her beauty, the rage of a spring flower_

not every planet has a star_

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving I found myself at the helms of my DJ "booth" yet again. This was without warning. It's like a bad habit I can't quit, only the habit isn't bad, it's healthy, but distracting. I've been making progress on my excoriating letter on the current state of Academic science I intend to send to the American Association for the Advancement of Science, but alas, I was overcome with a selection of tracks that just had to be stitched together. Immediately. And I obsessed over the Thanksgiving holiday doing so. It brought such joy.

Feeling so lost the past few months -- so aimless, so alone and confused about my purpose -- I was compelled to mix together a mood that encapsulates my current existence better than any words I could write. This is certainly the only mix where, in addition to the sounds, it seems even the title of the songs (if not fits into the story experience.

Truly said, this is "my mix". It expresses everything I am at this moment in space and time. If it's the last thread of mood i sonically sew then I'd gladly leave this as my final artifact. I feel I've never created any piece of art so accurately expressive. I truly want to dissolve and I think that's what these sounds do.

It begins at Home among the familiarity of people, plants, animals, and weather in the Land of Goshen (track mark 0:00), an aposite opening track given Goshen's Biblical origin as a Homeland revered for its pristine cultivation, yet later as the epicenter of the Exodus. This is where I feel alone, like a rogue satellite. No longer fit for Earth or its inhabitants, I've willfully catapulted myself into my own trajectory -- one where new worlds of nebulous dreams and cosmic ambitions display an infinitely beautiful, infinitely precarious horizon. I have befittingly chosen a similar trajectory to that of the Pioneer 10, the space probe launched from Earth in 1972 towards the star Aldebaran (track mark 6:07) with a mission similar to mine. There is no air to breathe in this trajectory. It is the vacuum of space. Earth is my body's Home, after all. Beyond this heavy, insulating atmosphere, I will return to dust and rock. But where is Home for an alien imprisoned within human flesh aboard a blue-sphered mother ship? I must keep going. And so I reach escape velocity. The death sentence of space's vacuum will forces apart every last atom of my human existence, exposing the raw ingredients of human consciousness. This is how I will exist through my interstellar voyage.

In my trajectory, I am only consciousness. This Universe seems dead, and it most certainly is dead compared to the standards of most humans. But I somehow feel alive out here in the vacuum. Now unshackled from the confines of human flesh, now liberated from human corporeal limitations, I am free. I drift as a satellite of memories and consciousness in search of a new Home to inhabit -- a Home that has no need for air, just hot gases. And cold matter. And infinite space and time. This is where I seek happiness. This is where my current mix is taking me.

As I accelerate the flesh of me begins to strain further. It slowly breaks apart. The pain is tolerable though, as the beauty of shedding my gravity provides as much pleasure as the pain in feeling it melt away. Once beyond of Earth's clasp, I am only a skeleton. I've left so much behind. I'm lighter now. My speed increases as I continue to shed mass under this constant acceleration. When I reach the moon's orbit I see its gray-freckled face up close. Aged and dusty, it's an aggregated frozen shadow submissive to Earth's mightier tow. And there it will remain for ages. As it's already been for ages. But I'm fortunate. I get to keep accelerating. Half of what's left of my skeleton is melting from the sun's stare behind me (Sunburn, track mark 12:05), the other half frozen with infinite nothingness in front of me. I'm barely human. I'm fully conscious.

By the time I reach Mars I'm become more comfortable with my new self. I'm feeling jovial. I've shed my flesh and bone entirely now. I'm a sentient and nothing more. And nothing less. I continue into the asteroid belt to play pinball with the collisions of chaotic gravity. It's gritty work; it's fun work. The jagged edits and tensioned treble keeps me anxious as the basslines remind me to have fun. I did choose this trajectory after all.

The calm of exiting the asteroid belt is exhilarating. It's like that rush you feel when you know you're in the middle of a serious storm but you play it off as though it's all for fun. Yet, once the storm ends you quietly feel relieved. It is perhaps Temporary Sanity, as the track at 47:00 minute mark is titled.

And now to Jupiter (track mark 51:20), our largest planet and a "gas giant". With only a little more mass it may have had enough gravity to spark hydrogen fusion and become its own star. What then would have become of the human condition? Likely nothing, as our solar system would have been forever changed and our precious blue ball of habituation would likely have been tipped beyond habituation. Instead, Jupiter helped make the human existence possible by failing as a star and instead succeeding as a matter vacuum, sucking away cataclysmic comets and asteroids. And so life was allowed to evolve on Earth without permanent interruption. Now there's a success-in-failure story -- that of Jupiter! I float by with a nod to its second-in-command status in the Solar System. 

And now things get darker. Saturn, another of the gaseous giants, is as beautiful as it is dangerous, flinging particulates about its round torso in an insane Spinning temper tantrum (track mark 55:24). Yes, at Saturn I begin to realize there's no going back to Earth now. Saturn is the last "bright" planet I'll see before the hues sag dimmer. The black void in the distance is my destiny.

On to Neptune, Pluto-The-Non-Planet (but always a dog), the Kuiper Belt, and then the Heliopause where the last reach of our sun expires in a rippling rage of solar wind. I ride this torrent in stride, bucking and bending in the storm, shedding the final atoms of my previous humanoid self in a Heart Call (track mark 59:58) -- perahps it's a final plea to my former self for forgiveness, a remaining fit of regret. It's beautiful, it's destructive, it's final dissolution, it's The Afterglow (track mark 1:04:05) of all I've ever known flashing before my Open Eye Signal (track mark 1:07:36), stinging like brine splashing into my face. But I'm almost through the Heliopause. And what lies beyond is nothing. And everything.

The silence of nothing. A trajectory towards everything. I am a rogue entity now -- a rogue planet of fleshless consciousness. I have no star. But I will drift by countless unfamiliar stars, each a foreign island inhabited by warmth, eager potential, and danger. Indeed, each star is like a remote Earthly island full of as much life as potential death. But all are beautiful. There are roughly 300 sextillion stars in the Universe that may capture me. With just the right coincidental trajectory my aimless wander may be courted by a flirting star's gravity. Here my trajectory collapses into an orbit much like what I had on Earth. This foreign star's violent eruptions spew its matter into the vacuum, slowly accreting elemental bodies of dust and rock. After billions of collisions and billions of orbits, the matter becomes warm under its own pressure, coalescing a new planetoid and incorporating me along with it into a corporeal vessel once again. This is a new Home, but it is a familiar Home. I've been here before because I have always been from a star. In the Sun Harmonics (track mark 1:12:21) I am reborn. We are reborn.



**Mixcloud streaming is annoying (no "scrubs," so to speak) so click here for a free DOWNLOAD [ignore the Google warnings and such - it's just a .m4a file converted in iTunes] // the artwork is above_

track list >>

1/      land of goshen by khen

2/      aldebaran by hraach, armen miran

3/      sunburn [navar extended remix] by armin van buuren

4/      feeling so high by blue rose, sevenn, bhaskar

5/      togeter [beckwith remix extended mix] by cazzette

6/      black umbrella feat. javi by beckwith

7/      dance in tongues by dave seaman

8/      grinning by ian lugvig

9/      who dare wins by amber long, just hear

10/    temporary sanity [cornucopia remix] by sahar z, guy mantzur

11/    jupiter by martin peter

12/    spin [simone vitullo remix] by the scumfrog

13/    heart call [jerome isa-ae remix] by jennifer rene, solid stone

14/    afterglow [snr remix] by vintage & morelli

15/    open eye signal by jon hopkins

16/    sun harmonics by jon hopkins

new song >> open water

a new song has emerged from my autumnal, unemployed ennui / i hope it speaks better than what i could have written here instead_

[free download by clicking the link and entering "$0"]

open water [10_28_2016]

i've never looked up for a savior 

i've never looked down on my soul 

and now i've found my own salvation here

forever now 

is this my paradise? 

another path that's made of jungles 

another desert in the prize 

forever now 

if it only rains a lonely sweet surprise 

then the savior wins the house every time 

the seas don't part when you know your own way 

and the waves don't care what you have to say 

when the time has come to let it all go 

would you keep your pride to stay afloat? 

late into the moonlight 

far from any shore 

there's no lighthouse in the distance to guide me anymore 

just a chance to prove my instinct that the sea is just a dream 

full of all the lies and jealousy from them 

to drown what i believe 

i've always looked down on a savior
i've always looked up on my own

lost in the babel_

Simply Correct

I don't have social media accounts anymore. The reasons for this are buried somewhere below in prose and song. And I don't think anyone actually reads much of this blog anyway, but this is all I have and I'm absolutely compelled right now to express something, even if the only response I receive is the tapping of my own fingers across this keyboard on a rainy Friday night.

I want to defend myself and the countless men across America that respect women as much as they respect any other class of human beings, however they may define themselves. That someone, let alone the Presidential nominee of a major US political party, would dismiss adulterous, degrading -- dehumanizing -- talk and glibly boast of sexual assault as "locker room banter" is reprehensible. Or better put, deplorable. I need no apology for using that word here. I've never spoken of women, let alone anyone, in such a manner. Nor have my friends. It is absolutely not locker room banter. And when I have on rare occasion heard such language spoken I've stood up to it and rejected it outright, no matter the circumstances. As have my friends. This is not how men -- how respectful human beings -- speak of one another. I'm completely appalled that the excuse for such language is that it's something regular and accepted behind closed doors. It is not.

And so I speak for myself and all the good-natured people I'm fortunate enough to call my friends: we respect all identities of gender, race, age, religion, occupation, and politics. This isn't being "politically correct;" this is being "simply correct". We are all born naked and vulnerable, and whether male, female, white, black, or a mix thereof, we have no choice in the matter. We are born equal. And we will die equal. This is the premise of our Constitution; this is the beautiful brilliance of the country I love, The United States of America.

Donald Trump was born as naked as anyone. And he will die the same. Just like all of us. It's what we do in between that makes us unequal. And I, along with the people around me, strive to be unequal only in the way that makes us exceptional at making the human experience better for everyone. This is the the legacy of our human race or we wouldn't be here today in 2016 aspiring for a better future. And this is the legacy of our country: we are equal in our aspiration to be exceptional.

Vote.
_

To Be or Not To Become

And so the summer sun has set. This isn't official for a few days but the weather demanded otherwise last Saturday and has proudly, albeit suddenly arrived ahead of schedule. My summer of 2016 was very interesting. And quiet. Perhaps this is why I found it interesting, as my life is usually noisy with activity. I spent more time alone this summer than any other extended period of time I can recall. I say that with neutrality, as I easily appreciate the timeless hours of sunlit veranda meditations, solo bike rides through our beautiful countryside, and the occasional party-of-one night on the town as a weary observer of often curious, sometimes regretful, always entertaining human behavior. All that said, I certainly did have my social moments, including a week with my niece visiting from South Dakota, some social wine nights on the veranda, a couple camping excursions with friends, and the rare 2AM when-we-were-twenty-something throwback bonanza with old friends. Still, it was a quiet summer. I think some of this is due to my cohort getting older, having partners and/or families, having (real) obligations, and simply having less energy (I somehow still summon the whimsy of my twenties). Also, I'm simply less social these days. This isn't by design but rather by resign. Something has surrendered inside of me -- a fire, a charm, a wit, a reason, a purpose, a care -- that has left me more resigned to stop becoming and just be. There were nights were I'd just sit in my chair with my candles, my glass of wine, and stare -- no music, no guitar, no HBO, no reading, no texting -- just staring through the glass trying to decide whether I'm the creature looking out of they're the creatures looking in. I didn't blink. For once.

I found out nearly six months ago my current research job would end in September. It's now September. Having now surrendered my fire, I absorbed this information as though I was diagnosed with a terminal disease. I went about my days with my primary intent to be only among the things that make me happy. I made little compromise for others, but to be honest there wasn't really anyone else to make any compromise for. I didn't seek any one thing or any one person. I acted mostly out of selfish instinct to pursue my happiness as though it may be the last time I would pursue it. Perhaps this is also a reason for my quiet summer. I just wanted to be at peace -- to listen more than talk; to go to a show rather than be in one; to be invisible among the company of my passions.

I knew that this latest blow from science would likely be the one to knock me out of research forever. Evidently even passions receive terminal diagnoses. Those that know me are familiar with the struggles I've endured to keep this fire alive -- my fire for discovery and knowledge may actually have suffocated to a muted smolder. My existence in the institutional power chamber -- the machine -- that is Academia is anathema to my passions' identity. Academia has been poisoned by years of poor public relations (and therefore poor funding), hostile takeovers by institutions that now market diseases as revenue sources, consolidation of laboratories into legacy teams that bully the underdogs, and -- most importantly -- rejection of creativity as a risk not worth taking. Science has lost its soul. But that's for another blog post (likely coming soon).

In the mean time I embraced my passions this summer in the most introverted, resigned way. I stopped trying to manifest them through and for others; rather, I embraced their unadulterated essence as much as possible because I wasn't sharing them with others. I rode my bike more this summer than in any previous. I drank the best wine I've ever consumed, often atop my apartment perch thinking about nothing but the hungry bat about to emerge and announce dusk's arrival. I played music for no one (literally -- I played part of a show to a completely empty and cavernous venue, which was actually pretty hauntingly special). I went to a neuroscience retreat on Mt. Hood and, naturally, brought along a bottle of colloidal, cellar-funked Mortier Cabernet Franc for myself in the star-studded outdoor hot tub. I twice escaped the heat and drove into the desert (I love the irony here) to discover hidden swimming holes in Mosier and Hood River. I went out often to places old and new (including a random concert in Lake Oswego of all places) just to see what different lives and stories would simultaneously intersect. And yes, I often went absolutely nowhere. I would sit. And stare. And exist in a moment that I knew may not last long, nor ever happen again. Like my life as a scientist.

The summer wasn't all lonely and quiet. The time with my ten-year-old niece was as precious of an experience as I may ever have, especially if I don't end up having a child of my own someday. And I saw one friend of mine more than I have in past years, which means a lot to me given his more paternal role in my life. We had some great rides together, I surprised him in Manzanita on his birthday at a Led Zeppelin tribute band show, and we had a couple great days in Eugene for the season opener Ducks football game. I also had a great two-day camp in Washington with a good friend and his wife. And I even (finally) went on a "date" with a female member of the human race -- the first such activity in nearly a year and a half. I was reluctant but eventually yielded to what seemed to be forceful coercion from friends. We had a drink, some ice cream, and then she got on a bus...[shrug] I'm not sure I understand or even desire dating. Or I'm still just not ready for it (which is ridiculous - there's plenty of previous posts below filling in that story). But I did it! I went on a date -- the first one in a year and a half...the first one since I was 34 years old (ouch). And I did do among my summer of introversion no less.

But now the summer of 2016 has ended. As they all do. I feel refreshed, leveled, upright, satiated, and...bored, which I equate to a form of death. But perhaps autumn will bring a clamorous response: a cold, wet, windy, numbing moment of death and rebirth. I have a few really good bottles of wine left, a handful of candles, and just enough money for October's rent, after which I'll be ready to pass on to whatever lies ahead. Ironically, the approaching death will be the best taste of life I've had in a while.

post-vernal nunc venio

The summer of 2016 has been kind to me thus far, thanks in no small part to one of the most seasonably moderate stretches of weather in about five years.  It's been glorious. At any rate, I look forward to what's yet to come.

Dear Diary, It's June 28th, 2016

Lately I've felt increasingly uninspired, bored, and even lazy. This was especially true this evening as I looked out at the orange hues opposing the long summer shadows and, in a flurry of how to best enjoy the moment, didn't know what to do with myself. Yes, there are (much) worse life conditions I could find myself in, and I realize the fortune I have to even ponder such a "problem". But there was anxiety nonetheless -- anxiety in that moment to find purpose. I have never really journaled, with the AstroSite assuming most of that role in my adult life, so I thought I'd "journal" a quick list of everything I did today to see if that helps me find perspective, purpose, and foresight.

• I rode my bike into work as usual, a mere 4.1 miles with an 850 foot elevation gain. I do love my hills. The weather was (and has been and will be all week) absolutely gorgeous-perfect. In fact, the weather in Portland the past two weeks has been among the best stretch of "normal" summer weather I can recall in at least 5 years. I decided that I would take the long route home later.
• I stained some heart sections (mouse) using a new protocol to try and resolve if chondroitin sulfate proteoglycans (CSPGs) are still present in scar tissue 40 days after a massive myocardial infarction (heart attack). This new protocol seemed to work good enough, which will pave the way for some very interesting experiments given that these molecules are thought to prevent crucial regenerative sympathetic nerve growth into the scar. I’ll have to optimize the protocol and follow-up. I think I will try adding some anti-mouse antibodies during the blocking step along with the new protocol's kit to see if that further resolves the CSPGs.
• I completed preliminary analysis of some neuronal innervation studies from a collaborator at UC Davis looking at how nerves regenerate in heart failure (a very different disease paradigm than myocardial infarction, but important nonetheless). I’ll have to send this back to our collaborator now to see if I stumbled upon anything interesting (I’m blinded to the experimental groups to preserve objectivity, which is a sound scientific approach I'd like to preserve).
• I analyzed some very compelling images showing robust hyperinnervation in scar tissue only 14 days following MI. This will likely not go over well with my boss, but that doesn't matter: it’s real and it may (or should) force a change in the lab because they currently hold the notion (and have built a significant portion of their reputation) that there is no natural reinnervation of the scar following MI, which is why they were excited about developing drugs to promote reinnervation. But my data would show such reinnervation happens anyway — regardless of no drug compounds — but perhaps at a slower rate, which brings me to a point I’ve been making for a while that the lab may want to focus more on the importance of reinnervation timing, not just reinnervation itself. So I’m expecting this won’t go over well but that won't stop me. It's my scientific duty. And this, ironically, is why I fail to integrate into the science community: for being an inquisitive, disruptive skeptic. Perhaps "winetender" at a local grape shop really is my ultimate fate. I think I'll wait until Thursday to drop this bomb -- not right at the holiday break, but close enough to absorb some of the fallout and then have a few extra days following for the dust to settle.
• I injected mice with an experimental compound to see if I can expedite reinnervation (as I just explained) following MI. These compounds have a lot riding on them, including a new drug company formed by the lab. I have my doubts (as I just explained), but we’ll see…
• I rode my bike home and as I planned this morning, I took one of my favorite long routes home for another 9.3 miles and 680 feet of climbing: up the hill to Fairmount, then around the southern bend and back to Humphrey, then down Sylvan and up past the zoo. It's a scenic route, as it provides western vistas of the slowly setting June sun over the Coastal Range. It was just absolutely gorgeous.
• I went to the park and worked out in my "gym". Today was a lot of pull-ups, dips, and hanging acrobatics from the mid-bars. Did I mention how nice it was out today?
• I took an indirect jogging route home to add a nice-N-easy mile to end my workout.
• After a romantic dinner on my veranda of grilled tofu dogs with hummus, olives, grilled asparagus, feta cheese, and black olives (yummy summer dinners!), I played a couple tunes on my guitar and watched the sun set in the northwest. I’ve been chipping away at a new tune that I think is pretty interesting. It has very unsuspecting key changes, which I have a penchant for crafting. But the curve balls in this one are a little drastic, so it may take some finesse to make it work. But I’ll get it.
• I sat for a moment in ennui about what to do next.
• I decided I wanted to go N Mississippi Ave and sit outside on the sidewalk to have a drink. I haven't been over there in a while. I wondered what was going on. I ended up at Radar next to Mississippi Studios. It was lovely. And I felt old, something that's suddenly been happening much more the past year - now that I'm a ripe 36 years of age! It’s become quite a scene over there. There were many people trying very hard with whatever that “perfectly scruffy, quasi-intellectual Portland look” is, but I guess that’s fine. There were definitely some attractive women in the mix but were (a) probably too young for an old guy like me, and/or (b) too boring because I just couldn't see past their perfectly crafted scruffy, quasi-intellectual Portland look, and/or (c) were just fine and lovely and I'm just too old, boring, and grumpy. Regardless, I sat in silence for an hour and sipped a Pfriem ale among a summer’s zephyr (yes! I did not have a glass of wine for once! That sidewalk just wanted a beer). For most of that hour my mind was fixated on all the pretty girls and their dates hopping about. I then realized I haven’t so much as been on a date or even filtered with a girl since…last May? of 2015. Is that a big deal? Does that mean something important? I guess I’m just not ready to move on from my previous relationship. …is that big deal? Probably yes to all of those questions. Anyway, it was soon time to drive back over the vista-laden westbound 405 bridge and gawk at the prettiest gal of them all: Portland, Oregon in summer twilight.
• I dove into M Bar (naturally) on the way back but I didn’t like the scene. I had a brief conversation with some acquaintances and went home. I also was reminded how typical that is of me: I go to a place (often M Bar), test the waters, don't like the temp, and move along to what's next. One night I counted I ducked into over 13 different bars and restaurants before I decided I didn't like any of them that night and went home without a single drink. I'm not sure if that's funny, ridiculous, or mental behavior.
• I decided to watch the film 127 Hours because I heard about during a wine tour with some friends last weekend in the Columbia River Gorge. Good God - that's one of the most intense films I've ever seen. I actually gasped out loud and had to take a quick veranda-for-air break. But it was an excellent film nonetheless.
• Now it's 12:30 AM and, with my bedroom windows wide open to the stars above my head (I really do love my apartment), I'll go to sleep soon and repeat some version of this list once again. All by my boring self.

the sunshine mix_

Summer is here - the real summer, not that weird global hotting thing we've had in spring here the past few years. I'm talking about the actual seasonal Pacific NW summer of sun, low 80ºF temperatures, low humidity, and ample urban and rustic adventures that tire even most restless of acolytes. That summer is here.

And so in warranted fashion, I made another mix. I say that as almost an apology because it's something I love to do, yet making mixes chews up so much of my time and creative energy that I get little else done. I get obsessed once I start. And making this one, aptly named The Sunshine Mix, was no different. Once I decided to pull the trigger on this idea I had a continuous stream of late nights among an Apple-blue-lit face, toggle-happy keyboard fingers, and earbuds permanently installed like braces on a overly-smily teenager. But there was good impetus for this obsessive burst: sailing.

Some good friends of mine are members of a sailing club in Portland and the offer (slash-forced-invite) was extended to join them for a sail among the wind-crested waters of the Columbia River. The date for this adventure ended up being on the longest day of 2016, June 21st. I could imagine no better inauguration to summer than this experience, that is, unless that imagination also included a mix of sounds made for sun, sand, blue waters, and amnesia of the past and future (yes, let's forget the future too). I've had a backlog of beautiful tracks that didn't fit well into my previous mixes, partly because I typically approach such endeavors with an over-thinking intellect that errors on the side of strict editing to eliminate anything that may disrupt the intended mental continuum. And many of the more summery tracks at my disposal were simply too...well, sunny. But I've been mired in sullen melancholia displasia maxima for too long at this point. I've become a rather unnatural recluse, I've caved into unnatural introversion, I've recorded and released a 21-track acoustic hemorrhage of heartbreak and general disillusionment (see below posts), and the last electronic mixes I put out there (also below) required so much planning and articulation that I found myself scribbling notes about chromatic theory and syncopation. It was time for some pure, guilty emotion of pleasure.

This mix is precisely that: it's nothing but stream-of-consciousness emotions geared to precipitate a summer of love. Of course, some of the lyrics on these tracks deal with minor-chord heartache (which is probably why I love them), but the sonic canvas drips in yellow and magenta hues. It's like framing the moon in broad daylight. But to be honest, plenty of these tracks are just straight-up happy. And there's nothing wrong with that.

The result is a two-hour-plus mix that transcends old and new tracks to provide a soundtrack to the summer of 2016. In fact, one of my favorite anthems appears aptly in the middle: "Summer of Love," by Myon & Shane 54 -- yes, it's a couple years old at this point but there is no better solstice anthem than this. I also threw in plenty of mini-mashups (a new favorite production nuance of mine) to blend all sorts of sunshine into one cohesive, gooey mess of happiness. The songs selected here are bright, extremely catchy, and made for summer. Highlights for me are Matt Darey's "See The Sun" (as old as it is, I can't get enough of this song and its ethereal vocals), Myon & Shane 54's Summer of Love remix of Lana Del Rey's "Young & Beautiful" (which somehow makes her gloomy sound float above, rather than in, the clouds), the (very) new "Sleeping Lions" by Kyau & Albert (amazingly catchy vocal syncopations), and Myon and Shane 54's Round We Go (I absolutely love how this remix sandwiches beautiful lyrics and melodies between an unforgivingly brutal machine factory). 

So dial in your setting -- whether that's a bike ride, a drive towards the coast, a sailing adventure, or even just some beautiful wine on your veranda -- and enjoy. Summer is here.

click for free DOWNLOAD [just ignore the standard Google scan warning - it's simply an .m4a file made in iTunes] // artwork is above_

track list >>

1/      feathers by eskai feat. karlina covington & jhuana

2/      outshine [nigel good remix] by myon & shane 54, natalie peris

3/      cool you off by EDX

4/      thinking about you [EDX's belo horizonte at night remix] by calvin harris, ayah marar

5/      see the sun [aurosonic remix] by matt darey presents urban astronauts

6/      everything by EDX, hadley

7/      endless summer [blood groove & kikis remix] by jimmy roqsta, thyla hill

8/      i'm in control [throttle mix] by AlunaGeorge

9/      down for you by lika morgan

10/    lie to me [juventa remix] by myon & shane 54, cole plante, koko laroo

11/    jealous [tristan chase remix] by M.E.L.

12/    dusk by MMX, x-vertigo, bass king

13/    summer of love [club mix] by myon & shne 54, kyler england

14/    now or never bytritonal, phoebe ryan

15/    young & beautiful [myon & shane 54 summer of love remix] by lana del ray

16/    surrounded by BT, aqualung

17/    nothing to prove by rodg, patrick baker

18/    sleeping lions by kyau & albert feat. grey

19/    runaway by late night alumni

20/    lucid dreams by mat zo

21/    creation by seven lions

22/    round we go [tom crusher remix] by myon & shane 54, haley

23/    strangers by myon & shane 54, seven lions, tove lo

24/    if i fall by cole plante with myon & shane 54, ruby o'dell

25/    wings [myon & shane 54 summer of love remix] by tom swoon, taylr renee

26/    outshine [radio edit] by myon & shane 54 with natalie peris

27/    crown of thorns [aurosonic album version] by matt darey featuring kate louise smith
28/   good for me [matt lange remix] by above & beyond
_

Degree of Freedom

My sister reminded me that five years ago today I defended and received my PhD in neuroscience: Friday, May 13th, 2011. Five years later, I can't say what that means, if anything. Have I failed my degree or has it failed me? Or is it both? Or is it neither? For me, the PhD conjures an amorphous, thick sludge of emotions. I've learned people's usual reaction to such things is one of accomplishment. But I don't know how I feel about it. The degree itself is just a piece of paper. I don't think I even know where mine is. And it's a limiting relic at that -- a piece of paper that relegates one to the expectations of being unapproachable, one-dimensional, awkward, and intimidating. It's unfortunate because I'm none of those things (okay - maybe I'm a little intimidating at times but that's just my high standards for myself showing through), nor are my friends that possess similar pieces of paper. Yet, the social obstacles that result from the degree are enormous. Or at least they have been for me. But the experience required to receive that piece of paper...that's the real accomplishment. That experience provides one of the most powerful toolboxes from which to build something great. But what is that "something"?

At the very least, I feel privileged to have had the opportunity to live such a rich life of experience and knowledge. It's truly fortuitous and remarkable given the sordid conditions so much of the global population endures just to find clean water and nutrition among falling bombs and buried dreams. But I'm frustrated that I haven't yet been able to translate my experience and knowledge in ways the benefit the broader human experience. For this, I feel selfish. I feel failed. I didn't pursue my education to benefit just me with some fancy accredited hall pass. I don't care about that; in fact, I'm repulsed by such grandeur. I thought I was a part of something bigger, something much larger and more important than myself. My education was intended to liberate my ideas and manifest my ambitions of discovery and altruism. But now I just feel imprisoned and selfish. I have these rare, valuable tools in front of me but no materials from which to build, and no blueprint on what to build anyway. And so now what? What was it all for? Should I just keep playing sad songs in my apartment whilst sipping wine and coffee? Somehow that seems even more selfish. But it does makes me happy -- something I can't say my degree has ever done for me.

Or maybe I just need to read my previous post on perfection one more time.
_

Perfect Tense

Georg Cantor invented set theory in 1874. At its most generalized, this is a theory that, among other arcane achievements, articulated the mathematical concept of infinity, a problem that had plagued (and still plagues) mankind since the days of Zeno of Elea. The crux of Mr. Cantor’s proof is that there are an infinite number of different sets of numbers, each with infinite members, thereby resolving an age-old paradox with a new one: some infinities are larger than others. The new paradox is self-evident. And maddening. As such, Georg Cantor ultimately lost his grip on the accepted reality plane (arguably both as cause and consequence of his infinite brilliance) and spent his final days in a sanitarium. Infinity may indeed be a riddle only for the divine.

Like the divine, infinity represents perfection: it is the asymptote where all disparate members converge to the same reflection; it is the quantum of ideas that are both true and false; it is the singularity where everything exists as nothing that exists as everything. To understand the infinite is to know perfection, is to know God — is to be God. Obviously, such lineage is not among the set of real human combinations. And yet, human beings pursue the immaculate of the infinite whilst among our finite corporeal resources. We strive for purity in our relationships, our religions, our diets, and even our dog breeds; we prefer a slick base-10 number system, in-phase music chords, and 90-degree angles to our buildings, televisions, and art canvases; we construct a “more perfect Union” in our constitutions and seek the “righteous” governance of God-ordained utopias. And if imperfection stands in our way, we may even murder in the name of our impossible pursuits. Human ambition is seemingly unbound by the cartography of its finite boundaries. This is insanity.

Ironically, a perfect-minded quixotism is acceptable among the self-prescribed set of the sane, whereas the bleaker reality illuminated by pragmatism (and number theory) is ostracized as the fantasy of the insane. And so to risk the vantage of a pragmatist is to risk membership among self-prescribed sets of human beings. Xenophobia, then, transcends as a threat not to what’s different, but to what’s challenging to the imagined perfection of a particular set of human beings: skin color, language, religion, heritage, etc. Shared idealized perfection is what bestows membership among the human species. We are but a set within an infinite set — a process of perfection but never the realization of it. But, as Cantor showed, so is mathematics, the supposed “language of God”. Hence, perfection is an illusion by which its identity is in itself an infinite set of imperfections. This mandates that perfection is only realized by amassing a perfect set of infinite imperfections; or rather, perfection requires imperfection. Any pursuit of perfection is thereby a pseudocardinal alliance: the witness of God collapses the existence of God. We are left with a quantum model of our utopian pursuits where pragmatism and all its imperfect consequences are the only possible solutions towards preserving the purity we seek — a purity that cannot actually be realized. This is where our human ambition — our human identity — should lie.

Take it from me: I am a perfectionist. Ever since I can remember I’ve strived for perfection. Nothing, it seems, has ever been good enough (at least for those things I’ve sunken my passion into, which I admit is a lot of things). I recall that my parents, eager to steward their firstborn towards excellence, challenged me as I began my academic career with a $5 reward for every “A” received. My first parent-teacher conference generated an expensive bill. By third grade the challenge changed to reward every quarter the teacher did not complain about my incessant questions and disruptive tangents. I never made another dollar while in school.

Even before No. 2 pencils scribbled my character arc, I was an infant that strove for something better. I had terrible colic and would cry — scream — when my mother would leave me immobilized in a crib or in the care of a new face. In fact, I would stop breathing, literally turn blue, and rely upon my nascent brainstem to jumpstart my lungs into giving life another try. Now that’s born stubbornness. But this wasn’t separation anxiety from my mother. It was separation anxiety from my ambitions. In the company of my mother I witnessed a moving and changing world; in the company of my crib I was buried alive in a prison of uncoordinated and undeveloped infantile pragmatism. Interestingly, the day I learned to crawl I never had another bout of colic. I was emancipated to actualize my fanciful ambitions. Something better was out there beyond my crib — a utopia of four-legged wooden canyons, colored sandpits of shag carpet, and  constellations of 60-watt incandescent stars above. Of course, I didn’t realize this perfect paradise was but a modest home in 1980 Lincoln, Nebraska. When compared among the countless other picket-fenced members of this rather banal set, the utopian mirage evaporates. As they do.

Perhaps the cost of our human consciousness is a maddening glimpse of desires that cannot be actualized. We are shown the prize of purity in our mind with such detail that we surrender all pragmatism, all sanity, and even all morality in its pursuit. We are doped with such addictive mania that we cease to feel the empathetic gouge our pursuits inflict upon our neighbors’ eye, and upon our own. We become victims to the voracious ouroboros of human ambition. And like any intoxicated addict, we are delighted in our madness — numb to pain, numb to reality. Happiness is to stay blind and unbound to the pursuit of our infinite fantasies. Our utopian mirage seems so real, so near, that the only obstacle towards its actualization is the imperfection sobering our gaze. Alas, Cantor's ultimate madness may have been a simple, rational realization of his lonely pragmatic sanity among a world of crazed perfectionists.

In chaos theory we discover that a curved edge is simply an amalgam of embedded curved edges, which in themselves have embedded curves ad infinitum. But there must be a code to crack that resolves the truth, otherwise how would anything ever actually “happen”? Every observation we make instantaneously collapses all unbounded functions into the one we observe. Literally, every moment is a miraculous lottery ticket beating 1-to-infinity odds. What are the chances that every electron in my screen, and every sound wave bouncing through the park, and every glutamate molecule in my brain is precisely such to make this moment exactly as I perceive it? The answer is that it's infinitely small. Yet this moment happened, or collapsed, just as it did. The deterministic code for such impossibilities lies within the initial conditions. If we knew every instantaneous condition for every single particle at a precise moment, then we could predict without error every subsequent consequence (assuming we also knew every law by which every particles will behave). Without such knowledge of the initial conditions we perceive all that happens as chaos. To illustrate this, imagine a floating beach ball on a turbulent ocean. If we knew the momentum and position of every single particle involved — from each molecule of the water, air, and the ball, the heat transfer, the moon’s effect on the ocean, the sun’s effect on the moon and the Earth, Earth’s effect on the moon and sun…and on Jupiter, and Jupiter’s effect on cosmic rays en route to Earth, and a distant star’s effect on whatever supernova produced the cosmic rays a billion years ago, and… — then we could theoretically predict exactly how the beach ball will move at any precise moment on a turbulent ocean. But mathematics and physics quickly snap this omnipotent code back into impossibility. There are infinite initial conditions given that quantum mechanics doesn’t allow us to know both the instantaneous position and momentum of a particle. Nature, it seems, prevents even itself from achieving perfection.

Yet, we look for patterns in the stars to explain our personality and our future, patterns in the ticker tape to make us wealthy, patterns in behaviors to grant us health and safety, and patterns in scripture to grant us blissful immortality. We note for generations the one time such a pattern coincided with an intended result and neglect all the other times there was no result; hence, our dopamine-crazed mind manufactured this as "ritual". Nature calls it coincidence. But like an addict, the dopaminergic ambition is grandiose and it is strong. We surrender the sanity of nature’s imperfection to seek a perfection that even God’s language doesn’t allow. Our obsession is an illusion, perhaps evolved as a weapon to dupe our competition into failing. Regardless, we’ve become victims of our own imagination.

It’s not as though perfection shouldn’t be a motivator, but more that imperfection shouldn’t be avoided as a weakness. As mentioned, mathematics does describe perfection but only within the context of infinite imperfect sets. Are sea cliffs perfect walls? Are mountains perfect cones? Are stars perfect spheres? They may seem perfect from a distance, but like the squiggles of chaos, the closer we examine the more we observe new and complex contours. None of nature’s examples are inherently perfect, yet all hold the potential for beauty. Perhaps it is beauty that is the asymptote of nature’s quixotic imagination; perhaps beauty is where humans are capable of perceiving perfection from the sane distance of imperfection.

She was beauty. She was perfect. She was the asymptote of my impossible ambition. The imagined utopia of our future was set ablaze by my dopaminergic blindness just like any other crazed perfectionist. There could be no flaws, no imperfections hindering the actualization of pure fantasy. But, of course, this was insanity. There was no perfection to be had, no asymptote to actually reach. My clear utopian vision was a mirage ready to vanish at arrival, ready to reveal just another infinite set of imperfections yet to surmount. And so while I was stoking my obsessions with a perfect future, I was numb to the delicacy of an imperfect present. Now, nearly a year later, those are the fleeting moments I miss the most — the very ones I was vying to “correct”: the incompatible movie preferences, the awkward religious conversations, the tug-of-war radio dials, and even the stray, histrionic — if not dangerous — reaction to a skulking insect on the bathroom wall. The real beauty of us, like that of the sea cliffs, or the mountaintops, or the stars, was within our imperfections, not beside them. To end the relationship was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make. But I finally accepted that the only way to embrace the perfection I was (we were) seeking, and to calm the madness I was (we were) becoming was to accept the ultimate imperfection: we had to be apart. She needed unbounded reign to empower her beautiful talents and aspirations — for the first time in her life, and for her and no one else. It was her moment to seize. And mine to surrender. Remaining together would have ended the relationship in as much irony as splitting up was to save the relationship. But in this quantum game of infinite perfection theories, I suppose that’s exactly what one would expect.

So while I do know what I lost in this swap of ironies, I’m not sure I know what I saved. At this point, it’s clear it wasn’t the relationship. Perhaps it was simply the beauty that I’m now able to perceive — of her, of me with her, of what we were, of what we dreamed. Alas, such is the fate of a pragmatist no longer doped by visions of perfection, no longer bound by the insanity of infinite sets and impossible destinations. Therein lies the sanity of true love: boundless imperfections that make everything just a little more perfect_

a video from the [live with coffee and wine in an apartment] sessions

This will be the last post on my music stuff for a while, but i wanted to share one of the videos from the recent sessions. As emotionally exhausting as it was to page through nearly 10 years of songwriting for this project, it was a lot of fun -- if not therapeutic. Sadly, my kitchen looks a little bare and boring now without a dangling microphone and a laptop on the table, but it's time for some new and different -- non-musical -- ideas on the Astrosite. I need to let my fingers heal for a while anyway...well, until April 24th. Which reminds me, I'll be revisiting my musical archive down at my favorite little "dive wine bar" in Portland, M Bar, for their happy hour on April 24th. The place is about the same size as my kitchen, so I think I'll be able to nicely translate the recent album. I'll call it, [live with a bottle of wine in the smallest bar in Portland].

Below is the video component to the song, "our analog technology," from [live with coffee and wine in an apartment].

You can follow all my musical happenings and updates at dkotamusic.com.

our analog technology_ from dKOTA on Vimeo.

[live with coffee and wine in an apartment] is...well, live

after all that rain, wine, coffee, and page-sifting through my musical past and present, it's finally ready for any willing ears: [live with coffee and wine in an apartment] / much of the session is accompanied with video, which i'll slowly post onto the dkotamusic website (hence the screen capture below)

there's more i could say on the matter, including my surprise in how emotionally taxing it was to (re)engage in some of this material, but i will distill to say that it was incredibly rewarding, introspective, outrospective (yes, i just invented that word), and just plane and simple fun // my intent was to perform an intimate, unrehearsed, and raw private concert for the listener -- of course, with wine and coffee (not necessarily in that order, or in one setting, but with both somehow) / but i simply hope you enjoy the "concert" and relate in a way that takes part in your conversation / music is not a one-way vector - it's a busy intersection of ideas, emotions, opinions, experiences, desires ... (the list could ellipses off the page) / perhaps above all, art is about the the collision of conversation / and so, simply put, i hope you and i collide

at any rate, i've got this swarm buzzing in my mind that confronts the concepts of utopia, quixotism, and perfection-imperfection / it's about to spill onto this blog, but for now i'll resit, step away, and relax knowing that the weirdly intimate concert i've just made public is...well, no longer private // i hope you enjoy_

sometimes i get bored

just another Friday night in the "studio" from dKOTA on Vimeo.

observation from a shadowed barstool

i'm alone //

i'm surrounded by people and i'm alone / and yet, i feel alive //

because everyone around me is already dead, fatally wounded by a vacuous puncture of ennui / they bleed out every feigned intent, every feigned smile; they tag their epitaph on a Saturday night marquee //

i feel alive, ironically enough, because i know i'm already dying / but unlike a puncture wound, my death is a slow suffocation / and a slow death, as painful as it may be, is a merciful reminder that every exhalation is a beautiful breath forever lost / life, then, is not the absence of death; rather, it's the embrace of death -- the embrace of death's interest rate; the embrace of our borrowed grace period; the embrace of death's tragedy  / within such, we may as well find the comedy: these actors around me are working for free_

progress

i think i may have only one more song to track before i can start mastering and polishing the "live with coffee and wine in an apartment" album / it's been so much fun recording music in such a casual manner, and to reconnect with the songs in their naked foundation / i'm really looking forward to getting this out there to share // soon...

of the birds and the trees_

waking beauty

Last week I found happiness in Marin County, California. I hadn't felt much happiness in the past nine months. I'd been mired in loss of (if not longing for) love, friendship, and even purpose. As a result (or maybe as a cause), I've been the most hermetical I've ever been. I can count my social endeavors with one hand. I can count the dates I've been on with zero hands. It's not as though I was in a desperate state, but perhaps a stagnant repose of ennui. I was an oxymoronic stoic, feeling the numbness, accepting the unacceptable, making motion of the motionless. Such ersatz projection is in itself ersatz to my being. I've always reveled in embracing the unembraceable, but never taking pride if that juxtaposition expensed my ideals and dignity. I am wooed by the curiosity of my opposite if this curiosity results in new ideas, new risks, and therefore new personal growth. Stagnancy, on the other hand, is an existential pause, a lapse in purpose, an ungrounded conduit suspended in air.

A part of me has been lying dormant for some time. While I continued to create, record, and even perform music, bustle the Portland streets on foot and on two wheels, conduct science experiments and make discoveries -- all the activities that construct my being and my purpose -- it was as though I was the experiment in of myself confined within the boundaries of a dream. There was no tangible to anyone or anything. Every day was both deja vu and amnesia where even the loveliest of dreams seemed inane in the raw morning light. But last week this somnolence awoke with vigor, even if just for a moment, suspended in air.

My southern sojourn last week was extemporaneous, if not ill-advised given my current scientific workload; yet, rather ironically, it made sense for those very reasons. I needed a jarring -- a clamorous sonic -- to awaken from my slumber. And so to heed the taunt of hyper-cheap flights, a Presidential holiday weekend (whatever that's supposed to represent), and an offer by someone to rent my apartment for the weekend, I accepted the last-minute challenge to visit my uncle.

My uncle lives in Sausalito, California. It's a small community of mostly wealthy urban expatiates that tolerate the fair-weathered phalanx of San Francisco tourists in exchange for panoramic hill-top views of The Bay and Golden Gate Bridge, as well as a sliver of reclaimed shoreline to display your (certainly not my) yacht with skillful ostentatious neglect. For me, this was a place to invest time with one of my strongest-bonded family members whilst among a sea of beauty. Literally. Like myself, my uncle is also a bachelor either too picky, too selfish, too unlucky, or (and?) too naive to "choose one" to settle into a family. Unlike me, however, he's nearly sixty years young (which worries my own trajectory in search for a family some day, but that's perhaps a topic for another post). Importantly, we both value exploring our world in spontaneity, experiencing its diverse tastes, and staying out until 3:00 AM if that means stepping down one last lonely street in search of one last lonely, albeit charming story. He's also the only other member of my immediate and extended family to pursue a 4-year college degree, let alone a graduate degree. We are both middle-western, middle-class, above-ambitious iconoclasts in search of a new legacy. And so while I didn't grow up close to him, being separated by both distance and a generation, we've become quite the compatriots in our "old" age. We have a lot in common.

A key ingredient in my soup of happiness for this trip was a sadly abandoned beauty-of-a-bicycle left to deflate in the dust. This is a bike owned by my uncle's cousin (I've researched the genealogical nomenclature on this and I've resigned to keep things simple and just call him my "cousin" as well, despite being removed by a generation). This bike is a machine. It's the most beautiful thing I've ridden. Absolutely gorgeous. And "ridden" is something this bike has regretfully not experienced. My cousin has had it for nearly a year and the odometer has nine miles on it. NINE! To make matters more intolerable, he's now in Italy for a year (not so much the middle-class kind of guy). This travesty is akin to a guy dating a supermodel but never...he never...yeah, well, I'll just say I was happy to give that bike what it was made to do; or perhaps better said, what it wants: to be ridden fast and to be ridden hard.

In two days I clocked nearly 100 miles of bliss. And I mean that: bliss. I'm not one for hyperbole. My respect is hard-earned and these rides unequivocally account for the best two days of riding I've ever done. I had successfully escaped the rainiest winter in Portland (that's both figurative and literal) to glide free among sun-baked golden hills, endless blue horizons, short and sweet kisses of fog, punishing hill climbs (yes, I enjoy that), and a cadence of freedom capable of marching through any fearful obstruction. There was one particular moment I recall in lucid detail: I was tracing the cursive font of an 18% grade, one-way coastal decent when I felt every neurotransmitter left in my body surrender its grip. It was a sloppy chemical torrent. My body tingled, my muscles relaxed, my breath whimpered, and a silent existential scream echoed among my mental canyons. I was awakened.

My trip also included saunters through the heights (Twin Peaks) and valleys (Marina District) of San Francisco, carafes of rare wine (the California Wine Merchant), expositions of past and present architecture (de Young Museum), ghostly swims through evaporated pools (Sutro Baths), and erudite lessons of the East Bay (Berkeley). To think I was there for only 4 days makes this all seem exhausting. And now that I think about it, it was. But that's how one wakes up.

Landing back in Portland has been sobering, if not somnolent. I realize the high of my recent endeavor will subside and I'll likely regress back into a slumber, perhaps not as deep as before, but a slumber nonetheless. Ironically, routine is the most tiresome activity of our lives: it's a distraction from who we are and what we strive to be; it's our excuse for sadness when happiness is ours to lose. But routine, as tiresome as it can be, is also our sanity. It's a form of sleep we need no matter how annoying it may be. I can't live the 4 days of my Bay Area trip every day of my life. It's too much. I'd have no neurotransmitters left to control important functions like breathing and thirst. And it's an impossible proposition anyway because its elixir is in the surprises -- the curing power of spontaneity that splashes our consciousness with a cold flush of reality. But too much of that splash causes hypothermia. Thus, if experiences such as mine are to be "waking hours," then it's also necessary to "sleep" in routine. Routine provides time for integration of our waking moments, and for healing and rejuvenation. This is proven neuroscience. Avoiding sleep is deleterious, even fatal. As is eternal sleep. But 1/3 of my time sleeping with the other 2/3 being awake? Now that's healthy living.