My friend Byeong Sam sometimes uses his Latin-covered keyboard to type Hangul. I asked if there are any connections between the Latin consonants and the way they are used to form the Korean characters — he said no. Furthermore, there are some passwords that he knows in Korean but are stored using Latin characters. He doesn't really pay attention to what these passwords are, just the gestures that form them.
A method for destroying data: send optical discs in the mail, with no protection, back and forth between two locations. The data may be collected each time and noted for future reference. Potential subjects include compressed and uncompressed media (audio, video) and written texts. Consider also a iterative/recursive algorithm where the distortion provides a decision for a chance operation: the CD contains a list of addresses, and every time an address is lost the CD is sent to that address.
Number words constitute a small collection of words that are easily encoded in an alternate representation (numerals).
Reading over the MPEG-1 specifications annex document from the ISO, I found an interesting poem:
short blocks
scale factor bands, width of band
index of start, index of end
zero four zero three
one four four seven
two four eight,
eleven.
I'm curious how many sound-features of English language poetry can be imitated in numbers. Here's my own number-poem (to be spoken aloud):
1 5 13
2 1 20
0 3 14
5 0 70
25 22
26 27
59 62
811
Alvin Lucier's best known work fed to the engines at Free Translation and Google about 6 times back and forth from Simplified Chinese:
I sat in a room different from the one you are now. I recorded my voice of opinion and speech, I will be back to repeat any room drama until the clock speed of a room, I echo the rhythm of speech and perhaps their own similar exception, were defeated. You will hear, then clearly from the echo of his speech is the frequency room is a natural gift. I do not like such a vulnerable to him, have once again demonstrated the fact that natural things, but take off any more of my freedom of speech might have.
Two realizations by Caitlin, one on February 23, 2008:
aaaaaaqwertyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyy898885553iopujuuuop iiiijj2kopppppppoocvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv zxcxxxxxxxxgggggzzzqqtttnmmmmmmmmmmmm66666-= 00999999999hkkkkbbbbbb gfdFAsddd00000000````````11111111nnn///////hllllll
ssssssrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrwwwfhfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff ;]][,.>.....cchhhh,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,]]]]]]];;;;[[[[[[[[ [[[[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\44'''D
And another from May 4th, 2008:
qqqqqqqqqqqqjjjjggfffhhhhhhhhhhbioiopuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrr asdsssyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyggggggggggiocvbbvvviopppppADFGDFJKJJ JJJJJJJJ[[[KKOOOBXXX,,MNLLL./,,,TTTTTTTT;;WWW \\\\\\\\\ IIIII FFFFFFFFFF ZZZZZZZZ MMADDDAACCCCCCC.'/'' ee]]]]]]]]...../
(The horizontal lines are in fact much longer, but they had to be broken for the purpose of this post.)
In the last century a tradition has developed that places awareness at the center of art. One of my favorite realizations of this idea comes from John Cage's famous "silent piece"/4'33": the music consists of any sound the audience is aware of. Surely this can be expanded into other forms:
And by "is", I should say "requires", as it is possible to have awareness without art, but not art without awareness. And, perhaps, the only distinction between these two cases is the label applied to that which one is aware of (whether it is classified as/connected to other things called "art"). I can imagine "beauty" working the same way: requiring awareness (and perhaps, the label "art"), but then being nothing more than an additional label.
A friend of mine was incredibly bored during a critique/review session a few days ago and started drawing transitional shapes. Starting with a circle, she would slowly sharpen four points into a square, drawing each iteration from left to right. A friend joined in and made it into a challenge by drawing the beginning and ending forms and having her fill in the middle.
She shared this with me later that day while I was doing some musical improvisation with two other people. A corresponding musical game was obvious: one of us produced the initial sound, another the final sound, and the third the inbetween sound.
Today, the same friend sent me a poem playing with words. There was a clear connection between adjacent words: teach, tech, mech, etc. Sometimes the connection was orthographic, sometimes phonetic. Later, she framed it as a challenge: "get from 'potter' to 'u'".
While the game itself ("The Inbetween Game") is wonderful, what's most interesting to me here is the idea of a generic game form: the same basic principle being applied to multiple domains (drawing, music, language). Can we abstract other games into generic forms that describe game-families? Meta-games?
I'd like to see a collection of videos on YouTube taking advantage of the potential title/content dichotomy allowed by the format. For example, videos titled "Tsunami" displaying a small, regular wave. "Earthquake" showing an unexpected misstep in someone's stride. "Pileup" showing a minor bumper bender. It would be ideal if the scenario presented had the potential to develop into the titular situation, but refused to manifest.
I meant to go from Delft to Paris in the afternoon, but got stuck about halfway. I got to Brussels easily, identified the next train to Paris, and went to get some lunch before boarding. I thought I still had a couple minutes left when I went to get some Belgian chocolate for "dessert", but I didn't. I missed the train for chocolate. The next one was in an hour. I missed it too, but for a different reason: as I tried to board I found out it was a high speed train and needed reservations. Options:
I took option 1, since it was already four or five in the afternoon. I'm glad I stayed, Brussels is one of the best surprises yet.
I followed a group of backpackers getting off the train — they were going generally in the direction of the hostel and looked like they knew what they were doing. Everything turned out well; I got a bed and went to a nearby grocery store for some food. I meant to go to this restaurant a dorm mate recommended (an architecture student from Berkeley), but the grocery store is actually a funny story. Once you enter you can't leave unless you walk by one of the checkout lines, so my desire to get food elsewhere was subdued by my desire to not get caught up in a confusion of French and Dutch when they noticed I was leaving with a water bottle that I bought somewhere else. Of course, it drew confusion anyway. Brussels is a wonderful Bermuda triangle for expectations. Oh, and it's worth noting one of the things I bought was the Belgian equivalent of Pocky sticks.
Some memorable incidents from Brussels:
I finally did my laundry that evening. This is worth noting because it's when I ran into Cherry and Trent. They're an Australian couple who spent the last nine months in Southeast Asia and are just now starting a few months in Europe. We talked about travel a bit and had some Belgian beer.
Apparently a very specific type of bacteria that grows only in Brussels in used in some Belgian beer. It's collected from a river that used to run down the center of the city but has since been paved over since it stank terribly due to sewage problems. I simultaneously do and don't hope this is true.
The dryer wasn't working, which we later learned was due to our incompetence, but this required us to sit around for a very long time. Eventually a Mexican guy named Ricardo joined us, and the conversation turned to a sort of "travel activism", and how we could unite people in need with people who want to help, but with a focus on international relationships rather than just local ones. Ricardo does business and Trent has experience and ideas. I just fueled the fire. We exchanged emails, and we'll see what happens.
After spending so much time at the Science Museum, I decided I'd visit the Natural History Museum the next day, before leaving for the Netherlands. Before I left, Basia took me over to see her mother. We only talked for a few minutes, but decided that when I came back through London we would all go to a pub and chat.
Nearby the Natural History Museum is a restaurant called Daquise. I heard from Basia that my grandparents went there when they were in London, so I had some barszcz for lunch and soaked up all the Polish conversation.
The Natural History Museum had a huge line outside, but it moved quickly. Plus you don't really notice because the building itself is so impressive it keeps your interest. The Museum had tonnes of everything you can imagine. From birds to plants to dinosaurs. I was most amazed by this piece taken from a medieval trough that showed the work/rest days like tree rings. And of course there's the earthquake room, which is such a low magnitude I didn't notice the floor was moving until I looked at the walls. I guess California does that to you.
I still had some time until my train left for the ferry to the Netherlands, so I went to the British Museum — known best for its many "acquired" treasures. There were a few pieces I wanted to see, but it was closing so I could only get into the central area where I promptly began experimenting with the acoustics. Certain spots in that space have some of the longest natural delay I've ever heard.
My train left from the Liverpool Street station, so I went over there and got dinner from Marks and Spencer. Marks and Spencer absolutely amazes me. It's really just a small grocery store, but every single product is "Marks and Spencer brand". Every product has the same design for their packaging — and it all looks very hip. I think their hummus is really good, too, but everything tastes good when you're hungry.
The only problem with buying food in the Liverpool Street station is that there are absolutely no rubbish bins in the entire station. The central area is two stories and bigger than a football field, and there isn't a single trash can. I looked for at least half an hour. If you find, let me know where. I'll give you a gold star and my empty yogurt cup.
From London the train went to Harwich (though no one knows where "har-witch" is, only "hair-itch"). There was a beautiful sunset followed by some staff leading a few passengers through a surreal empty train station onto a bus, which then drove into the ferry. It all seemed really sketchy, but then we took the elevator up and there were plenty of carpeted hallways and whatnot. The room was probably the nicest I'll stay in for a while. I got my first hints of a necessary bilingualism when the started announcing things in Dutch, and then English.
We lost an hour crossing the timezones, and arrived at Hoek van Holland (Hook of Holland) at 7:30 in the morning. We had breakfast before disembarking, and I had a great meal with some sinaasappelsap. Somehow orange juice tastes better when it has such a ridiculous name.
There's plenty more to say about the Netherlands, but I'll save it for the next post — I'm still catching up on translating my short scribbles from the last few days into full sentences.
Getting off the plane, I felt like I was just in another American airport. That perception was fixed as I turned a corner into a narrow hallway and tried to pass a chap driving a cart on the right. He smiled knowingly and pointed to my left.
The next thing that lets you know you're in London is the CCTV cameras. You begin to understand why both punk and 1984 were born in London.
I sat next to a business professor on the plane. He was taking his students through London to get an idea of how things work over here. I followed them through immigration and found my own way to the train station. After accidentally getting on the wrong train to London and getting that figured out, I figured out the oyster cards, the underground, and caught a train towards Notting Hill. I was looking for Wake up! London, a hostel I saw in the Europe on a Shoestring guide, but it seemed to be under renovation. My next choice, Leinster Inn, was only a few blocks away.
Leinster Inn was borderline sketchy but pretty great. It looked like a lot of people were staying longer than a few days, and the rooms smelled like something foreign, but it worked out alright. I think there were 10 people on 5 bunk beds in my room.
I grabbed a late lunch, took a nap, and dropped my backpack before returning to central London to walk West down the Thames; starting at the London Eye and walking towards Parliament.
I returned to Leinster Inn for some rest, and met two people. One before I went to sleep: Carlos, an architecture student from Barcelona who came to work on his English; and one as I was falling asleep: Giem, who dropped his jacket on me. It turned out the next day Giem was pretty nice, even if I couldn't understand most of what he said because of his accent. I also met Malcolm, an Australian finishing a few months of travel; he told me how wonderful Porto was.
The next day I decided I'd visit some galleries. To prep, I got breakfast at Natural Cafe, which is one of the kindest and tastiest organic cafes I've been to. The manager saw me looking at the menu outside and gave me a free drink coupon; I got a free mocha and he told me to keep the receipt for next time.
I went first to Trafalgar square and the National Gallery. It's strange how any large open space surrounded by buildings and containing sculpture will draw a crowd. The National Gallery was exquisite. I was most drawn to the Dutch painters they had in the permanent collection, but it's hard to forget Van Gogh and Rembrandt. The Degas were great, but not my favorites from him.
Next I took the underground to near St. Pauls, which I walked by, and over the Millennium bridge to Tate Modern. It was closing early for some reason, so I missed maybe a sixth of it, but eighty percent of what I did see was incredible. My favorites were Giamcometti and Rothko. Giacometti I've never seen in person before, and it's very different when you stand closely to one of his elongated figures and can only focus on the head, while the rest becomes abstract. Rothko was wonderful because there was a centralized dimly lit room dedicated to his large scale work (the "pause" paintings, as I remember them, the stillness/meditative ones with two large holes or stripes).
I walked West from Tate Modern and mingled with the various groups of tourists and listened to conversations: some highschool students, some Americans, a group of friends. Eventually I got to an area called "morelondon", quite the hip and stylized after-work hangout it seemed. There's a Marks and Spencers there, the first I saw — I'm amazed by the idea of a store where every product has the same branding. I got some mixed berries, hummus, and pita bread (or "pitta" over here) and walked over to "The Scoop" (an open air free music venue) where I had a tasty dinner and listened to some popish music.
I walked by the London Eye the day before because I new there was an installation nearby, "Wind to Light", but I should have walked East instead of West. I went back and walked the other direction, eventually finding it and being very inspired. It's interesting how a lot of the installation has fallen apart; I'd be curious to see what it would look like if it actively made use of that process. It also made me think more about how it is a sort of "physical transcoding", with no software in between, and what exactly software is. Software requires abstraction of some form, but to what extent before it is necessarily software?
That evening I finally managed to contact Basia's daughter, Klara, and found my way to their home (all the way to the Ealing Broadway station). I had a wonderful sleep and awoke to Klara's breakfast the next day. After breakfast I worked out the train and ferry from London to Amsterdam for the next day, and took off to the Science Center. I stayed longer than I expected, admiring their history of the steam engine, before grabbing some food from a street vendor and eating on the steps of the fountain outside Buckingham palace.
Another time-honoured English tradition, I returned to Basia's to watch "Big Brother" with Klara and two of her friends. Stefan came downstairs and we ended up talking philosophy until Basia got home from the opera, at which point we, of course, went outside and talked opera. Except I mostly listened: as Basia's friend pointed out, the US does not have an Opera tradition.
I wasn't sure about how I felt about London when I first arrived, it's a bit like New York City's younger brother, but how can you not love people who use phrases like "with the faeries" (not all there) and have headlines like "Yanks take Mickey out of Becks and Posh"?
George Dvorsky makes a connection between Chuck Jorgenson's recent work on sub-vocal speech recognition and previous work on cochlear implants: they share input and output forms, but have inverse mapping directions.
Throughout history it's been necessary for time to be standardized into units and moments. As we continue developing approaches to personalized information presentation and representation-independent communication, we can start making up our own units. What habits of mind would change if one person worked on a 30 "hour" day, and another on a 10 "hour" day, corresponding to units that were intuitively meaningful to those individuals?
Would we be more effective at time management if we divided time into more meaningful units? Whoever decided that the optimal length for a lecture is quantized in units of hours?
Edit: As generally happens, I'm simultaneously out of my league and describing central questions to entire disciplines. See "The culture of time and space" by Stephen Kern for an introduction to the history of timekeeping.
The IPA presents a visual, written representation of spoken sounds. The orthography is derived mostly from standard alphabets. Alexander Melville Bell (father of Alexander Graham Bell) developed Visible Speech towards a similar end, but he attempts to preserve physiological characteristics of the sound in the orthography.
Reconsidering the idea of language as an emergent phenomenon, as elaborated upon by AI researchers and new media artists, I realized something about dreams.
Words are no good for describing dreams because language has evolved in the context of a persistent world — a world that can be shared and reflected upon without the observational act interrupting anything (at least on a macroscopic scale). Dream situations don't have any of these characteristics.
Some things I've learned recently from Dance Movies and Tere O'Connor's Frozen Mommy:
Given an initial corpus of text for training and a target text, find the minimum number of letters the text can be reduced to while maintaining enough information to be reconstructed without ambiguity.
For example, the training text might be a few hundred articles from the New York Times. The target text might be this sentence. Perhaps we could encode the target text:
t targ tex mi b thi sent.There encoding and decoding of these sentences are deeply connected. There are also multiple levels of information. The first two can be represented by a Markov chain algorithm:
What would a Markov model act like if we allowed variable depth instead of fixing it? First, if you imagine the MM going top-down from initial to final states, it might make sense to group states that always appear in the same context — horizontal generalization into a state-type. Allowing variable depth could be implemented by vertical generalization into state-chain-types. In text processing/generation, this might appear as the creation of single states from idiomatic expressions.
Timothy J. Keller once gave a lecture titled "The Significance of Tolkien". He discusses J.R.R. Tolkien's work and the origin of the various names and languages in the books. The following is somewhere between a quote and a paraphrase.
Everybody ... even his best friends (except Lewis) thought the Lord of the Rings was too bizarre. Many of you know, it flew completely against the canons of what you might call "modernist literature". When he wrote it, there was no category for it. Fantasy was essentially invented by Lord of the Rings. Here's my main thesis: he did not really write fantasy. Peter Jackson, the director of the films said, "You have to understand, Tolkien was not writing fantasy. He was writing mythology for the first time in centuries."
The basic inspiration for Tolkien's stuff was linguistic, which means he was not exactly making things up, but he was reconstructing a linguistic and imaginary past that could have existed. A person who is a pure fantasy writer just says "I'm thinking of a story and I'll make stuff up. There's a woman, what will I name her? I'll name her this, or that." That is not how Tolkien worked. He would get a name, and ask, "What does that mean? Where would that name have come from? What kind of person would have that name? What kind of story would that person have been in?" For example, he would be writing and up would come Faramir. He would not say "ok, what kind of character do I want Faramir to be?" he would say, "who is this guy? I need to find out."
He was rediscovering an imaginative world which is the root of all Northern European culture, thinking, and mind. There's reverberations of these words still in our heart. He was trying to ask... what was it that happened way way back, what experience, what being, what kingdom, so that even today we remember the shadow of it?
Tolkien said, there is a kind of very sad and yet very joyous story: you can call it a romance, you can call it an epic, a quest, you can call it even a fairy tale, that modern people said "we're past that now, we don't believe in hope we don't believe in good and evil." And Tolkien said, deep down inside we all need those stories. We need a story that tells us how bad things are, and we need a sudden turn in the story, that snatches victory from death and through suffering overcomes everything.
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