• No-where

    No-where
  • concentric

    concentric
  • mossy

    mossy
  • Reformat of Dragon’s TAIL Documentation

    PDF version of the cleaned-up documentation to Ed Churnside’s incredible Dragon’s Toolkit and Integrated Library (TAIL) for Atari 8-bit computers. As a young programmer, this was easily my favorite and most useful purchase; sadly, the resource is essentially unknown today.

  • striated

    striated
  • dotted

    dotted
  • bathtub

    bathtub
  • vinayaka

    vinayaka
  • makingfriends

    makingfriends
  • grow

    grow
  • Twins

    Twins
  • forgiving, thanks

    forgiving, thanks
  • Deep

    Deep
  • Tilt

    Tilt
  • Rays

    Rays
  • Busted

    Busted
  • Rows

    Rows
  • Breakout

    Breakout
  • Variation 7

    Variation 7
  • Higher

    Higher
  • iyamwutiyam

    iyamwutiyam
  • Our Place

    So, how can I expect to rest in solitude, his strained voice assaulting my ears, and maintain some air of reason? Lying on the floor between my most feeble attempts at self-improvement, staring uncomprehendingly at your sketch. His voice: one of a multitude of new-things you bring to my life. He reminds me of you. I stretch my back, my arms, my neck, my heart. The hands read seven o’clock. This is our place. You are not in it.

    I flee, of course. It is all I can do, or at least all I can think to do. Flee to a spot where I might be kept company in my solitude; avoid the anguish of isolation without all the inconvenience of actual interaction with other human beings. A quiet place where sideways glances substitute for companionship, and a seat on a worn mail-order corporate sofa provides the illusion of comfort, rather than government-subsidized institutionalism. Tranquil, yet not unbearably so, this space will suffice.

    A nameless boy scuffs past and hovers nearby. He wears proudly his collegiate attempt at the philosopher-beard, his means of demonstrating the profundity of his character and intellect without all the inconvenience of actual interaction with other human beings. Unhappily, its irregular and juvenile qualities belie all he hopes to suggest. A friend appears, and the banter between them—though briefly overheard—confirms first impressions. Snide comment here. Awkwardly placed sarcasm there. Thoughts which—within this brood—pass for humor believed rich in intellectualism, slip crudely past their lips, hang thickly in the air, then drop flatly.

    Struck by disparity, I circle to you still again, and linger there, blissfully. We find little call for the snide, and exploit irony to a superior end. The awkward abandoned long ago in favor of true comfort, draped powerfully around us—enveloped in a relaxed clarity as we stand, we sit, we lie. Effortless interactions. Two years of conversations sift through my mind: a litany of the humorous, absurd, and humorously-absurd. Shared beliefs and scattered affections. A chronicle of two souls made one in a tapestry of thought and sensation, so interwoven as to make imperceptible where one may commence and the other cease. Serious and tender, ridiculous but insightful. Persistently real, yet somehow ideal. My tutor, apprentice. My perfect partner.

    A strained voice from above, assaulting my ears, wrenches me to this present reality. The hands propose I must return home. Icy warmth twists my intestines in throbbing contortions; they seem black and dying within an otherwise living frame. I stare uncomprehendingly as the nameless boy and his philosopher-beard shuffle toward the wintry darkness. My soul slips silently past my heart, hangs thickly in the air, then drops flatly. I do not want to go back there. It is our place. You are not in it.

    © david j. downs

  • We can, whenever and wherever we choose, successfully teach all children whose schooling is of interest to us. We already know more than we need in order to do this. Whether we do it must finally depend on how we feel about the fact that we haven’t so far.

    Ronald Edmonds, 1979
  • Slant

    Slant
  • Pink

    Pink
  • Eyes

    Eyes
  • Where are we headed?

    I’m going to rant today in a most uncouth manner. Apologies in advance.

    Nearly two years (and very few entries) ago, I lamented the fate of musical orphanhood. Of course, in that instance, I was discussing the utter absence of any compositional fraternity in the Great American Wasteland (i.e., anything west of New York City, at least according to those on the scene. I happen to enjoy living in the Midwest, but what do I know?).

    But I’ve been considering an interesting parallel that arose in my previous entry—also from nearly two years ago, and also a lament of sorts. At that time, I was disconcerted by the relative lack of rigor required to produce prize-winning classical music. Strike that; I remain disconcerted. Anyone who attempts to convince me that pieces created through so little effort are somehow deserving of accolades has a long row to hoe.

    This week, I’ve been listening to two-time Pulitzer Prize-winner Leon Kirchner. A recent interview with the Claremont Trio set me along that path, particularly the following passage:

    Leon Kirchner’s Trios are pillars of the 20th century piano trio repertoire that had never before been recorded together on the same disc. I think it’s fascinating to see the contrast between the concise, almost jagged construction of the first trio and the fanciful, at times wistful unfolding of the second, which was written almost 40 years later.

    Now, don’t make the mistaken assumption that I am lumping Kirchner’s work into the category previously mentioned. There is art here. Lily, for instance, is a glorious exploration of timbre and instrumental dialogue. It reminds me of everything I adore about Stravinsky.

    Kirchner’s 2006 string quartet demonstrates a maturity that stands in contrast to the explosive emotion of his earlier works. In this respect, he is like most every composer who had the privilege of a long career writing music. When one considers melodic and harmonic aspects of these works, however, no such evolution is apparent. In terms of pitch class selection, Kirchner may as well be writing the same piece more than half a century later. His voice? Perhaps. The result of instruction? Likely. After all, Kirchner is a direct descendant of the Second Viennese School.

    My favorite composers include the likes of Beethoven, Stravinsky, Bernstein and Miles Davis. Noticing a pattern? Good.

    The world changes. Music, as with every aspect of our dynamic universe, must likewise change. But to what end are we headed? Where can we find evolution of value? I’m not seeing it streaming from NYC. An apt if crass and poorly constructed metaphor springs to mind: the fruits borne of notable contemporary composers are the mutilated children of Schoenberg and La Mont Young. Is this the best we can hope for? We are offered the results of truly uninspired creation. This reality is depressing beyond words.