The AstroSite

>>the sudden clamor of silence_

2012-01-16T11:32:00.000-08:00

where will I run?
where will I hide?
when it’s time to look inside

where is the love?
where is the light?
without fear of what is right
when everything is wrong

it’s so quiet outside
i hear everything

where will I fall?
where will I land?
without ground from which to stand
when everything is all air

it’s so quiet outside
so loud from torn insides

where will I fall when I run into the silence
of all that I’ve loved and lost
it’s a pretty violence
of everything
everywhere
all i fear
and all i hear
it’s too much inside
to let it out

i hear everything_

from the dKOTA archive_

2011-09-13T19:56:00.000-07:00

Manifold Destiny

2011-08-24T15:23:00.000-07:00

We are governed by boundaries. Some are imaginary, some are tangible, most are not understood. All, however, are temporary. Even the boundary of space-time -- in this case, all that we consider to exist within the known Universe -- is accelerating outward at a rate near the Hubble Constant, roughly 70 (km/sec)/Megaparsecs. What, then, is ever truly defined by a boundary if the boundary of known reality itself is a mere vignette in space and time? The boundaries of nations are as ephemeral as their leaders and economies; the boundaries of space and time are as resolved as our instruments and mathematics; and perhaps the boundaries of truth itself are as false as their pretense for reality. Hence, a truly indelible boundary may only exist as a hypothetical quixotism sketched between the lines of our imagination and a mathematical theorem.

The curiosity of boundaries has menaced humankind for as long as history has kept record, perhaps most notably with Zeno of Elea and his dichotomy paradox. Here, the paradox postulates that travel can never be completed since advancement towards any destination is contingent upon first reaching half way; however, in order to reach half way, half way to half way must first be reached, and so on ad insanitum. Any progression would first require an infinite number of small advances, which is impossible, and therefore movement must be an illusion. Where, then, does something truly end and something else truly begin? The irony is that as one obsesses smaller and smaller into the identity of a boundary, the logic approaches the inconceivable enormity of infinity. It’s as though mathematics itself is a möbious strip of one nebulous, if not imaginary, boundary. Similar logic can be found from the inverse perspective obsessing from the small to the large. The location of an electron around a nucleus, for example, is defined only by the probability of interacting with it and claims no precise location in space-time. The “location” of an election is never 100% certain, nor is it ever 100% uncertain. This means that, while at an infinitesimally small probability, an electron in the coffee cup sitting next to me has a non-zero probability of interacting with the Enceladus moon of Saturn. This sort of madness is best left to the obsessive eccentricities of set theorists and topologists (of which I claim near 0% identity); nonetheless, it illustrates that static boundaries, while useful theoretical concepts, are not the language of the Universe.

Yet, we must live within these imaginary lines; not to is suicide. The last time I pushed the boundary of a bike lane a passing vehicle quickly reminded me that, while boundaries may be in constant change, change can be slow -- about as slow as it takes for road paint to fracture into entropy. To live in a boundless system would indeed risk our survival. And our sanity. The boundaries of our own consciousness seemingly ordained by the human brain require artificial lines and limits to make sense of our environment and permit the perpetuation of the human existence. Boundaries, even if imaginary, have guided humankind through an unforgiving maze of evolutionary challenges, allowing us to distinguish nourishment from poison, male from female, friend from foe, night from day. To approach every waking moment from a boundless perspective would certainly short-circuit the limits of our own nervous system to the brink of phrenic incapacitation. In fact, this is a distinguishing pathology of schizophrenia, whereby every environmental stimulus, from an innocuous chirping cricket to the urgent threat of a roaring lion, is integrated with similar importance into one sensory overload [1]. Indeed, we must use boundaries to allow for goal-directed behavior to promote a successful existence.

One of the most advantageous boundaries employed by Homo sapiens has been the faculty of language, and in particular complex speech [2, 3]. Human language was arguably the discerning evolutionary invention responsible for propelling the human race beyond its hominid beta versions and into the refined environmental manipulators that we are today. The organized collection of phonetics, words, and gestures that comprise human language have allowed us to formulate contextual reciprocation between two or more human beings to advance our desires, whether it’s food, sex, shelter, or even leisure. Much remains to be understood about the emergence of human language, although many clues expectantly point to brain development. Genes such as FOXP2 have garnered attention as potent initiators of language faculty [3, 4], thereby instilling the provocative implication that the conscious application of boundaries are indeed a manifestation of the boundary of a genetic code. And, interestingly, FOXP2 happens to be an elite member of the “human accelerated regions,” which are highly fluid genetic regions demonstrating remarkably rapid changes when compared to our closest living relative, the chimpanzee [4-6].

However, a twist of irony may be that our invented boundary system of language is in itself a boundary stymieing continued evolution. Perhaps our swift evolution -- or “accelerated” in terms of our unique genetic islands -- has now reached the frontier of its language boundary, therein potentially hindering further advancement. With technology shrinking the world at an exponential rate primarily through (perhaps ironically) the language of human-invented computer-speak, the boundaries of our existence no longer need, nor even can, distinguish nourishment from poison, male from female, or friend from foe; our once disparate genetic tribes have become an ever-diluting gene pool of a single human race. Boundaries are indeed disappearing.

From a more anthropological perspective, language can no longer bind the concepts of man or woman, nor gay or straight. These distinctions are semantics that fail to describe what has likely been a spectral continuum for millennia, serving the purpose in generations past to provide simplistic environmental identities, therefore simplifying procreation. In fact, humans can be born with both genitals, no genitals, feminizing or virilizating (“masculinizing”) hormonal abnormalities, and/or multiple sex chromosome combinations (aneuploidy) -- all of which clearly challenge a “man” or “woman” identity. While in the past some of these characteristics were lethal, the evolution of medical technology has allowed prolonged survival of these individuals, and thereby their reproduction and the continued genetic penetration into the population. Such technological advances transcend into culture itself as we continue to erode sex discrimination at the highest levels, including reasonable electability of a female for President of the United States. Consequently, sex discrimination has become less socially acceptable, including for individuals that may be transgendered, and the boundary of “man” or “woman” begins to lose relevance. As boundaries do.

Where language is becoming irrelevant to distinguish man from woman, so is the distinction between “gay” and “straight”. The complexities of human sexuality simply cannot contort into a discrete boundary no more than can “man” or “woman”. Biology has created a spectrum of sexualities across many species, and humans are no different. Indeed, reproduction and the advancement of our species has certainly chosen heterosexual intercourse thus far. But homosexuality, bisexuality, and even asexuality have hitched a ride on the human genetic train for as long as any other human trait [7, 8]. And, as may be the case for allowing sexual aneuploidy to persist, modern technology is erasing the boundary of human sexuality. It is not inconceivable to imagine a near future where homosexual couples reproduce through adroit genetic and cellular manipulations to create healthy, genetically recombinant progeny. What purpose, then, would the words “man” or “women,” or “gay” or “straight” even serve? Such barriers imposed by our language would seem to be a twist of fate, illuminating the betrayal of language from past revolutionary emancipator to future evolutionary incarcerator.

Without the faculty of language and its argued limitation to our human race, how then are we to communicate in the next holocene? It’s absurd to imagine a culture that favors continuous versus discrete descriptors. The resulting schizophrenic babel would surely madden our species into social catatonia. However, humans do have a rather unique tool in our genetic toolbox -- one that allows for spectral communication. In addition to the phonetic articulation granted by our uniquely FOXP2-brains, Homo sapiens posses the unique faculty of artistic communication [9, 10]. The complex emotions, desires, intents, and experiences that comprise a human being can be thoroughly articulated through sonic and visual creativity. The cliche of “a picture says a thousand words” may be no more apposite than when seeking emancipation from the muted boundaries of syntaxic language.

Anthropology and neuroscience are beginning to develop this artistic picture of language through analysis of the human brain while it communicates using art. Colors such as red and blue can induce impressions of “anger” and “warm,” or “calm” and “cool,” respectively, across cultures [9], and therefore across a graphemic language boundary. Music has been shown to have a similar effect. A major versus a minor chord can result in perceptions of pleasantry versus sadness, respectively, across a spectrum of cultures and time eras [11]. Even neurobiological differences related to sound qualities have been observed in cells in the brain that respond differently depending on sound consonance, dissonance, and pitch [12, 13]. These data further demonstrate that non-verbal communication through artistic means has the potential to communicate complex information, such as that of emotions -- something that would require a circumlocutory string of syntax.

Examples of the limitations endemic to syntaxic communication are, ironically, boundless. Yet, like the text of this blog entry itself, we remain relegated to the boundaries of language. It’s difficult to imagine how a more complex and thorough lexicon would operate. While the complex communication possible through an image, film, or song is beyond even the most elegant use of syntax, singing a song or painting a picture to order a cup of coffee is clearly absurd. Perhaps the next language will employ the application of an additional dimension beyond the linear bounds of our current sentence structure. One could imagine a technology that allows 3-dimensional matrix projection of syntax or symbols that would exponentially increase conveyed information. Or perhaps a closer study of mathematics and biology would decipher how the genetic code evolved to elicit such compact informatic prowess, therefore providing clues towards a reverse-engineered human language. For example, it wouldn’t be too surprising to learn that DNA codes for complex instruction by use of a multi-dimensional transcription code being that DNA itself exists as a 3-dimensional structure. Depending on its momentary conformation, perhaps DNA could produce different transcripts in addition to the known 2-dimensional code. Further, even the employment of “psychic” technology could allow the projection of intent through a neural:machine interface that bypasses the need for syntaxic communication altogether. Science fiction, certainly; fictional science, not necessarily [14].

In the meantime, the confines of our discrete arsenal of communication will continue to define the innate continuum of our existence into a bounded state. The result could stymie our evolution as a species and perpetuate miscommunication resulting in economic disparities, war, famine, and other examples of the more unfortunate sagas of the human story. And the promise of new, creative ideas that operate in synchrony with the continuum by which we truly exist will struggle to be nurtured in an uncompromising landscape eager to sketch boundaries. Our being is one of boundaries, but infinitely small boundaries whereby the the summation of those boundaries manifest; in a sense the area under the curve -- the integration -- of ideas, emotions, and experiences that truly prescribe our identity and our potential.

I am not “musician;” I am not “scientist;” I am not “artist;” I am not “athlete;” I am not “straight;” “I am not “gay;” I am not “writer”. I am the xenogeneic amalgam of everything in between. To pin these labels to me or anyone else is to pin limitations; to pin limitations is to embrace immorality. And to embrace immorality is to embrace extinction. Even God itself has the antediluvian distinction of anonymity, as the Hebrew term for The Creator, “Yahweh,” is typically not spoken since it exceeds the capacity for comprehension, and therefore human language (in fact, disagreement continues concerning the proper pronunciation of “Yahweh”). Hence, God itself may not be intended to be the boundary it so often represents today -- a boundary of subordination to human-imposed, corporeal limitation. The apocryphal Gospel of Thomas agrees, quoting Jesus in verse 3 that “...the kingdom is inside of you, and it is outside of you. When you come to know yourselves, then you will become known, and you will realize that it is you who are the sons of the living father. But if you will not know yourselves, you dwell in poverty and it is you who are that poverty" [15]. It’s no surprise such language of Jesus is an apostasy to modern Christianity. A liberated society of internal coexistence with The Creator would certainly be an intractable society; and an intractable society is something organized religion cannot allow if it is to command the boundary of God by which it assumes. With powerful quotes such as the above, our human identity, much like the manifested identity of Jesus himself, is a nebulous amalgam of boundless identities, including that of The Creator. Hence, we may be The Creator as much as The Creator is us -- one continuum with identities only as static as the boundary of The Universe itself. This is surely liberation.

But, as confessed, we certainly have to live within boundaries. And while boundaries may change, most do so slowly. The limitations of how humans communicate will likely continue through the end of my lifetime and the many following. However, I’m optimistic that during my lifetime transitions will occur that help emancipate the potential societal quagmire where words strictly and inaccurately prescribe artificial limitation. One of my most revered mentors, my college English and literary professor, Dr. Sandra Looney, once told me in reference to word usage that “language is dynamic”. One could look at the emoticon-based texting language as an example that language is indeed indeed changing, and therefore, so are our boundaries. Symbolic language, perhaps as old as humankind itself, has used pictographs to succinctly represent intent and emotion where syntax may fail. Combined with a greater appreciation for the arts through the now-ubiquitous online bulletin boards (i.e. social media networks) for shared pictures, music, and ideas, the synesthesia of boundless potential may be closer within reach.

Even evolution shows evidence of favoring the synesthesia of human communication. The eponymous “disease” of synesthesia, where individuals juxtapose multi-modal sensory input to hear colors or taste visual shapes, exemplify remarkable anatomical brain differences that may better represent an evolutionary crawl forward than an untoward mistake backwards [16, 17]. Psilocin, the psychoactive metabolite of psychedelic mushrooms, elicits strikingly similar synesthetic experiences, as well as mysticism, empathy, and other profound states of consciousness [18], if not schizophrenia [19] (which, as already mentioned, may have emerged concomitantly with language [2]). Indeed, creative hypotheses have been posited that psychoactive consumption played an integral evolutionary role facilitating the development of human consciousness and language [20]. Interestingly, some of the most influential figures in human history have demonstrated synesthetic abilities [10, 17], from Shakespeare’s mastery of metaphor to physicist Richard Feynman’s mastery of spacial and mathematical reasoning. Other potential, albeit unproven synesthetes may include Ludwig Beethoven and Vincent Van Gogh, among others. Perhaps it’s no surprise then that the hypothesized neural correlates of synesthesia are characterized by nebulous anatomical boundaries where regions of the brain over-extend their cerebral connections, un-inhibiting their inhibition to promote exotic neural excitation [10, 16, 17] -- and therefore exotic behavioral achievement. Associations have also linked synesthetes with homo/bisexuality and dyslexia [21], although such associations remain only as curiosities and are highly speculative. Nonetheless, linking neuronal boundaries (or lack there of) with adept creativity and intellectual prowess is certainly a tempting hypothesis whereby some of the most potent contributors to the human experience outwardly have manifested the inner synesthetic biology of a boundless neural network, and, consequently, boundless potential.

Human potential is only as bounded as the words we choose to describe it. We cannot be imprisoned by the stoic etymology of “musician,” “scientist,” “photographer,” “lover,” “friend,” or even “human”. We are of the substance of a boundless Universe, the substance of the stars and the moons, the atoms and the light -- the substance of a boundless Creator. Therein, we too must be boundless. Prescriptions of static identity through syntaxic definition have expired their evolutionary purpose after showing us the way into conscoiusnes. It is time for a more dynamic, more descriptive language of synesthetic artistic expression to show us the way into whatever is next. While not yet invented, incipient languages surround us every day, from the beautiful neuroscience imagery focused through my microscope to the continuous, seemingly boundless trance and house mixes that comprise the vast majority of my musical library. These are examples of entities that are neither science nor art, nor one track nor the amalgam of many. They are both and neither, communicating where words fail.

Alas, boundaries change as they always have, and they are certainly changing in 2011. However, boundaries change quickest when pushed. It is our duty -- our destiny -- to push boundaries. Our survival and our happiness depend on it. The human story, from the macrocosm of space exploration to the microcosm of neuronal exploration in our brains, is a story of pushing boundaries. And if we ultimately seek happiness during this brief existence, few would disagree that there is little happiness found within the boundaries of a prison. To push boundaries is to embrace our potential, and to embrace our potential is to embrace happiness.

...well, at least that’s the best I can describe it in words.

Selected References and Additional Reading:

1. Dobbs, D., Schizophrenia: The making of a troubled mind. Nature, 2010. 468(7321): p. 154-6.

2. Crow, T.J., The 'big bang' theory of the origin of psychosis and the faculty of language. Schizophr Res, 2008. 102(1-3): p. 31-52.

3. Dominguez, M.H. and P. Rakic, Language evolution: The importance of being human. Nature, 2009. 462(7270): p. 169-70.

4. Konopka, G., et al., Human-specific transcriptional regulation of CNS development genes by FOXP2. Nature, 2009. 462(7270): p. 213-217.

5. Hill, R. and C. Walsh, Molecular insights into human brain evolution. Nat Cell Biol, 2005. 437(7055): p. 64-67.

6. Pollard, K., et al., An RNA gene expressed during cortical development evolved rapidly in humans. Nature, 2006. 443(7108): p. 167-172.

7. Bailey, N.W. and M. Zuk, Same-sex sexual behavior and evolution. Trends Ecol Evol (Amst), 2009. 24(8): p. 439-46.

8. Roselli, C., R.C. Reddy, and K.R. Kaufman, The development of male-oriented behavior in rams. Frontiers in Neuroendocrinology, 2011. 32(2): p. 164-169.

9. Morriss-Kay, G., The evolution of human artistic creativity. Journal of Anatomy, 2010. 216(2): p. 158-76.

10. Ramachandran, V.S. and E.M. Hubbard, Synaesthesia - a window into perception, thought and language. Journal of Consciousness Studies, 2001. 8(12): p. 3-34.

11. Deutch, D., The psychology of music. 2 ed. 1998: Academic Press.

12. Bidelman, G.M. and A. Krishnan, Neural correlates of consonance, dissonance, and the hierarchy of musical pitch in the human brainstem. J Neurosci, 2009. 29(42): p. 13165-71.

13. Mcdermott, J. and A. Oxenham, Music perception, pitch, and the auditory system. Current Opinion in Neurobiology, 2008. 18(4): p. 452-463.

14. Clausen, J., Man, machine and in between. Nature, 2009. 457(7233): p. 1080-1.

15. Lambdin, T.O. The Gospel of Thomas. [cited 2011 August]; Available from: http://www.gnosis.org/naghamm/gthlamb.html.

16. Hubbard, E.M. and V.S. Ramachandran, Neurocognitive mechanisms of synesthesia. Neuron, 2005. 48(3): p. 509-20.

17. Ramachandran, V.S., Science Without Limits Symposium. 2009: Lewis & Clark College, Portland, Ore.

18. Griffiths, R.R., et al., Psilocybin can occasion mystical-type experiences having substantial and sustained personal meaning and spiritual significance. Psychopharmacology, 2006. 187(3): p. 268-283.

19. Vollenweider, F.X., et al., Psilocybin induces schizophrenia-like psychosis in humans via a serotonin-2 agonist action. Neuroreport, 1998. 9(17): p. 3897-902.

20. McKenna, T., Food of the gods: the search for the original tree of knowledge. 1992: Bantam.

21. Cytowic, R.E. Synesthesia: phenomenology and neuropsychology. 2008 Jul 9; 1-22]. Available from: http://theassc.org/files/assc/2346.pdf.

d.J Presents: Lost : : Found-In-Trans/ation

2011-06-17T12:40:00.000-07:00

Wow - so it's been a while, dear AstroSite. Guess that's what wrapping up a Ph.D. will do. Consume. But as an immediate exhale following the Ph.D., I've been enjoying a neglected dabble of mine, that is, making music mixes. This was compiled for a dear friend of mine that recently completed her Ph.D. and M.D. degrees. Why one would want both of those is beyond me...
Nonetheless, I know what she likes and it begins with bass grooves. And of course, knowing her language of biomedical science, I couldn't help but insert a few cryptic subtleties, such as the first 120 base pairs of the alpha subunit of COPI protein -- a hallmark of this special person's thesis. Now just push play.

d.J Presents:
Lost::Found-In-Trans/ation FREE DOWNLOAD HERE
_

From A Sun-Kissed Windowpane

2011-03-31T18:24:00.000-07:00

I am happy to say that this project is complete. For whatever reason(s), performing some of these songs recently at the lovely and revered Mississippi Studios here in Portland provided the remaining nudge I've been seeking to heal. This is particularly true for my solo performance of Apsis, which probably represents my most challenging musical performance to date -- it wasn't a perfect delivery, but I got through it (or so I feel) with "perfect" imperfection.

There is no doubt though that I will always carry these songs with me as scars. But like any scars, I pride them as experience. For whatever is next, I look forward to it. Perhaps a more text-oriented AstroSite entry is in order soon...

From A Sun-Kissed Windowpane (free download, of course):
DOWNLOAD HERE

_

Apsis

2011-02-22T15:15:00.000-08:00

There really is nothing left to say. And so perhaps this orbit can finally find a new trajectory.

(click MP3 icon to download)

Falling Bodies

2011-02-06T17:23:00.000-08:00

Apsis (02.06.2011)

I guess it’s going to be a while before I let go of you
I’ve done the best I can
I don’t know what else to do
There’s not another lonely song left to sing
There’s not another excuse for time’s misery

So when you look above at night and see a falling star
Do you wish that I see it too?
It sinks me down into the ground to think of you, my dear
But that’s the only way to have you near

I guess it’s going to be a while before I try love again
This heart of mine has shut down
And it lets no one in
There’s not another friend to say that I’ve got to move on
There’s not another excuse to set right from wrong

So when you lie awake at night and fall through lonely stars
Do you dream of me holding you?
It sinks me down into the ground to think of you, my dear
But that’s the only way to have you near

There’s a billion stars to travel to
Before I find another one like you
But I keep orbiting around

I guess it’s going to be a while before I let go of you
There’s nothing left to say

***

Indeed, change is slow.

Ouroboros

2010-12-31T18:04:00.000-08:00

2010, you taught me what it is to have love by showing me what it is to lose it; you taught me the value of success by showing me what it is to fail; you taught me what it means to have family by showing me what it means to be isolated; you taught me what it means to create by showing me what destruction leaves behind; you taught me what it means to be strong by showing me what it means to feel weak; and you taught me the value of answers by showing me only questions.

And yet, I'm here. Weathered and tired but full of as much life as there was death to feel over the past year. 2011, whatever it is you may have in store for me, I hope to match that with what I have in store for you. But alas, you are indeed the personification of time itself, 2011, and time in the end will always win over my life.

Unless, that is, I also invest in the lives of others. Through legacy, we can live forever. And it is my mission -- my duty -- to make that legacy a good one. In 2011 I will take what you have taught me, 2010, so that I can truly begin to invest in others. It is time.

Through confronting death, we learn how to live.

__

Prisoner

2010-12-15T00:14:00.001-08:00

Just give me the sky and I'll paint it blue.

_

dKOTA presents: "Beauty When She Cries (with Nicole Berke)"

2010-11-02T12:02:00.000-07:00

There is no more beautiful victory than that of a humble surrender.

Beauty When She Cries (08.27.10)

She's beauty when she cries
Like a rainstorm in July
To wash away the fire from a hurtful day
And I just can't deny those looks within her eyes
When's she's put herself out there on the line

So I just want to be
The one that she can see
When the world has left her blinded in the dark
And even if it's me that's weakening those eyes
Her sunshine rain makes me try again

She's beauty when she cries
Like the sun's lonely goodnight
To lead the way to the hopes of another day
And I just can't deny that love within her eyes
When she shows up with no words left to say

So I just want to see
The one that she can be
When the world has left her blinded in the dark
And even if it's me that's weakening those eyes
Her sunshine rain makes me try again
She makes me want to try again

Don't let her down
Don't let her down
Don't let her down again

She's beauty when she cries
Like an angel's broken sigh
Too light to fall and ever hit the ground
And I just can't deny the heaven in her eyes
When the clouds open to make it seem alright

It's beauty when she starts to smile

***

Many thanks to Nicole Berke for her vocal talents. You can find her lovely music HERE
_

Lost And Found

2010-10-28T23:13:00.001-07:00

In the Pacific Northwest, the rains tapping upon my windows tonight portend the effectual end to summer. And what a summer it was. The summer of 2010 will have the indelible distinction of the summer of one: me. In response to a breakup last January and my subsequent struggle to avoid complete emotional destruction, I sought to connect with myself in an attempt to rediscover love -- that which lies within. The summer of 2010 became the conscious process to celebrate myself irrespective of another’s critique or request. Lonely, perhaps; selfish, perhaps; but necessary, indeed. For the love that wilted nearly 10 months ago today was likely more a result of two people’s lack of love for themselves rather than a lack of love for each other. Hackneyed through the prose of many poets past, I profess no prophetic novelty to this enlightenment other than the novelty by which it is now personal. How can one find love in someone else if they can’t first find it in themselves? It is the burden of the search by which value is prescribed. This was the koan that defined the summer of 2010: to truly value love isn't simply to have true love, but to lose it and then find it again.

As the winter so rudely invites itself in, I recall a moment when windows were not rattling with rain, but with sunlight. These were the windows bracing my tilted head against the side of a train pacing north, magnifying the warm promise of the San Juan Islands. Once there, I found magic; or rather, magic found me. This, I believe, is because I decided to step out of the invisible cloak I so often wear and let the environment embrace me instead of myself embracing the environment. It was a humble surrender. The result was happiness -- the truest happiness I’ve felt as an adult. It was the happiness of unadulterated, unapologetic self actualization that flourished from the organic process before me. I invented campsites to allow for the best full moon rises I’ve ever witnessed, I traced constellations of roads and trails in every direction on my bicycle, I met a spectrum of people from all over the world, each with a unique gift of story, I labored the local land to provide myself and others food, shelter, and nourishment, and in this process I found love. Again.

While my San Juan sojourn was certainly the most voluminous chapter of my summer, there were a handful of other, shorter chapters that had no less importance in my process. I celebrated nearly every activity that defines me, from bicycling through the bucolic valleys of the Willamette, to burning the 2:00 AM oil with a new song, to escaping for party-of-one dinner and movie dates. My conviction to rediscover myself oddly, even uncomfortably, took on the nuance of dating myself. And like any dating charade, there is a time when the effortlessness of fantasy ends and the moil of reality begins. These moments were most raw during my solo camping trips, particularly the last camp in the Goat Rocks Wilderness of Washington state.

Coincidently (or subconsciously un-coincidently), the summer of 2010 culminated in a place etched with memories of the very girl that brought about my introspective orchestration in the first place. Her and I discovered the Goat Rocks Wilderness together the previous summer, and that time together remains a cherished memory. Returning there on the eve of my “Summer of One” now seems a bit contrived. That said, I remember scouting future campsites the year before that I vowed to explore and, being a person of my word, I simply followed through, albeit without her. But I did so alone in a wilderness haunted by ghosts of her memories, not just because of the location, but also because I knew it was the finale of my summer. And with no one around for miles to distract and defer the introspection, my insecurities were as exposed as my fragile fire. This was the invitation for a haunt.

In retrospection, I now smirk at the irony. I set out upon the summer’s dawn to discover a love within myself by which I can learn to better share love with someone else; by the summer’s eve, after months of blissful personal actualization, I find myself completely alone, jettisoned above a barren timberline, and cold from darkening weather, all the while immersed in memories of past love. The yin to this summer’s yang had become obvious: the love within will always be countered by the demons within. I woke up the next morning in the season’s first snow. The summer sun that had rattled warmth through that train window months ago had set.

Alas, there is no island, no campsite, no song, no bike ride -- no person -- that will obviate the moil required within for sustained happiness. Happiness, I’ve learned, is a constant struggle. The ghosts will always show up, for they are a part of me as much as my happiness is a part of me. However, as I learned after lying awake in the Goat Rocks, feeling my tent rattle to autumn’s approaching wind, the ghosts are only as scary as one invents them to be. The challenge is to find the humility to prepare for the ghosts and then to embrace them rather than (attempt to) evade them. I had a good tent, plenty of reserve food and warm clothing, and a keen sense of how to find my way back to my car, even if blinded by a storm. Alone as I was atop that wind-scoured precipice, I was in the calm company of a newly found strength: confidence.

Perhaps last summer’s finale upon a snowy mountaintop was precisely apposite. Endless metaphors aside, I had been celebrating myself last summer almost to the nausea of gluttony, but these experiences hadn’t yet been valued before my final camp. As an economist may agree, value is arbitrary and is prescribed only in terms of its ability to manipulate behavior. For example, $8.40 is “worth” $8.40 because people in Oregon will do at least one hour of motivated behavior -- i.e. “work” -- to receive $8.40. My behavior traversing miles into the wilderness alone with a vague idea of a plan but a clear idea of danger is what valued my summer’s experiences; yet, my summer’s experiences are also what valued my final excursion to discover myself. Yes, to love oneself is also to love someone else; and to love someone else is to love oneself. There is no doubt that I loved, and will likely always love, the girl that I lost last January. But the value of what we had is now clear to me as losing that relationship motivated my entire being to work to be the best person I can so that I can find love again. Next time I don't expect to lose it.

Tonight it’s the rain that’s rattling my windows, but perhaps those are just the demons I’ve created. To someone dying of thirst in the desert, the sun is certainly the demon while the rain is the happiness. Both, however, can elicit worthy behaviors. The process by which I embarked upon months ago is now complete. I have established the confidence in myself to be myself such that I can motivate my behavior to value the love within and the love I hope to share with someone else again. Until then, I think a graceful walk through the dark rain is just the “demon” I’m looking to embrace for the rest of the evening. Who knows, perhaps I’ll find happiness and love in the shadows...

1 + 0 = 0

2010-10-05T01:31:00.001-07:00

We only give the love we allow ourselves to feel; we only feel the love we allow others to give to us. Take the risk in yourself. The many are counting on it.

"Hold Onto Yourself/Hold Onto Yourself/Be You Forevermore/Be You And Let It Stay That Way"
- Future Disciple

dKOTA presents: "Will You?"

2010-08-30T11:28:00.000-07:00

A new song showed up this weekend, "Will You?"

To download: Click Here

Will You? (08.25.10)

Will you love me as I am?
And take me here and now?
And show me what it means to share
This time alone with you
To fill this empty room
And dream away the day for the night

I’m sorry that I’m scared
But I’m still wounded from love

Will you let me sing a song?
And let me be the one?
I don’t want to die here all alone
I know I’m a little strange
A ghost to all the rest
But I hope you can love me all the same

Because I’m not a afraid to love
Just afraid to lose
But I know I’ll lose your love if I don’t risk it all for you
So I’m sorry that I’m scared
But I’m still wounded from love

Will you love me as I am?
And take me by my hand?
Will you?

Because I’m not afraid to love
Just afraid to lose
But I know I’ll lose your love if I don’t risk it all for you
So will you take me here and now?
Though I’m different from the rest
But I hope that you can love me for it
And help me be my best
For that I’ll love you as you are
And help you be your best
I will...
Will you?

How To Keep Love Alive

2010-08-04T16:11:00.000-07:00

(click any image to enlarge slideshow)

Punctuation, Point.

2010-08-02T00:33:00.000-07:00

San Juan Islands,

While you blessed me with a crimson goodbye last night, your presence in my life journey will never set. Thank you for your magic. It will forever be a part of me.

Using only benevolent faith, we can make and believe.

-d.

The Soundtrack to Make. Believe.

2010-07-22T00:37:00.000-07:00

And so tomorrow a journey will begin...

"My only witness is the open sky"

-Jack Kerouac

To Gain A Loss

2010-07-19T23:44:00.000-07:00

Success is wagered not in what you achieve from your resistance to fail, but in what you achieve from your failure to succeed.

The Weathered Path

2010-07-15T09:52:00.000-07:00

As beautifully sincere to me at age 30 as it was at age 15 -- thank you Richie. I hear you.

A Moment, Out Of Reach

2010-07-10T02:51:00.000-07:00

There is no moment -- no minute, nor second -- that can supplant the moment of human touch/For this is the air by which our flesh breathes/And by which our vitality is restored anew/To be alone is to suffocate/To recycle the depleted substance of our familiar refrain

I Am, Therefore I Think I Will Be

2010-06-27T23:11:00.000-07:00

Why is a sunset beautiful? Is it because it's a reminder of where we are from -- the stars? The cooled remnants of the big bang billions of years ago, we are but the products of creation; we are but the continuing process of creation, a perpetual echo reverberating through every cell, every organ, and every emotion. The Universe is our Universe -- our Universe within. The Creation, or perhaps The Creator, is no more external than the air we breathe or the food we eat. For instance, a wandering photon from tonight's sunset may have found its way onto a receptive soybean leaf, from which that leaf will synthesize one more molecule of sugar through carbon fixation as a result -- requiring a carbon atom that settled onto Earth roughly 4.5 billion years ago from a cosmic dust cloud orbiting our nascent sun. This carbon molecule may then be harvested, processed into soymilk, and eventually undergo immense biochemical transformations within my body one morning, whereby with a little luck, play an integral role in comprising the final, albeit necessary amino acid of one more neuronal receptor in my brain. This one extra neuronal receptor may be just enough to allow this would-be quiescent neuron to reach depolarizing threshold and fire a noisy action potential to generate just one more thought -- the thought that wonders why the sunset is beautiful. The external has indeed become the internal.

The sunset is beautiful because it is our creation as much as we are its creation. Beauty is the way two lovers hold hands; the way amorphous reflections shimmer on the Puget Sound; the way the moonlight sings lullabies to insomniacs at night; the way a child in a passing stroller gazes into your eyes with curiosity; the way laughter infects even the most melancholy; the way music makes any culture move, the way leaves crunch in October air, and yes, the way a Portland sunset inspires the muse.

This is not to say all the extant is beauty; creation has its share of ugly, no doubt. But what value would beauty have if it did not have a comparison to something ugly? Hence, there must be ugly to value beauty. It is the same way that the colors black and white must both exist for there to be contrast. And so to truly value beauty is to know ugly, but to choose to embrace beauty. The Creation within us has given us that potential; in fact, it is that potential. To embrace beauty is a choice, but not always an easy one. Perhaps we don't choose to embrace beauty because we are intimidated by it. We may feel powerless in our lives, as though the Universe has its external, inexorable grip on us. After all, I cannot stop the sunset -- it will progress despite my best efforts. But if I were large enough, withholding enough gravity embodied within my atoms to equal more than the Earth, I certainly could stop the sunset. For I am but the same substance as the Earth and stars, just less of it. But not an insignificant amount. The Creation that embodies us has its own gravity by which orbits are obeyed. And while I may not be massive enough to pull the strings of celestial bodies, I am certainly on par with humans, plants, animals, keyboards, and ideas. These are the orbits I can create because in relative terms, I am as massive within as those with which I interact on the planet. This is my creative power -- my power to choose to embrace beauty.

The orbits that surround me can be ones of friendship, of love, of compassion, of forgiveness, and even of moonrises and sunsets (by seeking to view them and let them inspire me, for example). This is my creative power bestowed to me in every dynamic atom within my body -- the same atoms by which our cosmos orchestrates its magnum opus. These are the orbits of beauty I can choose -- we can choose -- to embrace just as much as we can choose to embrace ugliness. And in fact, I have done my share of embracing ugliness with good results: with each embrace of ugliness, I better understand the value of beauty. So long as we seek beauty, it is free to take. And it is all around us...

In Still Life

2010-06-24T00:32:00.000-07:00

As the solstice wanes and the full moon waxes, time perpetuates the cosmos, yet somehow suspends the broken heart. Heavy with hurt, the broken heart's inertia is too great for even time to budge. Unlike the planets suspended in space, the broken heart is suspended in time, passing minutes as days and years as aged as the pockmarked moon. It is the impossible time of "forever," perhaps; forever to collect the dust of memories, falling like an ash plume echoed from vibrant days -- days of ebullient and kinetic love. Indeed, the broken heart lies in motionless pieces, obstinate to time's plea despite the alacrity of celestial bodies. Time, then, seems to be a Janus of both hero and villain: the hero promises the broken heart that someday it will flutter once again, yet the villain steals that promise and places it at the asymptote of "forever".

But alas, the broken heart does not lie in forever alone. Hope is by its side; hope that with so many moving bodies about the Universe -- so much perpetual dynamic -- that, despite the infinitesimal probability, a falling star may just find its careless orbit careening through the unlikely window from which the moon peers and this particular broken heart lies, whereby then a collision with just enough kinetic will animate these static pieces. Kinetic energy is, after all, how the Universe relieves its energy of potential. It always has. And it always will. Forever.

From Caitlin Cary and Thad Cockrell, a song to suspend even the heaviest of objects:

Please Break My Heart

Please break my heart
Say it's forever
Then I'll remember
How you said forever to me

Please break my heart
I'll be piece it together
I'd rather be shattered
Than to know forever
Without you

Love is all that matters
And it mattered none to you
Love is all that mattered
And you left me
crying, sighing and blue

Please break my heart
Kiss me like never,
One kiss to remember
The rest of my life
To forget about you

All the broken hearts together,
Do they matter none to you?
I was hoping mine would matter
And you left me
crying, sighing and blue

Please break my heart
Do it forever
Oh, please break my heart

[refrain]

2010-06-03T23:02:00.001-07:00

You're the colors / all i know /all i can see/ blending white to black / creating this variegated sea / i'm here with you / are you here with me ? / i'm blind, you know / but i trust that you can see

To To Not And Hold Seek

2010-06-02T23:43:00.000-07:00

On June 2nd, 2000, I was a 19-year-old youth in Sligo, Ireland, a seemingly inconspicuous locale nestled somewhere between bucolic poverty and urban promise. Inconspicuous as it was, however, unintentional it was not. This 19-year-old resonated with the language of poverty and the language of promise, and was seeking to scribe a bilingual experience that would portend his transition from youth to adulthood. The poverty he understood was that of an undernourished childhood, leaving his insatiable ambitions feeling starved within an invisible identity. The promise he understood was, ironically, that of his insatiable ambitions empowering his identity to seek its own nourishment. Deciphering this babel was the challenge that, if overcome, would grant him the liberating advancement towards adulthood and thereby advancement towards a nourished identity. Little did he know that the translation of these languages would take 10 years.

On June 2nd, 2010, I am a 29-year-old adult in Portland, Oregon, a seemingly inconspicuous locale nestled somewhere between bucolic poverty and urban promise. Inconspicuous as it is, however, unintentional it is not. The language of this land in Portland is in many ways the same language spoken to me 10 years ago in Ireland and in Wales, and so perhaps my unconscious mind seeks the environment for which its personal language is best translated. The faculty of language is, after all, an invention by which species interact with their environment, and so intention would naturally hide the primer to decode a language within the environment in which it describes. Regardless of its specific agenda, intention is certainly at work as my youthhood transitions into adulthood. Ten years following my juvenile steps towards understanding the language of poverty and promise, my identity is -- finally -- opaque with nourishment. But, like any language, it is the context that gives this nourishment meaning.

Tomorrow i will age to 30 years. To some degree, fixating upon this even number is arbitrary. Our society has chosen a denary numerical system somewhat arbitrarily, and so i may as well celebrate my 31.4th birthday in april of 2012 had we chosen the number pi as our base system. But in many other ways 30 is not arbitrary. We are commandeered to circumnavigate the sun in the amount of time it takes Earth to rotate about its axis 365.25 times, and we are commandeered by biology to experience these phenomena in finite repetitions. We have, then, in many ways engineered our society to adopt a “language” that effectively interacts with these inexorable phenomena, from our (largely) diurnal activities to our seasonal crop harvesting. And so this denary environment by which I’ve seasoned my personal language -- whether arbitrary or methodical -- is signaling momentous change tomorrow as I exit my youth. Reflective, of course. I wouldn’t be writing about this impending transition if it were void of reflection. But the nature of that reflection -- that context; that opaque, adult identity staring back at me -- that may require 30 more years to decipher. It is as though my youthful babbling has finally refined my language of poverty and promise into a literary body, save that the words and page numbers are scrambled. But it is an opaque, corporeal body nonetheless.

Syntax errors aside, there certainly are themes that can be plucked from this word salad. At 30, I have learned how to love. This is surprisingly the most recent theme (see below blog entries for evidence). I was engaged at -- GASP -- the green age of 24, and consequently claimed the hubris that I knew how to love despite the failure of this relationship. But then at age 28 I met a very special person and was humbled to learn that i had actually never loved before. Upon losing the intimate presence of this person in my life recently (and being destroyed as a result), i now know how to love: allow vulnerability in oneself such that one is defined in someone else, not with someone else.

At 30, I have also learned how to fail: allow humility in oneself such that failure is only seen as smaller fragments of broken success. I have failed at many things in my youth, from trivial burnt cookies to scarring lost relationships and friendships. But each failure, so that I picked the scattered pieces from the ground, was made of fragments of success that could be re-glued into something new -- something successful. Ironically, learning how to fail is learning how to succeed.

And at 30, I have learned the language of poverty and promise -- that is, what it means to overcome. At 20, I was a Christian; at 30 I am agnostic. This is an important contrast since, despite my vacillations through the identity of my “faith,” my core connection to The Creation, as I call it, remains. It always has. During most of my youth, my environment simply prescribed the context of “Christian” to this inner belief system. But as I matured and began to see this as the human invention that it is, I became more and more comfortable leaving The Creation as a nebulous, sacrosanct entity. In fact, the only chapter in my youthful dissertation that reads in syntax may well be the one discussing the subject of spirituality. Yes, poverty and promise -- a familiar, even trite theme in many religious disciplines, is indeed among my youthful themes. But at 30, that language tells a story of process, not acquisition.

Every line of the above musings could easily be naive illusions of “knowledge” that only seemed to be actualized as I approach the magical 30 figure. Perhaps upon age 40 I will restate how it is to love, to fail, to succeed, and to satiate my voracious identity. Yet, it cannot be heresy if knowledge is found in the process by which it was sought and not the acquisition of knowledge itself. Abandoning the quixotic quest for the finish line of enlightenment is perhaps the only enlightenment we can ever acquire. In other words, to “know” the process of love is only to know that one seeks the process of love, not that one actually acquires the knowledge of how to love. And so The Creation that lives within me, that drives me daily in my quest to fulfill my oft pellucid identity, may in fact be the substance by which that identity is embodied, and not the treasures themselves that are acquired along that journey. The same could be said about failure. Since there can be no perfection, what then would success ever truly look like but larger pieces of less-broken failure? As such, at 30, what would The Creation -- or dare I say “God” -- look like other than the process by which we seek it?

Ten years from June 2nd, 2000, I indeed have gathered the lexicon of my poverty and promise and finally nourished my identity in adulthood. But despite learning that lexicon, the only context I can decipher from its voluminous, cryptic vocabulary is that of process. Love, failure, success, and The Creation -- and thereby perhaps my next 30 years -- define my identity through their processes, not their products. Such is the preface of my new journey, “Adulthood: Live by how you acquire, not by what you acquire, for what you acquire has no context removed from the process in which it was acquired.” If after 10 years one sentence is all I can decipher from my youthful script, then it truly must be about the process -- the beautiful, satiating processes of love, failure, success, and Creation -- and not the acquisition.

With this as my only context, I embark on my journey into adulthood with no pockets to carry, only my naked self equipped with the complete vocabulary of my personal identity.

One Of A Kind Of Many

2010-05-02T03:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I like to be alone. The reason for that is complicated and likely even beyond my capacity to answer. But I do know that it's an inaccurate disposition. I actually hate being alone. And slowly, as time progresses its unforgiving agenda, I am realizing that any experience is only valuable such that I can share that experience with someone else. It's similar to the cliched saw obviating objectivity without an observer in the forest to hear the falling tree: perhaps my experiences alone are meaningless -- or better stated, valueless -- without someone for whom share that experience. Without such validation, what truths can we ever acquire? Certainly not our own, for those are cloaked in a thick, protective subconscious veil. And so the truths we often seek, whether that of a beleaguered relationship or an indecorous social comment, lie in the summated validation of others sharing one's experiences.

Soon I will lose the shared experiences of a true friend, and hence, a snippet of my truth. This friend has completed her tenure in this fine city and it is her actualization that pulls away to personal fulfillment (and arguably societal fulfillment if one considers her global ambitions). It saddens me, yet I can't help but weep with joy. She is succeeding in her journey. So it might even be selfish to mope among my loss when she is gaining so much, but alas, I will certainly long for the truth in which she enlightened me; but to be fair, perhaps she will long for the same in which I enlightened her. That is only something she could answer. Yet, with her departure now eminent, it is impossible to prolong any further the gravity of our experiences together as friends. She truly contributed to what was, is, and will be the value by which my life experiences are waged.

But what is it in this person, as well as the others that I'm blessed to have in my life, that bestow such value and truth to my life experience? For her, and possibly others, i realized that it has been her faith in me. She accepted me no matter the song, no matter the rhyme, no matter the idiosyncrasy, no matter the joke, no matter the mistake, no matter the success. And it has been this unabashed acceptance that has fortified my own fragile belief when I so often defaulted to personal atheism. This "friend" -- which certainly isn't a powerful enough noun -- showed me how to shine my brightest. And even if my glow was an odd color, she reminded me how uniquely beautiful it lit the room. The self-evident, beautiful irony, of course, is that this insight and utter altruism reflected her own uniquely beautiful light. And so I'm humbled. She has reminded me that the relationships I've invested with others are also an investment in myself to be my best. And, conversely, when I let others down, such as her, I also let myself down.

I am blessed to have not just one, but many people in my life that provide me with the truth, meaning, and value of my experiences. Every relationship I've had with these truly beautiful people has been unique, but such is the complicated requirement of this complicated life. And so with all humble acknowledgement and appreciation, i need to thank my dear friend for her recent reminder that every relationship I've had in the past and have to this day defines me to be the best person i can be, for the last people I want to let down are the people that give my life value. So long as they feel the same, then we can be nothing but our best. And our frail planet demands nothing less.

Thank you, Christina. You are beauty; you are one of a kind; you are one of many.

Truly, A Part.

2010-03-11T23:52:00.000-08:00

And here I lie. Alone. And i hate it. And so i must write. I've never been one for a candid, extemporaneous blog entry, but apparently tonight is the night. No premeditation, no attempt at adroit wit or uncanny satire -- just raw, unfiltered neurotic thoughts (for better or worse). But it's an apposite entry, I suppose, because today is March 11th, 2010. On March 11th, 2009, I met her -- the woman that made the room sink around her and the woman that would change my life. And change it for the better (or so i keep telling myself). A quick fast forward to March 11th, 2010, and I'm faced with a poignant, yet inescapable reflection. Now at 29, I had thought I'd felt pain. I was wrong. The pain I've felt over the past two (plus whatever/forever) months outweighs even the pain branded on the scars from my alcoholic childhood home (at least acutely). I am hurt on March 11th, 2010, and hurt like never before. I suppose it's the Siren call of love that has betrayed me (as she does), or even my own pattern of bedeviled relationships rooted in my voracious desire to fill my vacancies with love, attention, and affection (ah, but don't we all want that?). Details aside, on March 11th, 2010, I'm alone. And I hate it.

The woman I loved (and certainly still do) over the past year -- despite her recent demonic haunts upon every night of my attempted sleep -- has changed my life for the better. How can this be (I ask...continuously)? Because at the age of 29, I finally know what it means to truly love someone. Cliche, of course. I'm a musician, so I'm well-aware that nearly every single album on my digital archive deals with such subject matter. But until one has felt what it's like to be literally destroyed by someone else's vacancy, no song, no poem, no advice, and no prayer can adequately prepare nor offer solace for love's power. Love is an experience, not an emotion. Therefore, the loss of my first "true love" (i know, the cliche again...but seriously) is like a death inside. And so the pain I feel is the grief of loss. My life has lost something that it once had: the experience of my life with this truly special, beautiful woman.

Fortunately, I haven't dealt with much grief in my life. I haven't lost anyone in my life (yet, fingers crossed) that was particularly close enough to me to push me to grief. And my father was ill with addiction since I can remember, so his absence (at least during my childhood) was never really a "loss" since it wasn't fully there in the first place. But losing my found love -- someone that I came to define myself through, not with -- is grief. The year we spent together was unmatched by any clock. I could spend two hours with her (as such the last two hours i saw her) and the hands might as well spin off the wall. Our bodies were like two raindrops magnetically fusing together -- or in our words, "of the same substance". Yes, romanticizing a bit, but only in terms of frequency, not amplitude. Our darkness was shared, and so was our light. And my, were we bright together. Most experiences I recount (particularly our travel sojourns) were filled with as much risible lightheartedness as they were with academic conversation. And to speak of amplitude, the experience that was our love swept from the expansion of the Pacific Northwest wilderness to the intimacy of stargazing through my foggy bay window. She knows my darkness and I know hers; she knows my light and I know hers; which, I suppose, brings me to another substance of love: vulnerability.

Clearly, I made myself vulnerable. In fact, I've never been so vulnerable to another person as I was with her. Otherwise, I wouldn't feel shattered into a million (+ 1) pieces across my wooden floor. It is like emotional nuclear technology, wielding as much potential for salvation as wielding potential for destruction. Hence, I paradoxically feel as though I've been saved and destroyed at the same time. And this is what permits me to claim that my loving relationship with that stunning woman i met one year ago today changed my life for the better. This is because I now understand value; that is to say, I know now what it is to have because I know now what it is to not have. And tonight i do not have my true love. I've had and lost love before; but "true" love -- that in which i define myself through someone else -- I have not. And so the death of my relationship with this true love has also poisoned and killed a piece of my own identity. That is the source of the pain i am feeling tonight.

I never knew I could be myself around someone and have them accept me -- all of me. I've been a pariah my entire life, and it has taken an ugly toll. Too much "crazy" creativity for most mentors (including to this day, perhaps); too many questions in class (so why don't we remove you and put you in "special" classes so you feel less isolated -- ahh, the irony); too little patience to understand my confusing adolescent peers with their inane dramas and "crises;" too quirky of a humor to make anyone (but myself) laugh; too accepting of all beauty -- whether black, white, male, or female -- to be taken without challenge in a relationship. The woman I write of tonight, accepted these things about me (...or did she?); in fact, she loved me for them, perhaps because she herself is afflicted with similar insecurities. Whether it seems selfish in the end, that two people would match largely to accommodate each other's childhood (and now adulthood) vacancies is moot. I think if anyone is truly honest with themselves, we all match, at least partly, to provide what we lack ourselves. And for me, it has been, is now, and probably forever will be: acceptance. The woman I met on March 11th, 2009, laughed at my jokes. How silly (no pun intended) does that sound as the most outstanding criteria for instant compatibility? But it's true. I remember telling one of my closet friends this the following day. One year later, I laugh in reflection: she laughed hysterically at my ridiculous, asinine, non sequitur humor that somehow convened on the topic of a squirrel. And, importantly, she made me laugh as well. Consider it a shared infection.This was (still is?) a woman that accepted me -- all of me.

Except my love, ironically. Not to get rancorous here (i'm over most of the anger stage...right?), but that remains the only thing I'm convinced she didn't accept from me. I wasn't a perfect lover by any means. Who is? Gaging from the above pity party, I clearly have self-worth issues that would easily make a career paycheck for a willing shrink to tell me "you actually didn't give her all your love because you don't feel you're worthy enough to receive love (thanks, Dad)". Okay, there's probably truth in that. But I wanted to try. I truly did. I wanted to roll up my sleeves, brace myself, and change. For the better. With her. And help her. Change for the better. With me. And I was rejected. And I broke. Apart. Into pieces. Not to abuse the ironies, but the ugliest part of our relationship was the breakup itself. I find that interesting. I can't think of a single "fight" we ever had while together. When issues arose, our relationship was one of amicable confrontation: when something was "up," we talked about it. And then we would move on. Wow -- talk about one more hook and sinker to pierce my heart. I know that's rare (and perhaps fiction, because...).

Yet, we failed. How? I feel it may be a bit naive for me to speculate now, even after a couple (+ forever) months. And I do think the answer to that question is very important so long as it's honest, but in some regards it doesn't matter because now, at 29, I've truly loved. And I can finally value love beyond any hackneyed song or film. Having and then losing the experience of her in my life has allowed me to value love and demand nothing less in my next love-worthy relationship (although evidently I'm suppose to date around and have various "rebound relationships" or whatever(s) to fill my current emotional and physical vacuums with boredom and droll facades of interest...which is precisely why i'll likely be single for some time, for better or worse...or i don't know...i'll have to do some thinking about those things). In other words, I learned more about myself through being with my true love in a year than i learned about myself in the past 29 years. That is power. That is beauty. That is not regret. The love I am now able to experience when i so choose will be the result of my relationship with this beautiful, quirky-witted, imperfectly-perfect woman's willingness to risk her vulnerable identity (the best she could) for a relationship with this beautiful, quirky-witted, imperfectly-perfect man (the best he could).

I've said before that (being a scientist and all) the only truth we can honestly attest to is in our experience: if we have "experience" in our memories, then it was "real". Anything else is speculation by others. And so to define a love for someone as a beautiful "experience" is also to define that love as true. I have no doubt, then, that I truly loved this woman because I have the beautiful experience to prove it. Even if for just 10 months together, her precious impact may transcend even into my future paternal legacy -- because she showed me the experience of love, and therefore the value of love necessary for a healthy, lasting relationship. I can only hope I showed her the same.

Counting Ghosts

2010-03-05T21:11:00.000-08:00

The bottom is when death seems to float an inch off the ground.

Counting Sheep

2010-03-05T04:32:00.000-08:00

True love is the most terrifying of visitors: It arrives unannounced, makes itself at home, and shows you rooms you never knew existed. But if it leaves, it takes your house along with it and leaves you with the mortgage. Yet, I keep my doors unlocked, because I'd rather have no home at all than own one I've never seen.

A Rose With No Roots Grows Cold

2010-03-01T22:56:00.000-08:00

Blossom

Without anyone to love you
What will you blossom into
Without anyone to hold you
How will you grow
And in the Wildwood trees
The wild wind blows
And the nighttime crushes the hurricane rose
And with no one to care for you
Who knows

Blossom for me rose
You're the picture of my love
Blossom for me rose
Stretch out underneath the stars
And when tomorrow comes
I will hold you up
Little blossom, shining in the sun

Without any place to go to
What will your soul return to
Without anyone to keep you
Where will you go
And in the shadows of the past
Where you're spinning so fast
It's hard to see it coming
And it never lasts
And with nothing to judge your life by
How will you know

Blossom for me rose
You're the picture of my life
Blossom for me rose
Stretch out underneath the stars
And when tomorrow comes
I will hold you up
Little blossom, shining in the sun

Without anyone to love you
What will you blossom into
Without anyone to hold you
How will you grow

- Ryan Adams
_

Muse For The Day

2010-02-27T13:23:00.000-08:00

Day Is Done

Waking is so hard
You made it this far
If you don't give up
I'll promise I won't give in

You're crawling through dark streets
Afraid of your own dreams
Remembering where you are
Is so much more than where you've been

Don't say it's over
When the morning breaks you will rise again
Day is done
The battle's won
And no one's keeping track of where you've been

Is this love or ruin
You try to forget
All those past mistakes led today you're paying for
Stop tracing your footsteps
through circles of regrets
Oh, you've come too far to let your heart close the door

Don't say it's over
When the morning breaks you will rise again
Don't say it's over
Whatever it takes you will see it through to the end
Day is done
The battle's won
And no one's keeping track of where you've been

So open up
Open up
Open up your heart and start again

-David Moore

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Of Sleepless Nights

2010-02-25T02:14:00.001-08:00

I found a couple old poems I'd like to share...perhaps simply with myself by typing them aloud. I'm not sure what compelled me to write them back in November of 2008. But I feel compelled to revisit them now.

***

God, if you read my blog, this one is for you:

Wishing I Could See The Stars - 11.02.2008

Through the glass
All I can see
Is the sad state of misery
Fogging up my view
Of the heavens up there
Sprinkling about wishes like loose change
Promises of better days

So when there's clouds up above
I know the stars are still there
One for every memory
A million for my despair

Oh, sweet lovely
Without you, the sky is all black

Would you grant me a wish if I fell to the ground
Like you do so often when I'm not around
I just want to wipe these tears away
Heavy like clouds
So I can see your sweet beauty
And try to make you proud

***

The one below is about not wanting to be human. I often wish I could 'mutate and upgrade to missing link'. The burden of my flesh feels encoded in so many scars. I want to move through the seas; I want to spin with the clouds; i want to dissolve into the moonlight. I want to be among the beauty that is always out of my human reach. But most of all, I want to be freed from love. Its beauty is too much to bear when all it ever does is leave. So I'd rather just not have to feel it at all. But in order to do that, I can't be human. So mutate me:

DNApe - 11.02.2008

Bound by these codes of inadequacy
Bound by their organic lies
Corporal punishment in a spiritual life
Ruled by rules with unforgiving time

Reflections weigh heavy
A realization of my own
What is this creature but utterly alone
Plagued by what worked eons ago
No longer needed now
True love has no code

Mysteries abound in this world of mine
Filled with ideas floating off the ground
But bound again in acids
Burning up their power
To change the way we see the world
To change the way we live and die

There is a better code within
Unchartered by science
One of energetic symmetry
The way God intended
The way we disappointed

So free me of this suffocating code
And all its inane results
For I don't want to be this anymore
It's filled with too many faults

A Little Bit Destroyed

2010-02-19T10:41:00.000-08:00

Forever love to all those that have been 'just a little bit more glue'

A Little Bit Destroyed

just a little bit lonely right now
just a little bit tired of falling down
just a little bit of love left somehow

but i feel like there’s so much more that i need to say
because i didn’t know who to tell when i woke up alone today

just a little bit of tears left from you
just a little bit of memories left to lose
i’m a little bit destroyed over you

but i know that i’ve got to move along and try once again
because i know that i don’t have forever to spend
and because i just can’t fail and let you win

just a little bit of pain left to feel
just a little bit of pictures that seem so real
just a little bit of time for these wounds to heal

but i hope that i'm strong enough with just a little bit more glue
but i hope i'll be strong enough with just a little bit more glue
because i’ve been a little bit destroyed
over you

The Fortress

2010-02-16T23:39:00.001-08:00

Only a ghost can walk through your walls...

The Fortress

so why do you say you love me
while you run away so fast
maybe you just don’t love me
or maybe because you’re last
to know how you feel inside
burning like a secret lie, girl
you’re a fire inside alright
leaving me side by side
with your demons in the cold

i don’t want to be the one to go
and fight them all alone
without you
is all you’ve let me know

so why do you pull me close
while you hide away so scared
from your dreams of all you want
from those tears you never share
so how can i be your fire
to burn your love’s desire, girl
when your walls just keep you in
with your dreams on the other side
to slip away again

i don’t want to be the one to go
and climb these walls alone
without you
there’s only one now
with you
i’ve never known

Introducing: "dKOTA"

2009-12-21T11:33:00.000-08:00

For those that know me or have even followed this blog, music is important to me. I've been writing my own tunes and playing shows since my High School band, "Seven Day Sail" set...'sail' in Sioux Falls, South Dakota in 1995. Upon entering college, I traded my bass for a Martin acoustic and have been a closeted apartment performer ever since. Until now.

2009 saw my reintroduction into a bona fide band, now named, "dKOTA". I was reluctant to do so for many years, knowing that my perfectionism would be hard to satisfy in a music project with most of my focus on my Ph.D. degree. But the talents I stumbled upon over the past year or so were impossible to ignore, and so perfection became less of a concern when it took so little effort to have so much fun.

I first befriended a New York transplant, Peter, who in addition to being a great guy also happened to play guitar. But like me, his only Portland audience seemed to be his cantankerous apartment denizens. After our first jam session, I knew I was hearing something special -- Peter made my songs sing the way they were intended to, and he did so with a natural, minimal effort. So we played a couple gigs with just our guitars wailing (well, his guitar wailing), leaving all other instruments to fill only my imagination.

And then came Brad and Corey. They were also relatively new to Portland, and happened by one of these band-less performances. Seemingly before I could blink, I was in a house in NE Portland surrounded by the hum of electricity and cymbal rings ready for the first time in over a decade. And now, some months and two bass players later, dKOTA has released its first product: a modest demo recording.

It's not anything to sell or shout about too loudly, especially considering its 16 hour, $200 inception. But it does represent a milestone for myself in that with the band, I finally feel like I'm being heard -- something I think any artist strives for. We have a long ways to go musically, no doubt. But even if just this recording remains as the only token of dKOTA, I'll be happy to know that the emotion in some of my most sincere songs was translated into the language they were intended: a band.

You can hear and download dKOTA's demo for free HERE
And here is our MySpace page (no download option): dKOTA Music

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It’s Not Just What You Have, But How You Use It

2009-10-29T16:14:00.000-07:00

Somewhere about 1.1 billion years ago the first chemical synapse, the Ursynapse, reared its infant existence into the biological milieu. This exotic structure, a microcosm of the less-evolved “Dude-Bro Fist Pound,” provided biology with a means to perceive and adapt to a dynamic, often hostile environment. Naturally, selected organisms with exclusive Hollywood access to “The Synapse” were more likely to write their fortunes into a lucrative genetic will for generations to inherit. Add a few days to this process, say, between Adam’s failed Spiked Fruit Punch Bowl-A-Thon pun and Noah’s “I’m On A Boat: The Musical,” the synapse crawled from its fish-like primordium into one of the most bemusing, complex phenomena in the natural world. The modern version of the synapse, which emerged from the George W. Bush and deuterostome split about 900 million years ago, can not only perceive and respond to the environment, but it can orchestrate a synchronized symphony of synaptic activity to allow an organism to manipulate the environment.

Environmental manipulation is indeed an observable consequence of sophisticated synaptic activity, but this ability is not unique to humans. The use of tools, a good rubric of environmental manipulation, is achieved from birds to dogs, from elephants to chimpanzees, from humans to Hummer drivers. Yet, the synaptic structure of different species, while seemingly identical at first electrophysiologic glance, can differ dramatically in their proteinacious scaffold. Further, the synapse alone may not fully explain organismal fitness in the same way that my Intel Core 2 Duo processor in my MacBook isn’t much good installed into my TI-83 graphing calculator from college: the hardware (i.e. neuronal architecture) isn’t compatible. So what is it, then, in the < 2% genetic difference between chimpanzees, our closest extant genetic ally, and ourselves that makes the differences between jumping onto a tree and jumping onto the moon? The answer may not be the synaptic tool itself, but how that tool is used. With such a similar genetic portfolio between the chimp and human, the search for what makes us human is narrowed to the corners of our 2% genetic divergence from a common ancestor nearly 6 million years ago. Some of this divergence is a part of the “Human Accelerated Region,” or “HAR,” which is a fruitful, albeit small archipelago among a sea of genetic doldrums. The HAR archives genetic instructions ubiquitous to the Great Apes – even most vertebrates – yet unique enough in humans to prescribe distinct proteins with (proposed) distinct functions; it’s as though our current genome is the latest version of the ape software: v2.0 OS Human (because Apple ran out of cat names). Not surprisingly, much of the HAR’s archipelago resides within the brain’s governmental jurisdiction. It is here that our ursynaptic family tree first sprouted, and it is here that our human identity and its unchartered future may lie.

The HAR is suspected to code only 49 proteins. This is compared to the tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of proteins that comprise the entire human proteome. But given that we parted from our hairier-than-thou family ancestors a mere 6 million years ago (remember the ursynapse is nearly 1 billion years old), 49 proteins in 6 million years is a hedge fund with some high risk, high gain return. Literally. The risk in our beloved synaptic moxie is that it carries the baggage of an unrefined, imperfect system that can result in neural dysfunction. For example, there is no known correlate of schizophrenia or neurofibrillary tangles (Alzheimer’s disease) in chimpanzees, let alone in our more distal relatives. It is as though v2.0 OS Human is the beta version in anticipation of the debugged and improved v2.1.

Ignoring for a moment the flirt from v2.1 winking at us from the corner, the most salient phenotype of v2.0 compared to v1.7: OS Ape is certainly a profound manifestation of consciousness. While environmental manipulation and tool use can be found in other “lesser” species, humans are the only example of what I’ll call “existential validation,” which is our conscious ability to ponder the essence of our self-awareness. To be self-aware is one thing – something dolphins even exhibit – but to ponder the essence of self-awareness is something entirely more complex, if not uniquely human. Not-so-coincidentally, both psychosis and the faculty of language are thought to have contemporaneously arrived from a single genetic “big bang” event unique to the human species. Hence, it doesn’t require a giant leap for Apekind to posit that this event may be interdigitated with the other rapid genetic changes taking place some 6 million years ago as we upgraded from v1.7 OS Ape to v2.0 OS Human, albeit with some quirks (psychosis, neurodegeneration, etc.) in our new synaptic software.

And so what may come to define v2.1 OS Human? Unfortunately, the ability to understand v2.1 may violate Marty McFly’s time continuum paradox since understanding v2.1 may require exactly that: v2.1 – “Great Scott!”. I realize this is heavy, despite there being no problem with gravity in the future, but it’s no different than trying to illustrate a sphere to an entity that lives in two dimensions: three dimensions are required for a sphere to exist, without which only a circle exists and it’s a logic violation to illustrate a sphere in two dimensions. How then, stranded upon the islands of existential validation, language, and (non-family holiday) psychotic breakdowns, can humans persuade evolution to vote us off our v2.0 island in favor of v2.1? Perhaps we need to add another dimension.

While it is illogical for a 2-dimensional stick person to draw a sphere, it is not illogical for Stick Person (or “Stee-P” as they’re known in the hood) to ponder a sphere. In fact, humans ponder higher-order dimensions right here in v2.0, filling our cortex with the hubris of the 11-dimensional energetic vibrations of String Theory. Except for the tantalizing imagery that may project in most women, it is impossible to illustrate 11 vibrational dimensions in our cozy 4-dimensional realm (including time, thanks to that one German guy, among others). So what might the next dimension of v2.0 OS Human look like that will allow us access to the unchartered v2.1? Of course, no one knows – especially me. But we can certainly ponder.

Very little is understood about the functions of the Human Accelerated Region (HAR), but early indications point toward roles in cortical lamination (the ordered neuronal layers in the cortex of the brain; humans have six layers) and neuronal migration. This furthers the notion that while human synapses largely mirror that of the chimpanzee, it is the hardware by which those synapses align that give us the conscious advantage. The extended consequence of this unique alignment mandates our behavior since, among other extroversions, the functional output of the brain includes behavior no less than the functional output of the heart includes pumping blood and tattooing emo kids. And so if the HAR is dictating a uniquely human proteome that directs a uniquely human behavior, how then could any behavior we elicit usurp the dictation of a genetic mandate? In other words, how can our behavior, from our conscious creation of antibiotics and the internet to nuclear weapons and pollution, be any other than the prescription of our genes selected upon through our environment, which we paradoxically manipulate? If true, this apostasy threatens the intellect of free will into a biological dystopia of Genetic Big Brother. A caveat, however, is warranted here since in the collective sense – that is, the amalgamation of human conscious behavior (nuclear weapons, for instance, were not created by one conscious person) – would be behind the upper-dimensional steering wheel of v2.1, leaving our free-willed, individual behavior as an ignorant stochastic contributor. This is akin to Stee-P’s ignorant creation of a circle that may only be a 2-dimensional projection of a sphere in three dimensions – a dimension Stee-P doesn’t comprehend no matter the pedagogic savvy.

Alas, the seemingly dystopic Genetic Big Brother may actually have a utopic even-bigger sister where 2 + 2 really does = 5, albeit only from the perspective of v2.1 OS Human. The nature of human behavior, dictated collectively by our genes (and possibly the HAR) is an amalgamation of individual behaviors that seeks survival, not extinction. Therefore, perhaps the sum equation of human behavior can only perpetuate our existence. For example, global warming (or “Global Hotting” if you lived in the Pacific Northwest last summer) may actually be a genetically intended consequence of industrialization in that the stress global warming injects into the system incites new behaviors (i.e. technology) to resolve that stress, thereby advancing our species one step closer v2.1. Evolution as we know it is contingent on organismal stress, without which there would be no need for genetic modifications. The uniqueness of the evolutionary pressures on humans is that our consciousness is paradoxically manipulating the environment by which we are being stressed; it’s as though conscious thought in n-dimensions is acting through collective behaviors to evolve itself by perpetuating a constant stress in the system. And of course, we would be completely ignorant to this process since it would be operating from a foreign code, or “dimension,” that is uninterpretable to human consciousness as we know it in v2.0 OS Human.

The human story is most certainly a unique story, no matter the language in which it is told. Our current genetic version is simply the most recent revision of a tale that has percolated the conscious lexicon for centuries, perhaps best framed by Rene Descartes with his “cogito ergo sum”. While the characters and settings in this story are often lucid and resolute, the plot is often cryptic and the finale remains unwritten. Or is it? Perhaps the language of the Creator (yes, that portly white guy with the beard), in all its infinite dimensional contortions, has concealed the plot and its finale much like concealing the nature of a sphere from Stee-P living on a 2-dimensional piece of paper. Humans could very well be just like Stee-P where an n-dimensional sphere passing through our 4-dimensional world is beyond our relegated v2.0 OS Human comprehension.

Or I could be wrong. Completely. The musings above may only serve the purpose to inject a stress, in this case into the reader, and cause everything I say to be consciously ignored in favor of species propagation. After all, a chimpanzee could have flexed its genetic wit to write 98% of this column. Ironically, it took the other 2% for me to realize this. And so it looks like I’ll be stuck with v2.0 for a while longer.

Selected References:

Crow, T.J. The "big bang" Theory of the origin of psychosis and the faculty of language. Schizophr Res 102(1-2):31-52 (2008).

Emes, R.D., Pocklington, A.J., Anderson, C.N.G., Bayes, A., Collins, M.O., et al. Evolutionary expansion and anatomical specialization of synapse proteome complexity. Nat Neurosci 11(7): 799-806 (2008).

Hill, R.S., Walsh, C.A. Molecular insights into human brain evolution. Nat Cell Biol 437(7055): 64-7 (2005).

Pollard, K.S., Salama, S.R., Lambert, N., Lambot, M., Coppins, S., Pederson, J.P., et al. An RNA gene expressed during cortical development evolved rapidly in humans. Nature 443(7108): 167-72 (2006).

Ryan, T.J., Grant, S.G.N. The origin and evolution of synapses. Nat Rev Neurosci 10(10): 701-12 (2009).

d.J Presents: Urban Legends Vol. 2!

2009-10-02T13:27:00.000-07:00

A continuous mix of data-pulsed life in the communicative form of "hip-hop," as some might be inclined to call it.
Free download; I hope you enjoy!

Free download here: Urban Legends vol. 2!

Urban Legends: Vol. 2*

2009-09-03T11:19:00.001-07:00

*Well, not yet. But the unexpected popularity of my hip-hop mix, Urban Legends Vol. 1, a couple years back has finally prompted a response for me to continue mixing, mashing, and pushing the social voice that is hip-hop music. It's looking like this one will be a two disc set using the stitch of rhythm to unify eclecticisms from Tool to Nas. It'll be a lot of fun and I hope to have it completed by the end of September.

In the meantime, enjoy the golden sun that is Autumn in these northern latitudes. I know that I still have an ambitious agenda to fill before the rains return, starting perhaps with a bike ride to Bend this weekend, a summit on Mt. Adams later this month, and at least one more camp among the trees and stars.

Write Handed

2009-07-30T11:04:00.000-07:00

There was a time in my youth when I wanted to be an artist. I suppose it could be argued that I most certainly am one today (perhaps more so than a scientist), but my creative toolbox no longer contains the pen. I abandoned drawing long ago in pursuit of the musical canvas, one that decorates my personal gallery to this day. But at times this gallery is deaf to my acoustics and wishes for a painting outside of the sonic domain. A picture can indeed impress a thousand cliches, but a thousands cliches is at a loss to impress a single picture. For example, there is a mastery that allows a single drawing or painting, such as the Mosa Lisa, to pervade volumes of discourse for centuries. This is more than can be said about many books or works of music.

I don't have the talent, however, to impress an indelible image through the hand, although some talent (albeit to only a modest degree) has leaked into developing images through the lens. Drawing takes a certain preternatural command of the pen that may have more to do with chromosomes than with a waste basket full of attempt. And even those in ownership of such chromosomal fortune must employ diligent refinement. That said, I do think I had a spark of talent years ago, that with a little more flattery, could have smoldered into a brighter flame.

The images below are a selection of drawings that I recently rediscovered upon cleaning out my closet. This is a collection of a lost art, so to speak, most of which was created from the incomplete mind of an adolescent school boy. While they certainly don't feature a command of the pen, I think they do feature an incipient talent in translating the abstract to the actual. Alas, I may never again pick up a pen, perhaps for the better. But if my sonic gallery is ever in shambles, I know just the tool to try for repair.

My New Do-ing!

2009-07-30T10:57:00.000-07:00

After four years of being a blogsmonaut, I thought it was about time for a makeover. I hope to tinker further with the template, including an updating photo stream using Picasa, so keep your eye out for further changes to The Astrosite.

d.J Presents: OceanLab - Sirens Of The Sea

2009-07-23T17:54:00.000-07:00

My, my have I been busy lately. I just finished writing and submitting an American Heart Association predoctoral grant (5th grant I've written so far, with a 0-4 record), and I haven't slowed down the sciencing experimentations because 1) I needed preliminary data to bolster my grant, especially since I've only been working with this project for 6 months, and 2) I want to graduate -- now.

But in between paragraphs I worked to ease my mind with a mix featuring the lovely summer-laden soundscapes of OceanLab. All tracks are from OceanLab's (a.k.a. Above & Beyond) latest, fantastically poppy-warm album, "Sirens of the Sea". This was my first attempt at mixing trance, which was WAY more difficult than I expected, especially since I was mixing all tracks from the same artist (albeit from various remixers). My usual progressive house tracks are easier to mix, i think, because there are simply less melodies to weave together, most unlike "Sirens of the Sea".

Anyway, I didn't want to spend too much time on this, as I want to have something to listen to during my months among the summer breeze, which since my grant is now submitted, begin...NOW!

I hope you enjoy "Sirens Of The Sea" as much as I enjoyed making it. The mix is divided into two themes, a lower BPM "Daylight" as a simmer, and the higher BPM "Nightlight" to reach a balmy boil.

Free download: HERE
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My Debut Performance With A (Band)

2009-05-18T10:59:00.001-07:00

Sphere Of Influence

2009-04-28T23:08:00.000-07:00

In 2002 a reclusive Russian mathematician known as Grigori Pereleman solved the Poincare Conjecture. This arcane topological conjecture describes the boundary - or surface - of a three-dimensional sphere within the same limits of a simply connected, compact mathematical object known as a "2-manifold". The brilliance of Grigori's elegant solution used something known as "Ricci Flow" that is often used to describe the movement of heat, and his accomplishment represents a paramount advancement in mathematics. While the significance of a solved Poincare conjecture may evade even the most ambitious armchair professor, the significance of “The Boundary” as a descriptor has corralled and confounded humankind for eons.

If only the boundary of a 2-manifold would have been resolved sooner, perhaps nautical advancement would have ventured Europeans beyond the "flat world" well before 1492, thereby redirecting the course of history. Or maybe the quantum mechanical probabilistic orbits would have already intersected with the Standard Model to provide us with fusion power. Even more exotic are thought experiments testing the synecdochical boundary from neuron to consciousness. Where is it, precisely, that an electrically active neuron bestows the synchrony of "thought"? Where is it, precisely, that my atoms end and the keyboard’s atoms begin? ...Where is it that anything really ends and everything really begins?

Zeno of Elea asked similar questions long ago, questions that would employ mathematicians and philosophers for millennia. And some of these questions remain unanswered despite Grigori’s best attempts. But is it possible that the nature of a boundary is purely semantical? Our touted “intelligence” as a species is attributed by most anthropologists and biologists to our ability to communicate through language. This evolutionary feature, many would argue, was our best weapon against the odds of extinction; yet, the innate irony to this notion is that language itself is a boundary. And a rigid one at that.

The same sphere that Grigori masterfully described may as well be a “circle,” or a “horse,” or a “really complicated thing that I don’t really understand so I’m just going to use it as a metaphor for my next blog entry because I can spin it around to get at what I’m really talking about”: “The Continuum”. The Continuum in which we think-therefore-we-exist is beyond mathematics, beyond science, and certainly beyond language. We may have an arsenal of words at our disposal, ready to strike the beleaguered mystery of the Universe, but their firepower is only as powerful as the boundary by which they describe. That is to say, words can only describe themselves in the context of other words. A lightbulb is an object that emits light, which is the spectrum of radiation that our photoreceptor cells can recognize, which is a continuum of radiation defined by different frequencies, which are periodic oscillations defined by T = 1/f...but do we now know anything more about the nature of a lightbulb at this point? We do only if we understand the definition and the context of all the subsequent words. But even then we find ourselves jumping from one claustrophobic boundary to the next, and so on until the nature of the original observation -- that of the lightbulb -- is lost.

The Continuum, then, is but the elegant nature of “something we really don’t understand,” and so we are left in a padded room with a few toys (i.e. words) to distract us. Unfortunately, the human brain seems incompatible with this maxim, so much so that we often seek answers in black-and-white absolutes and not in the gray honesty of The Continuum. This discontinuous, myopic perspective is ironically provided by words. To bring another philosopher into the discussion, Einstein provided us with possibly the most elegant step beyond The Boundary by leaving us with E = mc^2. This simple equation defines the contiguous nature between energy and mass -- both of which our flesh resonates. Where, precisely, these two entities merge into one is, again, a consequence of semantics.

And so to define something is to surrender its true nature. Just as the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle states that the observation itself of a photon collapses that photon’s wave function, a definition itself of The Continuum collapses the nature of The Continuum. We cannot, however, live completely outside our quarantined existence -- at least not if we want to live in sanity. I am a student. I am a scientist. I am a musician. But one cannot adhere to these semantics as though their nature is static. The words themselves must by dynamic in order to adhere to their intended meaning. What it means to be “student” must be able to adapt, as I may some day still consider myself a “student (of the sciences),” even though I am a professor. And what we know now as “Christian,” or even “right” or “wrong” may change -- and should change -- as knowledge and technology advance our species into the nascent 21st Century. Surely it was once a “curse” of the demons for one to have delusions and hallucinations, whereas now it known as “schizophrenia;” and perhaps one day schizophrenia will be known as an abstraction of one’s dimensional existence that is ill-defined by a 2-manifold in the quantum consciousness of humankind’s realm. It would be black-and-white hubris to think otherwise, as what is true is what is continuous, not what is defined.

For What It's Worth

2009-03-30T23:16:00.000-07:00

I lie awake while viruses tear apart my lungs. It's nothing too severe, yet enough to shackle me in my sheets. And certainly enough to cause complaint. I'm not good with feeling stationary. In fact, the fear of being stationary is the dominating motive behind my chosen career in neurodegenerative research: to provide "movement" to those who have none. I suppose it's a metaphor for movement of the soul. And I do expend my movement with great strides. Yet, ironically, I often pause in appreciation for my dynamic life. Tonight is precisely one of those moments.

The feats of my still-juvenile life are many. Not all have been successes, yet the effort to embark has usually been a success. In other words, when I give an attempt, I may not succeed at the task before me but I'll at least put all I'm worth into trying. Or I won't try at all. The latter has largely been the excuse for me denying my musical talents beyond open-mic opportunities because if I were to do so, it would siphon valuable time from my Ph.D. research -- something that is currently receiving some "all I'm worth" effort. In regards to less gargantuan tasks, it seems that whether I throw a party, make a flier for an event, or update my blog, if I'm not going to allocate appropriate time to "do it right," then I'll wait until I can.

Perhaps being single for over two years is another, more poignant example. Girlfriends are "expensive" in many ways, and if I'm to embark upon obtaining "boyfriend" status, I had better be willing to invest all I'm worth or not invest at all...right? Well....Wrong. Or so recent musings have whispered. The problem with my rather perfectionist behavior described above is that it doesn't move -- it's rigid. Just like a favorite song buried among a mediocre album, sometimes the process of discovery makes even a failed journey worthwhile.

I don't need to fear failure (of a relationship) because there can be so many successful discoveries (within someone else, as well as myself) along the way. Hence, not everything, I suppose, needs to be packaged in a nice and tidy bow in order to be "complete". I write songs that way, no doubt, and I usually write blog entries that way as well (which is why it's been so long since I've properly 'breathed" on this blog). But that isn't the only process from which I can exercise movement. What fantastic women have I been avoiding for nearly two and a half years because I wasn't in the mental place to put all of my efforts into a relationship? The answer is likely many. But alas, I sit here chained to my sheets by coughs and sniffles. And I'm alone. By choice. This is not movement.

Even my ever-evolving, ever-challenging relationship with science gleams with the lure of discovery. Science is never packaged in a tidy bow of perfectionism. Yet, it embodies a relationship that I invested in long ago with little reservation. We may not be together forever -- in fact, we nearly "broke up" permanently a few months back. But the process of discovering this beautiful entity, laden with movement, in itself has fueled my process to discover movement for stationary people. And so to fail is not to stop moving; rather, to fail is not to start moving.

d.J Presents: Red

2009-03-22T11:26:00.000-07:00

This mix was intended as a hypnotic exploration through the psychology of human "interaction" - I feel it's my best thus far. It took nearly six months of patience until I was convinced that I had found the right tracks (or until they had found me) to tell this story. I wanted to find tracks that, while from a different place or time, seemed as though they were made for each other, much like the cosmic coincidences that often spark our human relationships. Accordingly, Red is a story of how we as humans interact, from introduction to embrace. Hopefully the mix will take through this journey.

If under no other circumstances, close you eyes, open your mind, and awaken 70 minutes later.
I hope you enjoy. Dowload Red HERE

(as always, remember to set your music software and/or listen to as a "gapless" album)

Because Soft Metal Is For Rings

2009-03-20T11:35:00.001-07:00

(spacebar)

2009-02-19T10:28:00.001-08:00

Wow, this past month has flown by, which I suppose could be interpreted as fast or slow depending on the particular flight vector we're talking about. Satellites fly through the night sky really "fast," but that's relative to a "stationary" observer on the Earth's surface. You would need the Lorentz Transformation (two-dimensional distillate below)to really understand how "fast" or "slow" something has moved. In the context of this last month, I would say it has flown by at about the speed of a flying bee relative to a flying fly, which brings up another point on eponymous names, like the "organge". Were the early Anglo-Saxons really at a creative loss of what to call "that small thing over there that flies"? And was an orange named after the color or was the color named after the orange? Without boring myself with the etymology of the word, 'orange," I'm willing to bet it was the former since the Anglo-Saxons (being in England, of course) probably didn't even see an orange fruit until the 15th Century brought about feasible global exploration.

While on the subject of potting clay, I don't really have time to update my blog right now, but I certainly hope to soon - i miss it. Look for a post that I've been musing upon about the nature of boundaries and how they describe and dictate our lives - especially the intangible variety. In the meantime, I nabbed the below image from a friend. It speaks to me in so many ways...

The End of an Error; The Beginning of an Era

2009-01-20T12:26:00.000-08:00

An African American hand, that of President Barack Obama, taking oath upon the bible of Abraham Lincoln - a truly American story.

"Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations."

-Barack Hussein Obama II, January 20th, 2009, 44th President of the United States of America

Farewell (for now), Ryan.

2009-01-14T16:31:00.000-08:00

On the Cardinal Cave:

me- 34-a non smoker and happy, for the first time in my life.. i am excited to finish this wonderful time i have had with the cardinals and whatever new adventures may come after march. atlanta will be my last venture with the band and i am grateful for the time we have had and maybe someday we will have more stories to tell together. i am however ready for quieter times as i think it is very evident i am struggling with some balance and hearing issues.

also, no drama or anything but i am okay to step back from all of this right now and i think i did enough manic blogging when i felt alone and isolated during the last few years of travel. these last few years were the hardest i can remember and the most rewarding but i have loved ones to care for now and i am lucky i have been given a chance to turn around and see just what i am capable of as a friend and as someone who is not gone forever every year- it rendered me incapable of things i needed to be to myself and others- and my schedule sometimes never ended when the shows did- and some of that was my doing. and i lost someone i loved, and i lost myself.

that changed. i got to know just who i am in this little spell of time here recently. and change is the nature of the world and i naturally embrace that.

i won’t be blogging here anymore either- but not for effect- it just is not being kind to myself- i need a life that is mine- i need to grow up and grow in to who i have subtly been working back towards since i stopped all that nonsense and i know also no matter what i choose to do in the music world, because i chose to do things my way and never lie i will always be viewed as an “asshole” ( i hear and have seen things in the past) and i am not, and i know the truth and i know who i am.

also it is kind of ridiculous to blog as because i am a musician and anything i say here just gets reprinted at some point out of context. i say NOT FAIR but it doesn’t matter what i say anymore or what is fair anymore really does it- the 21st century media has it’s own rules about what is true and what is not. it is not a life- not one i want to live anyway and i don’t really care to participate in narcissistic over-indulgent behavior anymore- that was never my intention- i just wanted to fight for my right to make music and to be given the benefit of the doubt. now, because i have stood up for myself and fought for myself i am labeled all kinds of awful things. well, i will walk away now and it will not matter what anyone say’s. there are other things i can do in this life, other ways to be creative and to try and help others and be expressive without being demonized for attempting to gain the same things any other human being desires- love- friendship- understanding- and being able to express yourself without constant fear of being mistreated for speaking up

. i have friends to make, brand new books coming (two of em’ not counting that one already printed and on it’s way out there and i LOVE writing….yay!)and a whole lot of living and learning to do.

i am excited to step away. i lost more than anyone will ever know (hearing, soneone i loved, my sense of dignity, a never ending losing battle with stage fright and now my hearing and balance due to an inner ear issue- people accusing me of not being sober when i am suffering tremendous pain and nausea from my inner ear symptoms- people accusing me of theft (THEFT- ….awful) and this is not much of a life, not glamorous like those ridiculous video’s a long time ago television played and no it is not monetarily as rewarding as people would like you to believe and yes, it is soul destroying. especially when you spend your life trying to write about the really difficult stuff and you stand there losing your way and people yell at you like you were in a circus. when it was your dream to matter and you realize one day, it never mattered- i mean, i am a punch-line and a footnote in what is worse to yell at someone besides “free-bird”. i mean, i lost. and it’s okay because i seriously snuck some pretty neat idea’s in there in the work when i was making those mistakes or they were being made by others. this business is no science.

andf you know, whatever this is- it’s not my dream. and it is a punishing thing to endure when you are getting worse and worse- it’s not my dream, my dream was mike watt’s crazy shaking leg and electric fingers- or how sonics droned into beautiful cluds and how it felt to just let go and static up a riff and find the sweet spot- but getting yelled at for just being a songwriter- to be called so many horrid things because i chose to love music so much, and also to look for peace and balance in my life- that is not kindness and just not my thing. at least not now.

quitting smoking was a good step and i am happy i also am just now beginning to understand how important it is i take better care of myself in every way right now.

anyway, enjoy these shows and know that i am not abandoning anyone and that i loved playing music in the cardinals and hell, even before i was in a place to try and learn to be well, music was my life source-

maybe i will play again sometime but this is the time for me to step back now, and i wish everyone peace and happiness and if music is your dream, or if just dreaming is your dream, may you find your way through the rough patch with ease and i hope you let go and it takes you all the way there-

loving kindness to all.

R

d. + Peter Christenberry: This Thursday

2009-01-12T11:18:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas, Avery

2008-12-25T12:49:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas, Avery. I know that you can't read yet, but someday you'll be able to - someday you'll be big like me. But for now you're still a little star. I do know that you can talk, and run, and jump, and learn. And I also know that you love to go to sleep to music. So I made you a lullaby for Christmas. It's not as beautiful as you, but it's the best I could do. I'll think of you every time I play it, and while I live more miles away from you than you have fingers and toes, I hope you'll think of me when you hear it. I'll make you a promise that I'll play it for you next time I see you. I can play it over and over if you like, until you fall asleep. And then someday, when you're big like me, but I need a little help because I've fallen down, you can sing it to me until I fall asleep. Because you'll always be a star.

I love and miss you,

Uncle Dustin

"Big (for Avery)"

When you want to be big like me
And strong like you think I am
I'll be the one to show you how
To use all your love
And lift up the world with one hand

Because I know
You'll show me one day that you're bigger than I'll ever be
And I know
You'll show the world why it's got to believe

And I know
The mountains and the sky will give you everything you need
Because you're a star

When I'm not big like you
Or strong like I think I am
Will you be the one that I need
To remind me how to use all my love somehow

Because I know
I'll need a little help from your hands when I've fallen down
And I know
You'll show me someday that I've got to believe

An Exit Strategy Unlike Iraq

2008-12-18T15:50:00.001-08:00

Why Does Portland "Shut Down" When It Snows?

2008-12-15T22:46:00.000-08:00

Because there are drivers (note the plurality) like this:

Christmas Gift Ideas

2008-12-14T10:07:00.000-08:00

Brother, farewell

2008-12-13T03:11:00.000-08:00

d.J Presents: Vectors

2008-11-26T13:59:00.000-08:00

Vectors is my latest continuous mix. It celebrates minimalism and teases much more than my previous Rain+Shadows mixes (available in the archives). That said, Vectors eventually gives way to the endorphin-laced melodies towards the end...because I just can't help myself. Enjoy!

DOWNLOAD HERE
_

Show: Monday, November 24th

2008-11-10T15:58:00.001-08:00

Yes We Did

2008-11-05T02:04:00.001-08:00

In the 21st Century, we need not be white, Christian, Muslim, Oregonian, gay, straight, or even "wrong" or "right". We are, but human. For all our beauties and blemishes, we are inextricably confined by the code of our corporal and spiritual existence. Let us, just for a moment, not consider the potential success or failure of the next four years; rather, let us consider the "fierce urgency of now". We all indeed share common desires upon this lonely planet, from India, to Spain, from South Dakota to Oregon: we want security. With the events of today, we can receive that gift. We are secure knowing that, despite our woes and fears, our successes and failures, that we are all in the same arena where every local action can affect global reaction. We are all among this curious, yet chaotic planet where the boundaries of language cannot explore, and the vast possibility of uncertainty can dominate. My fellow human beings, the cloaks of our past have shed a skin, and shed a tear. The 21st Century of "humanism" has just knocked loudly. I, for one, am willing to answer the door. To ignore is to risk our security.

"If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer."

-President-elect, Barack Obama, 11.04.08

Apathy Is The Prison For All Excuses

2008-11-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

Speak Louder Than Words

2008-10-31T10:01:00.000-07:00

Me vs. Them vs. Me vs. Me

2008-10-16T01:41:00.000-07:00

I try to keep The AstroSite rather dispassionate, but this entry in a public opinion column at foxnews.com following the latest Presidential Debate struck me. I'm not completely sure what it says in content, but it certainly says a great deal about Capitalism and its potential implications:
****
Comment by Mike G
October 16th, 2008 at 4:36 am

Obama’s tax policies will most certainly hurt me financially as I’m well into the bracket that will be taxed heaviest… so I’m obviously going to vote McCain/Palin (I’m not altruist unless we’re talking about my OWN family). But if I were to vote as to who is best for the general public and all of those families who haven’t done as well as ours have over the last several decades, it’d be for Obama/Biden.

The Wild, Wild West Dakota

2008-10-06T11:42:00.001-07:00

Hey....I think this guy lived behind me in 5th Grade. Seriously.

Old, Grizzled Third-Party Candidate May Steal Support From McCain

Happy Rock-Tober!

2008-10-01T19:29:00.000-07:00

(Sorry to be lax in posts lately; I've been more than busy. But I promise to return soon. In the meantime, relish in that autumnal glory!)

Spare Any Change?

2008-09-04T19:33:00.000-07:00

"Normally, in a democracy, the way you reform a party is by tossing it out of power until it learns its lesson and gets its act together. But the McCain-Palin plan is to reform Republicanism by keeping Republicans in control of the White House and most of the powerful posts in the federal government. That’ll show them."

-Gail Collins, NY Times 09.03.08

v2.0

2008-08-28T11:16:00.000-07:00

I've recently completed my second music project, aptly titled "v2.0" as a nod to what I perceive as an improvement from "Songs For Ghosts," but also to the pursuit of continued improvement in the future (since, you know, most software upgrades go until at least v7.4). While the songs and recordings are far from perfect, it is time for me to move on from their lyrics, moods, and "aura" -- especially the few tracks I redid from Songs For Ghosts. Put another way, I'm eager to begin a brighter, perkier v3.0. And so with a sweep of the digital broom, v2.0 is now out of the attic. While I have been circulating some of these songs in the past, all have been reworked, especially the vocals. I hope you enjoy.

All music, lyrics, and artwork can be downloaded for free here:
v2.0

2008-08-23T22:49:00.000-07:00

Weather, Man

2008-08-15T18:21:00.000-07:00

"Saturday: hot, sunny and 102; Sunday: some clouds and 92; Monday....Hmmm....Monnnnn-day...well, it's definitely going to be 77, but other than that, I don't think I have any idea what's going to happen on Monday....Hmmmm...but I do know that on Tuesday it's going to be 74 and umbrella"

Somewhere Over The Rainbow

2008-08-13T13:58:00.000-07:00

The Universe WIthin

2008-07-28T12:42:00.001-07:00

I thought I'd share a recent image I took of the eponymous cell of The AstroSite, the astrocyte:

11,249 (-50ish) Feet

2008-07-25T14:36:00.000-07:00

I've never really been afraid of the third dimension. I seem to enjoy snaking my way onto the most perilous precipices, dangling from ropes above a voracious ocean, and carving the steepest uncharted snow drifts with little trepidation. And so when the opportunity came to summit Oregon's most idyllic sculpture, Mount Hood, my crampons were strapped and hungry.

At 11,249 feet, Mount Hood is a modest climb compared to Earth's other vertical challenges. Yet, I am a mountaineer neophyte. And an informed neophyte at that, taking careful note of the frequent rescue operations that too often end in tragedy (For example). There is an amplitude with Mount Hood that eclipses its taunting 11,249 foot summit, and that is its capricious temperament. With Mother Pacific just beyond the western view from the summit, the weather on Mount Hood is notorious for changing rapidly and unpredictably. Too often is the 11,249 foot elevation of Mount Hood considered a "walk," only to leave even the most experienced mountaineers in an icy coffin (see Mount Hood Climbing Accidents). That said, the Pacific Northwest's glorious summers provide a much more placid, predictable climbing experience provided one has the proper gear and experience -- something I entrusted to the tutelage of a friend-of-a-good-friend mountaineer, Erik.

Departing from Timberline Lodge (elevation 5960 feet), Saturday, July 12th at 2:15 AM, Erik, Jamin, Nate, Dane (my brother), and myself sauntered up the moonless, snowy slopes leaving only the stars as our humble witnesses. Eventually dawn crept over the northeastern horizon casting the most commanding shadow I've ever seen. Its blackened nose dominated the western earth from the nearby Cascades all the way to insignificant Portland in the distant; we were but where light met dark. Soon daylight had overcome darkness and Oregon from above was in full view. To the east was the dusty high desert, to the south was Mount Jefferson and its fraternity of snowcapped peaks, and to the west was Portland's "skyscrapers" reflecting the sun like a satellite from space. Near midpoint up at Illumination Rock we paused to refuel our ambitions with food and water and deposit our snowboards and skis for a victory lap upon the descent. Unfortunately, it was also here that we left my brother due to various physical limitations, namely his horrendously sunburned feet from a beach trip the day before.

Our next checkpoint was Crater Rock, a large, smoldering cylindrical rock that satisfies its name with noxious fumes escaping from its depths. In fact, there was one climber vomiting from the sulphur-laden air as he tried to move onward toward the summit. I pretended not to notice. Moving around Crater Rock unscathed, it was time for our team to fasten ourselves to each other's harnesses and each other's trust. The traditional summit route known as the "Pearly Gates" is no longer an option for most climbers, as the mountain shifted in 2007 transforming that route into an ice wall requiring screws, skills, and doughty -- none of which I possessed that day. The alternative route, known as the "Old Chute," is less steep, but longer and more technical (or so I hear). Our pace slowed to a crawl at this point, requiring much more mental than physical stamina. Every step was a meticulous decision, as perfunctoriness would surely favor gravity. "Look, grip, step, test step, repeat..." was the mantra. An added, albeit unanticipated obstacle was the ice shrapnel bowling down from other climbers as they step upward -- looking upward could leave a polished black eye as an artifact. As we approached the 11,249 foot trophy, I was surprised to learn just how narrow the summit was -- about three feet. I slowly peer over the edge and realize that this emaciated rocky "ledge" is my counterbalance to a 1000 foot skydive into an icy abyss. Like an anxious cat in a tree, I perched atop the summit of Mount Hood to take in my prize: the view from the top of Oregon.

I soon am told that the proper summit is beyond a rocky mound (see neighboring photo) and about a 100 yards along a ridge. But after clumsily stabbing myself four times with my crampons (on the snow, no less), I wasn't about to straddle a thin rocky margin to gain another 50 vertical feet; in fact, none of us were terribly excited about this idea and were perfectly content at roughly 11,200 feet. Our stay in the heavens was brief as the sun quickly angled upon our decent to warm the snow and thereby melt our security. For the descent Erik pulled out a mysterious three-foot-long aluminum rod, hammered it into the snow, attached a rope, and announced that we would be belaying ourselves off the slope. ...Awesome! Nate was our first descendent, following all 90 meters of rope to the bottom of the steepest segment. Then Jamin and I followed with a very short rope intimately hugging the larger 90 meter rope. The concept: falling will immediately tighten the short rope around the big rope and prevent a fall before it happens. Brilliant! Erik, being the fearless professional, was the last to descend and simply skirted down with no rope and no problem.

From here, the return to Earth was as pleasant as any other Sunday constitutional. Sporting only a tee-shirt and sunscreen in 70-degree sunshine, I casually strolled into our base camp near Illumination Rock to summon my brother and my snowboard. The rest, simply put, was less like a walk and more like a breeze.

(...oh, and the post-summit beer in the Timberline Lodge was probably the best brew I've tasted in a long, long while)

To see all photos, click HERE

d.J Presents: Rain+Shadows (Part II)

2008-07-09T14:22:00.000-07:00

As promised, I have completed the second half of my Rain+Shadows electronic mix (the download link is below). While the general theme is the same as Part I of the Rain+Shadows installment, I attempted (note: attempted) to stitch together a broader range of styles, from the obligatory progressive house, to trance, to breaks -- my three most revered electronic genres. The challenge put forth by this endeavor may have triumphed my rather inchoate mixing talents, but alas, one has to push their limits if those limits are to be raised.

Rain+Shadows (Part II) offers an edgier, more unpredictable pulse compared to Part I, with key changes ("Logical Soul"), abrupt mixouts ("Runaway Reject"-->"Nirvana"-->"Always"), tempo increases (hopefully hidden throughout the mix), and more complicated post-production meddling ("Into Nothing"-->"Runaway Reject," "Nirvana" and "All Those Things"). If Part I is the placid, tempered child, Part II is its ADD, obstreperous sibling.

In all, I'm pleased with Part II. The mixing may pale a bit when compared to Part I, but the challenges put forth unifying the tracks on Part II were no small feat -- at least for me. That said, the transition from "Feel The Weight"-->"Envy" is probably my most accomplished mixout to date...I feel that one turned out nicely! But leaving all cerebral analyses aside, I simply hope you enjoy Part II for its music. Like Part I, the theme is an attempted reflection of "rain-shadowed" Portland, Oregon in spring time (yes, I know it's now July, but I do have a few other engagements that occupy my time). Furthermore, I think every track on Part II can stand independently as an accomplished work of music, something essential to any good electronic mix.

With the Rain+Shadows collection/experiment now complete, I look forward to temporarily leaving the digital realm of my musical dabbling and revisiting my true voice, the guitar. "d. v2.0" is nearing completion (because, like, Songs For Ghosts is, like, kind of bad) and will be posted on the AstroSite soon...

You can download Rain+Shadows (Part II) HERE
*Important: you must click the down arrow to the right to open the download folder...for some inexplicable reason; every track is downloaded independently. Also, remember to set your computer's media player (e.g. iTunes) to play Rain+Shadows as a "Gapless Album".

Flush It Down

2008-07-06T13:28:00.000-07:00

From the NY Times (image acquired from Fox News):

An Honor That Bush Is Unlikely to Embrace

By JESSE McKINLEY
Published: June 25, 2008

SAN FRANCISCO — Reagan has his highways. Lincoln has his memorial. Washington has the capital (and a state, too). But President Bush may soon be the sole president to have a memorial named after him that you can contribute to from the bathroom.

From the Department of Damned-With-Faint-Praise, a group going by the regal-sounding name of the Presidential Memorial Commission of San Francisco is planning to ask voters here to change the name of a prize-winning water treatment plant on the shoreline to the George W. Bush Sewage Plant.

The plan, naturally hatched in a bar, would place a vote on the November ballot to provide “an appropriate honor for a truly unique president.”

Supporters say that they have plenty of signatures to qualify the initiative and that the renaming would fit in a long and proud American tradition of poking political figures in the eye.

“Most politicians tend to be narcissistic and egomaniacs,” said Brian McConnell, an organizer who regularly suits up as Uncle Sam to solicit signatures. “So it is important for satirists to help define their history rather than letting them define their own history.”

Not surprisingly, those Republicans in a city that voted 83 percent Democratic in 2004 are not thrilled with the idea. Howard Epstein, chairman of the ever-outnumbered San Francisco Republican Party, called the initiative “an abuse of process.”

“You got a bunch of guys drunk who came up with an idea,” Mr. Epstein said, “and want to put on the ballot as a big joke without regard to the city’s governance or cost.”

The renaming would take effect on Jan. 20, when the new president is sworn in. And regardless of the measure’s outcome, supporters plan to commemorate the inaugural with a synchronized flush of hundreds of thousands of San Francisco toilets, an action that would send a flood of water toward the plant, now called the Oceanside Water Pollution Control Plant.

“It’s a way of doing something physical that’s mentally freeing,” said Stacey Reineccius, 45, a software consultant and entrepreneur who supports the plan. “It’s a weird thing, but it’s true.”

T-201 Days

2008-07-02T16:02:00.001-07:00

Bush Tours America To Survey Damage Caused By His Disastrous Presidency

Just Who Is Barack Obama?

2008-06-18T08:48:00.000-07:00

Barack Obama wears a FLAG PIN at all times. Even in the shower.

Barack Obama says the PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE every time he sees an American flag. He quietly mouths the PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE in his sleep. He also ends every sentence by saying, "WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL."

A tape exists of Michelle Obama saying the PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE at a conference on PATRIOTISM.

Every weekend, Barack and Michelle take their daughters HUNTING.

Barack Obama is a PATRIOTIC AMERICAN. He has one HAND over his HEART at all times. He occasionally switches when one arm gets tired, which is almost never because he is STRONG.

Barack Obama has the DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE tattooed on his stomach. It's upside-down, so he can read it while doing sit-ups.

There's only one artist on Barack Obama's iPod: FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.

Barack Obama is a DEVOUT CHRISTIAN. His favorite book is the BIBLE, which he has memorized. His name means HE WHO LOVES JESUS in the ancient language of Aramaic. He is PROUD that Jesus was an American.

Barack Obama goes to church every morning. He goes to church every afternoon. He goes to church every evening. He is IN CHURCH RIGHT NOW.

Barack Obama's new airplane includes a conference room, a kitchen, and a MEGACHURCH.

Barack Obama's skin is the color of AMERICAN SOIL.

Barack Obama buys AMERICAN STUFF. He owns a FORD, a BASEBALL TEAM, and a COMPUTER HE BUILT HIMSELF FROM AMERICAN PARTS. He travels mostly by FORKLIFT.

Barack Obama says that Americans cling to GUNS and RELIGION because they are AWESOME

-Slate Magazine

Chocolate

2008-06-05T16:49:00.000-07:00

Best Shittiest Beer Fest 2008!

2008-05-07T21:38:00.000-07:00

BSBF 2008: Arriving a little later this year, but arriving nonetheless. For those of you new to the game, the goal is to find the BEST shittiest beer (not the worst) through two rounds of blind taste testing. We'll also just be enjoying a day in the park, rain or shine.

I encourage you to leave a comment below with a beer-to-bring of your choice. Doing so will help prevent people from bringing duplicates. But if you just want to show up, that's all dandy as well.

All necessary info should be in the above flier - just click the image to enlarge it.

Introducing: "d.J"

2008-05-07T20:28:00.001-07:00

Those that know me well will know that I've long reserved a special place in my musical archive for electronic music, particularly of the "progressive house" and "IDM" genres. Ironically, it is the primal nature of this music that resonates so well with me, seducing my mind into a comfortable interregnum somewhere between hypnosis and concentration. Maybe it's the organic melodies juxtaposed to mathematical pulses, or the way in which a good deejay cajoles this music into a story complete with characters, plots, climaxes, and resolutions...
or maybe I just kinda like this music for some reason, whether I'm writing grants, dropping out of school, darting down 21st Street, biking, or falling asleep (and let's not forget the time when this girl was over and she thought I was trying to get some sort of "dance party" ploy going on with her or something...really? I honestly just listen to this stuff!).

Anyway, after years of mentally composing bad-ass mixes in my head, I finally acquired some deejay software, Ableton Live, that will allow the tangible emergence of an alter ego: "d.J" -- the "Batman" to my guitar-strumming Bruce Wayne. Together with the wave analysis program, Audacity, i have clumsily completed my first bona fide deejay mix, aptly titled Rain+Shadows (yes, the title is a pun, hence the "+"). The tracks and the track order were tediously selected to reflect the pensive, yet fecund mood of Portland, Oregon in early spring...and perhaps one too many late-night walkabouts along Skyline Drive. Rain+Shadows begins in the gloss of 12:00 AM moonlight and finales with the punch of a 7:00 AM sunrise. Further, I'm a sucker for sexy bass lines, and, well, this mix flatters that fancy. There are, however, some problems with the mix, namely that it's too quiet. I haven't yet figured out how to increase the volume without clipping, despite trying compression of all sorts and sizes. That said, there are a few mixouts that I'm very pleased with given my neophyte attempt, such as the transition between "Wuthering Heights" and "Itajai Vibes"...fun with the high pass filter!

Rain+Shadows (...which almost sounds like a deodorant or something...) is free for you to download by clicking below; all the tracks were properly purchased. And in case you're unfamiliar with the protocol, the tracks are to be played successively without interruption, so make sure you set iTunes (if that's what you use) to "Gapless Album" in the info settings for the album. The files are in AAC format; the artwork, including my "I can't believe that turned out with my shitty camera" photo of a lunar elcipse, is JPEG files.

You can download Rain+Shadows Part I HERE --> You have to click the arrow to the right to download properly!

Post Script: if you happen to like Rain+Shadows (Part I), Part II will be out soon.

For A Friend

2008-04-29T00:10:00.000-07:00

"For" a friend more so than "to" a friend:

Of Ones & Heroes

2008-04-10T11:47:00.001-07:00

As technology advances, so do the expectations from those technologies. A wheel is invented, and soon the expectations advance from moving a cart to lifting heavy objects through a pulley system; an automobile is invented and soon the expectations advance from pragmatism to luxury; MPEG-1 Audio Layer 3, or “MP3,” compression format is invented and soon the expectation advances from playing music on the computer to playing music on the mobile listener. It is the latter example that is germane, as I have finally accepted the digital format with my first purchase of a downloaded album. Yes, my expectations have advanced.

Format changes are nothing new to our ever-advancing technological toolbox. We have been witness to numerous formatting advents and extinctions, all driven by our evolving demands for increased fidelity, mobility, capacity, or simple absurdity. Format changes have typically been a phenomenon for film and music media, although it may not be long before even the ink-blotted newspaper becomes a perception of memories past. Being an audiophile with a born-on date of 1980, I have come to love the compact disc. While it couldn’t match the 120 minutes of playtime showcased by its father, “The Tape,” the compact disc pushed the limits of human hearing fidelity, was more durable the tape, allowed for instant track skipping, and, obviously, was compact. The compact discs that I currently own approach seven hundred, making me a most neurotic curator of an alphabetically organized auditory gallery. Each disc is complete not only with the music in which it encodes, but also an art booklet that compliments the musical recording, thereby amalgamating a feat of synesthesic expressionism. Furthermore, the music and art booklet document memories like a storybook, reminding me of near-forgotten experiences, people, or places that surrounded my initial exposure to a particular album. The compact disc is indeed a vital canvass upon which I’ve encoded much of my life...until last week.

The invention of MP3 compression in the early 1990’s has become the bellwether of a revolution. The on-demand music experience is no longer relegated to the nearest 120-volt AC outlet; rather, a nearly unlimited playlist is available to your eighth cranial nerve at any location, at any time, and -- most importantly -- you are the deejay. Save for some hiccups while compact memory capacity catches up to allow for the preservation of high quality sound, the digital, intangible format is superior and it is here to stay; the tangible digital format is, well, like...soooo 2007. Why 2007? Because that is when the compact disc received its final knockout punch from five English blokes known as “Radiohead”.

Radiohead were the first major band to release an album, In Rainbows, solely as a download without contemporaneously releasing a tangible compact disc or vinyl format. And it has been reported to have been downloaded by the millions (not to mention the probable million(s) that downloaded from peers). Radiohead wasn’t necessarily looking to be innovative mavericks, rather, the move made marketing sense. With a digital album, there is minimal production and distribution costs, thereby obviating numerous middlemen and even reducing their carbon footprint -- something more sacred to the British industrial psyche. Furthermore, this digital release allowed another unprecedented maneuver: pay what you want for the music. “Buyers” of In Rainbows literally entered online what they wanted to pay for the music, be it $50 or $0 (well, technically it had to be at least $0.01). This not only empowered Radiohead, but empowered music listeners to demand better music and live shows from the industry. And all the while, happy listeners can mosey about our blue planet, enjoying every pensive note of In Rainbows via a discarnate digital terrain. The expectations have indeed advanced.

Consequently, I’ve recently been pondering how long I would keep alphabetizing corporeal music discs among my picturesque musical gallery. The answer, I knew, was not much longer. I had one lingering caveat though, which was to surrender the art booklet. Buying digital music, at least as far as I know, usually does not come with a digital version of the art booklet. The days of shaking off that cellophane static and smelling the sterile vapors of freshly pressed art would be over (as would the DNA damage in my lung epithelial cells, I suppose). But alas, the art booklet was usually viewed upon the initial listens to the accompanying music, and then shelved until some random moment when I had to know if that really is Maynard James Keenan singing the backup vocals on Rage Against The Machine’s “Know Your Enemy”. My ultimate acceptance of the digital download format came with my recent and enthusiastic discovery of the dubstep artist and British recluse, “Burial”. This somewhat obscure, yet brilliant artist released an album late last year titled Untrue, and after obsessing over this masterpiece I wanted more. I knew the first, even less-known self-titled album would be hard to find. So I could scurry about Portland’s local record stores, lock my bike up in the rain, discover that they don’t have it, have them order it, return to the store (probably also in the rain) a week later, and pay $16 for it....or I could push a couple buttons on Amazon.com, pay $8, and have it in about 60 seconds. Done.

Since this decision, I haven’t, and probably won’t, look back; in fact, I’ve looked forward. After tolerating the clinical schizophrenia of my aging car CD player, as well as the lengthy process of deciding which discs to bring along for my war-powered automobile adventures, I have upgraded to an “iPOD-ready” car stereo deck. Wow. Why did I wait so long?! All week I’ve actually been looking for ways to support Saudi Arabia and drive around listening to anything, all the while controlling my iPOD vicariously through my dashboard -- the iPOD itself reclines invisibly in the glove compartment.

So as I sit among the dancing shadows of Bink’s fireplace in Northeast Portland and type this blog entry, a coincidence has just occurred. A familiar song that I haven’t heard in a while just blessed the house jukebox. The song is “No Surprises” from Radiohead’s magnum opus, OK Computer. The memories this song stirs are of a cherished summer trip in 1997 to the Black Hills of South Dakota. I was new to Radiohead at the time and picked up their latest release, OK Computer, to provide a soundtrack for my camping vacation. The trip, for reasons inapposite here, will never be forgotten. Over 10 years later from a rain-shadowed pub on NE Alberta Street in Portland, Oregon, I muse upon how the sunset looked after that mountain storm, and how from that jettisoned boulder in Custer State Park the stars looked like God’s thoughts revealed across the sky... ”KLDU#E*EJKdjds9!!!!?!!!!?????”...and now some thrash punk song just started playing. At Bink’s, I’m not the deejay; but as soon as I step outside these doors, I am the deejay. And I just happen to have OK Computer nestled in my glove compartment for the ride home.

In Bloom

2008-03-16T13:46:00.000-07:00

After nearly 15 months of songs that make even the night sky seem bright, I've finally attempted to make a brighter "happy" song. Not that I'm a morose person, sulking about melancholy mood swings day after day, but there's an organic duende in minor chords that just isn't captured elsewhere. And such is my penchant for musicians like Ryan Adams, Elliott Smith, and Tori Amos, among others, that seem to publicly bleed themselves of all human vulnerability. Nonetheless, even I need a space bar among my woeful run-on sentences -- there's only so much I can tolerate, not to mention an audience.

And so cheesy lyrics aside, which this song certainly celebrates, I'm happy with my first (and possibly last) "happy" song.
...but after all, it is spring time!

The Aeon of Ignorance

2008-02-28T10:13:00.000-08:00

The "Truth." It is the most exotic of strangers; a stranger that, like all pariahs to our social-bound human DNA, invoke fear and, most importantly, rejection as a result of a potent insult to our most tenacious evolutionary baggage, the feeling of comfort. However, it's not my right to impeach comfort as a human traitor -- I savor the feeling as much as anyone else. But when presented with a conscious choice, I would rather take comfort in the Truth than find the Truth in comfort. Hence, Zeitgeist (embedded below) provides a rare, albeit small glimpse of the truth's ugly physique. While the film should not be mistaken as an unequivocal dossier of the "Truth," it certainly isn't any more fiction than the "reality" in which our societal ignorance embraces day after day. Now THAT is a conspiracy.

Deconstruction

2008-01-19T17:59:00.000-08:00

I've never posted any photo "projects" of mine and thought that maybe I'd let imagery do some speaking instead of the usual literary or musical medium. These photos were taken a fortnight ago in the burgeoning Pearl District of Portland, a short walk from my apartment.

Something From Nothing

2007-12-28T15:47:00.000-08:00

There's nothing like reclaiming the most depressing song I've ever made with a little overdrive. And so I present, Nothing From Something, the "Oasis vs. Opus Dei version".
...now if I could just find those leather pants...

Merry "Rest"mas

2007-12-21T11:16:00.001-08:00

Ah, the Christmas season. While this is the first year since I was born that I will not be with my family for Christmas (save for my brother who now lives in Portland), all is not surrendered to longing and loneliness. Already I feel a quiescence that I may not if I was about to pinball through America's airport system, as well as through a labyrinth of friend and family "Hello, how are you?"s. Every year since I've moved to Portland the Christmas season is both too short and too long. I embark home in anticipation of noshing about Mom's cooking, imbibing about friends' deleterious habits, and lounging about Nintendo games and bad movies I've seen sixteen times before. Yet, it never quite happens like that. Even with a ten day sojourn, which I greedily hoarded last year, I still don't get to see everyone and do everything I planned...in South Dakota no less, a place where one wouldn't think there would be too much to do, especially in December. At the same rate, I contemporaneously develop ennui after about five days, feeling like I've slipped behind in my research, music writing, or whatever "n" number of endeavors I entertain. The result is always a pleasant Christmas experience, yet somehow an incomplete experience nonetheless.

Alas, this year is different. I have erected a hideous Christmas "tree" in my apartment that is decorated with fallout from a recent holiday party; I have plastic-wrapped Christmas treats slowly evaporating their Mom-made savory in my barren refrigerator; I have USPS-delivered presents littered about my wooden floor; and the only frost on my window sills is that from my humble sigh hoping for snow. Yes, maudlin, but not melancholy. I'm truly excited for a "Portland Christmas" this year if for nothing else, for its simplicity. I'll be relaxed, playing guitar, actually reading something that is not a scientific journal article, and slowly sipping tepid totties among the winter aire. This Christmas will most certainly be a "holiday" in every right.

As for specifics, my brother and I have modest plans, including a "South Dakota Christmas Eve" with other SD transplants, as well as a Christmas morning feast (and probably binge) at a good friend's house. After that, we may just park my Saudi-powered sleigh and walk about Portland's living room in Pioneer Square -- which I should add is aptly equipped with a forty foot decorated Douglas Fir. Yes, I will be "home" for Christmas after all. In this regard, I realize I now have two homes: one in South Dakota that my family and friends built, and one right here in Portland that I'm currently building. So there is really no need for longing after all. Many people on our lonely planet live and die without a single home, while I have the luxury of two. And that is certainly a gift worth unwrapping.

(...yeah...maybe that was a little cheesy. sorry.)

Heterosexonomics

2007-12-03T11:13:00.000-08:00

No, I’m not gay. Really. No really, I’m just not. Even though I may be an iconoclastic challenge to our culture’s rigid stereotypical social corrals, that doesn’t equate to “therefore I must be gay”. Importantly, I have absolutely no problem with homosexuality. In fact, sometimes I wish I was gay so at least I’d be able to appease the social anxiety and downright threats I seem to pose to the general populace; plus, I evidently would have no shortage of dates if I was gay. But alas, just as I’m not Yugoslavian or Muslim, I’m not gay. Yup, I know, unbelievable:

I notice when a guy purchases new boots that compliment his aesthetic: gay! I bought my last pair of jeans because I liked the unique, coruscating sheen of the fabric weave: gay! I use articulate vocabulary in bars: gay! I’m not interested in the untouchably hot girl at the bar because she’s actually an idiot: gay! But I do think that the guy talking to that untouchably hot girl has nice eyes: gay! I don’t want to go home with the girl grabbing my arm and practically licking my ear because she’s drunk and gross: gay! I don’t gaze at flat-screened athletics flickering above the bar while I’m in the middle of a conversation: gay! I notice when a girl comes back from the bathroom wearing new lipstick that accentuates her hair color: gay! I’m sensitive and write songs about my feelings: gay! I enjoy refining my palate with 72% cacao dark chocolate, French-pressed Panama Estate Stumptown coffee, and microbrewed India Pale Ales with moderate I.B.U.s: gay! I critique my palate with qualifiers like “72%,” “Panama Estate,” and “I.B.U.s”: gay! My apartment has more candles than light bulbs: gay! The light bulbs I do use in my apartment are C7 bulbs with installed dimmer control: gay! My haircut is “artsy,” I get my haircut in the Pearl District, and my haircut LOOKS like I smear a tablespoon of product through it (even though I don’t use any): gay! I am secure about my identity, including all of the above mentioned traits, and continue to walk about my life with an unapologetic gait: gay!

But alas, I’m exclusively sexually attracted to women: NOT gay! Clearly this is an issue that has been simmering deep within the cauldron of my psyche for some time. At first it was flattering since most gay men (yes, I’m being a tad stereotypically here) are rumored to be the quintessential desired “man” by many women: well-dressed, sensitive, and secure (see above!). But when women themselves are confused about my sexual preference, I’m left with surmounting frustration. Some have argued that I ask for it by being the way that I am. Yes, my “problem” would immediately end with a buzz cut, a basketball jersey, some shitty hip-hop music in my iPod, and adding the word “tits” to my social vernacular. But that is the same obtuse logic that would suggest reducing racism by asking Spanish-speaking people to...stop being so Mexican. Hence, my knack for being tagged as gay lies with our xenophobic culture, not with me. And, interestingly, the culpable may not be solely heterosexual men, but also the women that submit to chauvinism and insipid personalities. To be completely phlegmatic, there is a microeconomic sexual analogy where price and quality are determined by supply (men) and demand (women) in this case -- and I think it’s about time the market advantage is leveraged towards the demand.

All too often I see “Dude” play the dating game like he plays his fantasy football league to ‘win” the girl. But what shocks me is how often the girl metaphorically shrugs and follows suit, thereby reinforcing the “supply” status quo. His identity is manifested through a projected image of her, not his own projection, which is likely so absconded that he wouldn’t recognize it if it was a ticker tape along the bottom of his flat-screened facade. But to be fair, she probably wouldn’t recognize her own beautiful projection because she’s never been invited for a viewing. And so we are left with two insecure cyclones vortexing into one perfect storm of social stagnancy, all the while relegating me as the “gay” satellite to capture images from afar.

I understand and appreciate that there is a plethora of interesting, engaging, and attractive women that object to such linear economics -- many of which I have as friends; and I’m not boasting that I’m some investment boon either, as I have plenty of my own insecurities and undesirable traits like everyone else. But when I get passed as gay by men (which is an interesting topic all in its own) and women greater than 50% of the time, and I’m not gay, then there is clearly a problem with our culture’s expectation of what defines a heterosexual man.

The real issue, I think, is confidence. I can’t speak much for gay men (since I’m not one), but I can imagine that it takes a great deal of confidence to be publicly gay in our society, even in Portland, Oregon 2007 A.D. The personal, familial, and social scrutiny, ridicule, and risk accompanying gay expression demands admirable commitments to self confidence. Musing upon this point, I can’t recall meeting many flaky, disingenuous gay guys. While I’ve met plenty of ridiculous and annoying gay guys, at least they’re usually unapologetic and sincere about their attitudes, no matter how undesirable. This certainly isn’t to suggest that any actions are excusable as long as they’re genuine, I just wouldn’t place insecurity at the top of the character traits for outwardly gay men, whereas i hesitate to do the same for the greater heterosexual male population.

I’ve had 27 years to refine my personality into the eccentric, neurotic, but hopefully charming anomaly it is today. Paging back through my rather dense volume of life chronicles, my personal traits listed above have been conspiring since my childhood in -- important to mention -- South Dakota. I started greasing my hair into strange shapes in first grade; I gave up all forms of sugar when I was eight years old because it was “bad” for me; I fashioned Airwalk shoes and Goodwill shopping at the age of eleven; I was a vegan in high school (again, in South Dakota); I decorated our house for Christmas one year by plastering abstract shapes of lights about the outside siding instead of tracing the gutter and window lines; I chose to bring Guiness to college parties because, unlike Bud Light, it actually tastes good (not common in 1998, let alone South Dakota); I still tell my best friend, Josh, that I love him because I do; and so on... I don’t deserve accolades for these things, rather, I’m simply illustrating that I’ve always been one to require adept security among a hostile environment, and that this sense of security may be what is unfortunately confused as “gay”. Sure, I may be emotionally volatile, self-centered, and needy at times, but I’m comfortable in my neutral shroud of negatives and positives. ...Therefore, I’m clearly gay? I think this is absurd, as would most people that take the time to ponder these circumstances. Yet, I continuously -- and I do mean continuously -- am assumed gay, when I am not. Consequently, my frustration has peaked. And so I propose a challenge to our current economic recession: “demand,” get with it! Seriously. If there is one thing the “supply” certainly deserves to be insecure about, it’s their worth without demand.

There's No Place Like Home

2007-11-24T12:07:00.000-08:00

Happy holiday season, fellow Americans!
Americans Enjoying Thanksgiving Tradition Of Sitting Around At Airport

Renege

2007-11-11T17:36:00.000-08:00

Sorry...consider it a three-part series or something. San Diego was great, and I hope to post something about it soon "in between" my grant writing (no, it never stops), but evidently I just keep writing songs that I feel like I need to share -- not that I should or anything, but damn this moody loneliness of mine! Seriously though, this time I mean it: last song post for a while.

A Letter Home

2007-11-02T00:48:00.002-07:00

I realize that the past three entries have been completely self-absorbed, personal, musical B.S., and I promise I'll get back to more important topics like Macroverses and ...beer, but first I feel the need to post one more melodic creation of mine. It seems my music has (thankfully) taken a bit of a new course since Songs For Ghosts, yet evidently I can't help but sing about a girl; although this girl didn't break me, rather, I broke her. As autumn wanes, the chill of winter rears a home-longing I didn't realize I had, possibly because I know this holiday season I won't be seeing my girl, "Miss Midwest". And while she can be a moody gal, she can also be summer sweet. Alas, from the Murph Studios (yes, I'll try to figure out how to decrease that hiss sound), I present my song for those that understand the love-hate relationship that is the inescapable gravity of their existence: home.

And while you listen in enjoyment, indifference, or disgust, I'll be basking in that ultraviolet Southern inferno known as San Diego, California. I realize that tens of thousands of neurosceintists in one place may not seem like much of a party, but it will at its least be a story -- one for The Astrosite, perhaps? ...sigh...the pun...

Songs For Ghosts

2007-10-12T11:05:00.001-07:00

I have just completed a project that I've named, "Songs For Ghosts". You can download all the music and artwork files for free HERE

If you enjoy Songs For Ghosts and would like to make a small donation, you can do so via your Paypal account to dchordpdx@gmail.com

I encourage comments and critiques.

2007-10-09T18:52:00.000-07:00

The Murph Studios, L.L.C.

2007-10-01T12:48:00.001-07:00

I'm excited to report the establishment of "The Murph Studios" located in a charming 1910 Victorian apartment complex in northwest Portland, Oregon. So far I have a nonpareil inventory consisting of....uhhh...one Samson CO1U USB-ported condensor microphone and v2.0.2 GarageBand software circa de 2005. Yeah, so "nonpareil" might not be the right word. But it is my first purchase of the sort, thereby taking one small step away from complete denial of calling myself a "musician". I have a lot to learn, a lot to record, and probably a great deal of school to be late for in the near future.

The dawning of The Murph Studios was catalyzed by the need to add a few finishing touches to a work of music I'm calling "Songs For Ghosts," recorded adeptly by Mr. E. LeShane, and due "out" very soon (to the 5-6 people that actually might want a copy...Hi Mom!). Finishing this rather solemn - if not bludgeonly depressing - caterwaul will provide much needed closure to the enervating emotional saga I've evidently been frozen in for nearly nine months. Yes, it's an egocentric pitty-party, no doubt: guilty as charged.

Therefore, I'm excited to initiate a new chapter in my emotional psyche, although the motto appears to have simply shifted from 'the wrong girl' to 'no girl'. But alas, The Murph Studios has already begun to nurture my next musical endeavors. Yes, the lyrics and mood are certainly still bathed in blue hues and candlelight, but the sound of the new songs I've attempted to record are something I'd like to explore...once I figure out how to use my new toy. Below you'll find an **extremely** rough demo of my clusmy tinckering. Importantly, "Portland" played the rain track, which couldn't have been more apt. It's no LeShane recording, but it sure beats using the stock-issued micorphone in my computer to record everything from my guitar, to my hard drive spinning, to my "You've Got Mail" message. And so I present the first recording from The Murph Studios:

But first thing's first: "Songs For Ghosts" will continue haunting me until I can finish it, which will happen very soon...

Oh, and of course: HAPPY ROCK-TOBER 1st!!!

Rock-Tober-F'-Yeah!

2007-09-07T14:51:00.000-07:00

If Team America World Police could could party harder than a Hummer spin through a hookah shop, they'd pick Rock-Tober 2007. Let autumn regin as the new seasonal superpower! (click to image enlarge...naturally)

Eat Your Vegetables

2007-08-14T12:40:00.000-07:00

Billions and billions. Such numbers approach comprehensive absurdity, residing somewhere beyond the finite boundaries of human consciousness. Numbers within this exponential corral evoke a sense of bewilderment and colossal imagination. They are undeniably very big numbers. But as though on a mobius number line, “billions” can quantify the inconceivably small, as well as the large. The atomic universe counts its own billions in terms of nanoseconds, reactions, collisions, orbital probabilities, and so forth. This “nanoverse” is like an insidious shadow of our much larger “macroverse,” reflecting familiar images, although in a cryptic, even taunting manner. And so in the dialogue of billions, the small is as enthralling as the large (and that’s not a pun).

The faculty of the small may be best tamed by exposing its similarities with the large, which is what we are more comfortable observing on a clear, moonless night. As far as we know circa 2007 A.D., there is one universe in which we conduct our relatively menial existence. This “Uberverse” commandeers both the macroverese and the nanoverse under the auspices of physical “laws” by which everything (yes, take that loosely) must obey. These are the fundamental forces that really smart people have conveniently deduced into four disparate forces -- well, at least until Steven Hawking decides that cameos on The Simpsons isn’t the fast track to the Grand Unifying Theory. Therefore, the family of forces that prevent precious Earth from a kamikaze trajectory into the sun also function to prevent electrons in my layer VI neuronal mitochondria from an annihilating trajectory into their adjacent protons.

It is from this perspective that one is then left to ponder the universe within. As galaxies dance about the celestial canvass, so do electrons about the atomic canvass. Unless life truly is but a dream -- and therefore unless you think Rene Descartes is one thought bubble too obtuse -- we are but the stars of matter and energy. The continuum of “billions” is at work coordinating every action potential of my neurons, every stroke of my keypad, and every radian that I spin so aimlessly around our favorite star. Simply put, we are but what are we, The Uberverse: a concert of harmonious exponential energy.

But if one is to imagine the “billions” comprising our Uberverse, a paradox presents itself that the Uberverse is pondering itself since my conscious mind is no exception to the Uberversal legal code. In other words, how is it that the Uberverse can ponder its own existence which is in itself the fruit of its own existence, just as the atoms that comprise my neurons function to ponder the nature of my neurons (as I do in the laboratory every day). The answer to the latter question may be that neurons do not “ponder,” rather, they are the vehicle by which the Uberverse has chosen to ponder, much like a radio is the vehicle by which radio waves are translated, not transmitted. But thanks to a fellow that wrote “Albert” on various name tags, the paradox may find some resolution in an elegantly simple mathematical formula equating energy and mass (insert iconic, if not trite equation “Here”). And so we are left with yet another continuum, although ironically, if not appropriately, the same continuum mentioned above that I will call the “mobius consciousness”. This is a continuum where the tangible electricity of action potentials, the intangible electricity of consciousness, and the intractable electricity of the Uberverse exist, if not at least because they coordinate to ponder that they exist. So let’s hear it for my main man, Descartes. Whoop, whoop!

And so the Uberverse is within us as much as without us. Everywhere. Every Move. Every crying moment in candlelight. Every quiescent moment in someone’s arms. We are but are we. The continuum of our mobius consciousness; a yin and yang of matter and energy, macroverese and nanoverse, love and hate, war and peace. But as is evident in even the most insipid newspaper, our existence isn’t quite so black and white. Quantum mechanics can take “Hello, My Name Is Albert” one step further to stir up an eddy of control among a torrent of Uberversal tyranny: probability. To predict the precise behavior of the nanoverse is to predict the impossible. Likewise, the Uberverse, by which we exist, answers to its own boss with the distinguished title, “Hello, My Name Is Probability, C.E.O.”. And so the paradox grows in dimension, although hopefully less than Brian Greene’s 26, in that an additional law of the Uberverse is that there can be no law of precise prediction. Is this the physics of free will? Am I able to choose because my neuronal nanoverse is unable to absolutely decide? And if this is true for my nanoverse, shouldn’t that also reign in my more familiar macroverse? The questions easily approach 1,000,000,000, and therefore any answers easily approach absurdity. But this perspective (which I admit is narrow) begs the possibility -- ahem, the probability -- that the choices we make, whether macro or nano can transpire to conspire among the nearest atom, as well as the nearest cosmos. A stellar butterfly effect perhaps, but an effect nonetheless.

Despite this cosmic significance, it remains evident that we are frail, helpless human creatures, so much so that one can’t help but wonder if the Uberverse accidently burped our/its consciousness out of a billion-to-one probability. Yet, we exist because we can ask if we exist; from atom to energy, we must exist. And therefore the energy by which we bestow can consequently effect the matter that we receive, and vise versa. Acoustic energies can reorganize synaptic circuitry, just as light and pressure can achieve the same. For scientists such as the one I pretend to be, it is fatally arrogant to discount energetic relations to matter as “witchcraft,” “religion,” or other tabloid adjectives. On the Uberversal continuum (which I suppose is the same continuum as all the others), matter and energy, big and small, love and hate... they all effect each other, just as the matter it requires to amass neurons to believe they effect each other -- or don’t effect each other -- also effect the energy which generated the inquisition in the first place: us. And so it appears that grandma may have been right about becoming what you eat. She just happened to leave out the probability, although infinitesimally small, that I might also eat what I are.

i no how to right and tipe reel good.

2007-07-29T19:50:00.000-07:00

Evidently "very well-written" grant proposals don't get funded because it's just inconceivable that a student could sythesize such an "outstanding document" without their mentor having a "very hands-on role in putting this reasearch application together":

"The research plan itself is by far the strength of this application. It is very well-written and 'tight,' it is an interesting and important topic, and there are simply no major flaws. The quality of the application, and in particular the writing style, is somewhat difficult to reconcile. . . It seems evident that the sponsor played a very hands-on role in putting this research application together."

I can't win.

( _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ )

2007-07-18T21:24:00.001-07:00

So You're Leaving...

2007-07-17T14:53:00.000-07:00

Of the voluminous library of songs I've heard in my life, this remains as one of my favorites. I've needed it more than once.

"If You Have To Go," by Geneva:

Hi Blog.

2007-07-06T12:05:00.001-07:00

Hi Blog. How are you? It's been such a long time since I've been able to talk to you! So...how are the kids? Fine? Gooooood, gooooood.... oh, I'm fine. I've just been really busy lately, but you know how THAT goes -- ha, ha, ha, ha.... Oh, you know, I've had retreats to attened, a stready stream of family visiting for the past month, and of course the experiments haven't stopped. But, yeah, you know, that is the life I love to live. Ohhhh....yeah. huh...what's that? ....oh, I miss you too! We'll spend some quality time togther soon, I promise. 'Tell you what, let's get together next week before the camping trip. How does....say.....oh, I don't know....any time before Thursday sound? Good? .....yeah? OK, let's "touch base" soon and try to hammer out some really profound hubris! Yeah, well, you know how well we seem to do that together! And it's been just SOOO LONG since we've done that. So what do you think?! ...uh-huh....yeah.....mmmmm..... well, In the mean time, say hi to all those visitors you get and let them know I'm alright and doing well. Oh, and I'll be sure to visit some of your friends and give them a hello as well.

OK, well, nice talking with you. Take care and give little Johnny a kiss for me....he's so cute. Alright...uh-huh....real good now....OK....yup....alright, bub-bye now. mm-hmmm....

BSBF 2007 Final Results!

2007-06-06T21:27:00.000-07:00

Please see link below to download the Excel file. Post any reactions to the results below by clicking on "Comments". Note that the error bars in the graph are standard error. Feel free to render any other interesting comparisons and post them here. BSBF 2007 was good fun; thanks to everyone who helped make it happen. If you haven't yet had your fill of shitty beer, you can look forward to BSBF 2008 in only 11 more months. In the meantime, I'll be anticipating a most unshitty beer best at the Oregon Brewers Festival along the Portland waterfront park July 26th through July 29th. I'll be volunteering somewhere among the hops and barley Friday the 27th, so stop by (likely at the Rogue stand) for an extra-special pour from yours truly.

My What A Busy Week (of BSBF stats)

2007-05-28T17:28:00.000-07:00

I need to take a moment...a moment from ^KL(*#$&DJKHNDFCNVKJ#E* and type nonsense onto my blog. Ahhh... It's Memorial Day, and it is absolutely lovely outside. As placid as peacetime, I suppose. How ironic. Politics aside, there is indeed more ^KL(*#$&DJKHNDFCNVKJ#E* ahead this week, as I have been pushing for some fancy new data for my committee meeting, I play some guitar on Wednesday (with a debut of "The Cougar Song"), and then I turn a yellow 27 on Sunday (and probably age an additional year during the inevitable debauchery Saturday night). Yes, a busy week that will likely be conquered, but alas, not without a pyrrhic victory.

Somewhere among the clutter I've began deciphering the cryptic gustation documented last weekend at the Best Shittiest Beer Fest 2007. Complete data will be published here soon, but a victor has emerged: Miller Light. Not an exciting underdog by any means, but somehow the Miller Brewing Company managed to package a relatively sapid delight among all that water; Labatt's Blue was a close silver medal. Now for the losers. These results have much more flair to shout about. We have a triad competing for the bottom of the toilet bowl, but Sharps Non-alcoholic TIED with Stella Artois the worst shittiest beer. Yes, at $9 a six-pack for Stella, you may as well drink Sharp's NA. That is something to shout on a mountain top. What's even more thrilling than that result, you ask? ...by a mere THREE points total (3% higher score), Steel Reserve TIED with Heineken for the second shittiest shitty beer. Need I comment more? Interesting personal caveat: both James and Oyer consistently bucked that trend by ranking Sharp's and Heineken toward the top of their personal favorites. And what's better, they also ranked Stella highly. So the next time either of these two blokes saddle up to the bar, order them a round of Sharp's!

...more complete stats to come soon...

BSBF 2007 A Success!

2007-05-22T11:24:00.000-07:00

The Best Shittiest Beer Fest of 2007 has been completed and the results are being tabulated...well, they're actually sitting on my coffee table until I have time to crunch the numbers, which will likely be this coming weekend. But statistics aside, I think there were some ostensible losers. First, "Sharps," which is Miller's attempt at a non-alcohol beer, was clearly the worst beer at the Fest. Ever. That shit was shitty! Furthermore, I'm happy to report that Heineken -- the beer some people think is good just because it costs $8 a 6-pack -- was not much better than Sharps. That is NOT a compliment. It will take a little more numerical articulation to determine some beer winners, since there were a few that were "not bad". I ranked Old Style up near the top for both rounds, which I was proud of since that was the beer I brought as my sure-fire champion. Stay tuned to the AstroSite for the complete stats as they become available.

Best Shittiest Beer Fest 2007

2007-05-03T19:09:00.000-07:00

Well, that shitty time of the year has come again. You know, the one that makes your tastebuds weep and your stomach seizure. Yes, kids, Best Shittiest Beer Fest 2007 is upon us. Need I say more? Same concept, same location, same time, same antacids. But remember: we are looking for the beer you THINK is good, but your friends may tell you otherwise. This isn't a picnic for Rogue or Deschuttes -- it's been overwhelmingly demonstrated that those beers are both tasty AND expensive; rather, this picnic is to find the least offensive beer for your buck. There is a very special, important exception to that rule: expensive shitty beer. I am tired of people being duped by savvy marketing or conditioned learning. Is Corona, Heineken, or the like REALLY worth that $8 tab? I willing to bet my $4.78/6-pack of Old Style that they 'aint shit. BRING. IT. ON!

***I encourage you to select either classic BSBF favorites or beers that remain unchallenged in previous BSBFs. You can see what beers were chosen in 2006 "HERE"

REMEMBER TO POST A COMMENT BELOW WITH YOUR BEER CHOICE!
The flier and instructions are below. Click each image to enlarge them.

Where The Sun Never Sets

2007-04-18T16:22:00.000-07:00

I recently returned from a rather surreal spring break trip to visit my uncle in Manhattan Beach, California. Having not paid meticulous attention to the movie Blow (important note: Manhattan Beach is featured BEFORE the cocaine!), my only expectation was to relax and spend time in the sun. Both of these expectations certainly came true, but what unfolded in my ephemeral 96 hour sojourn proved to be an indelible, incredible experience. Manhattan Beach is in many ways like the quaint NW Portland neighborhood in which I live, only with more sun, a Pacific shore, and what has to be the highest concentration of beautiful women on the planet. Hmmm...OK...so maybe it isn't too similar to my neighborhood, but Manhattan Beach and NW Portland certainly share a strong sense of identity and community. The tight social network that links people, places, and ideas reminded me very much of my northern neighborhood, as did the appreciation for foot and pedal power -- yes, this appreciation actually exists within Los Angeles County! And to add to the similarities, I was pleasantly surprised to discover the Manhattan Beach Brewing Company near the pier, serving me delicious pints of chocalate porter and blonde ale as an homage to Portland's eminent domain. Yes, Manhattan Beach was in many ways the 30-something reflection of my 20-something NW neighborhood.

But then there is the "scene". This scene -- or maybe "seen" in the L.A. lexicon -- is one of the most aggresive displays of social and sexual feathers outside of a horny peacock (see picutres!). Not that this was necessarily a bad thing, but it was certainly something that heaved me into unfamiliar territory. Money weaves through every conversational stitch, while sex seems to be a nervous fidget to avoid even the slightest hint of boredom. In a sense, the gain on this system is maxed, turning the lows somewhere near hell, and highs near heaven. Naturally, any system like this can easily distort, leaving the listener (which would be my child-like self!) running to Mommy with their hands over their ears. For fairness, Manhattan Beach is a few insulation pads removed from it's younger hedonist neighbor, Hermosa Beach. I actually found myself stone-cold sober in the corner of a club completely nonplussed at the human spectacle before me. Shock and Awe, indeed. But since I truly was nonplussed, I will have to shy away from any description. I do, however, remember thinking, "Even the Roman Empire eventually fell". I'm not exactly sure what that means, but it was somehow perfectly apposite.

Ahem. Back to Manhattan Beach. A blissful bubble from rainly Portland and certainly from ___(insert negative adjective here)___ nearby Los Angeles. I watched a crimson sunset from my uncle's deck every single night, attempted surfing (but not without a possible broken rib...don't worry, I'm fine), rode bikes up and down the Pacific rim of the South Bay, gawked at some of the most incredible bodies I've ever seen (albeit mostly "fake," if you know what I mean), listened to 1960's records on my dad's original Klipsch Cornwall speakers, sped through the Malibu hills in a sun-gleamed convertible Porsche, and, most importantly, reconnected with an uncle that I share more in common with than my genes can probably transcribe. Yes, the experience was "intensely relaxing," a phrase that was still an oxymoron only one week ago. Yet, upon departing from this fantasy land, I realized that I needed a vacation from my vacation. The seduction of Manhattan Beach is not one to flirt with for too long, at least not for an aspiring Ph.D. student such as myself. But, like a dirty secret, it's enticing to know that Manhattan Beach is always whispering for another date -- a date that I'll gladly accept in the future.