seconds of one of my favorite songs of all time.
Gotta love the interweb.
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