Insightful-astute Thattagen has graciously provided notation transcription for a piano composition of mine which I can’t believe is 7+ years old. Listen to “‘Lude I”:

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I almost forgot how crazy-jazzy, then dissonant-atonal it gets going in.

Thattagen adds:

“In addition to the .pdf, I have also sent a .mus, which can be opened in Finale or Finale Notepad (ver. 2008 or later). Might be useful to anyone who finds a mistake.

This song was all over the place! The kinetic and spontaneous feeling was so different from Xristospiano, which stuck to the same chord progression throughout. And so the transposition was both easy and difficult. The kinetic feeling somehow drove me to complete the sheet music in less than a week.

I’m starting to feel confident in my transposition skills. If anyone has any sheet music requests for Torley, I might be able to grant them.”

DOWNLOAD PDF | DOWNLOAD MUS

Yes, please let us know in the comments or venture forth an electronic mail to him: thattagen at yahoo com

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From Dream Journal 2

“Can I get you anything else?” she sweetly asked, depositing the tray of cookies in my lap and handing me the wide plastic cup of milk.

“No, thanks, I’m good —” I reflexively veered my head, mashing some buttons more than others as I commanded my pixel-fighters deeper into virtual enemy territory.

“We’ve got to be leaving in five minutes,” she reminded me with a heart-hugging smile, sinking next to me on the couch as she picked up the other controller and we resumed play.

At least we’d finished that level, by the time we’d left the Cougar’s Lair, I passed her a note. It read:

What do you like about me?

And she replied, giggling:

That you’re eager.

I wrote back,

Did you know that all of us have a backdoor?

She:

?

So:

One word.

To prove my point, I grabbed a tousled-hair stranger as he presumably made his way to work (business suit and all, despite the wind-swept coiffure). I whispered,

and he paused. Glassy-eyes, his arms became jaunty, jerky sticks, not unlike the motions of those inflatable tube-people used to sell used cars.

I picked him up and tossed him into the nearest slop disposal bin.

And she watched, amused.

Then promptly seized a passerby of her own.

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Most of the experimental data from Motonoto Labs couldn’t be recovered, but we have these fragments:


b>L}-J1HACk^early field tests in PROJECT BUFFEATER combining superior attributes of multiple pianos across realities have TLK79>so far resulted in horrific amalgamations, incompatible configurations of “ivory DNA” key matching and strange new forms, double- and even triple-decker layers not uncommon 2H4WUostBs9M~bL5nXd”=o<gbGN^G`FN$V%” maybe we should’ve left this work alone, but we felt, with conviction — as artist-scientists — it had not reached its GvxL<Ny’492|:= inevitable conclusion!

H#piZ<3&HoB”h\,=KG{z(v2wy54f when one melody line played, another also heard, as if there was another piano in the same space.  &yRE\xUCo;-tJpbCc$]{rzeWhere really from? Unclear. Too often, painful collisions which resulted in parts of the instrument(s) fading or abruptly shifting and in and out of visible space, approaching too closely was a risk too high /G;’rK~)rI9′qw+wAJ”9BBJUd] called off those tests while we sat down and thought about what to do.

We didn’t have long, though g`ysr25?1?~Ha?dg#0jea):q4&Y2R%:>3waJ@[ opening the door, the thunderclap sounds in the abandoned concert hall have been getting worse. Yesterday, Mothoven noticed a recognizable trail > # > # > # > # of black and whites had exploded over the front and second rows towards stage left, and they scaled in size to a mysterious burn in the back of one of the red seats. Recommend extreme caution .ru7t}m^E@),O\I%`A"wA

Entry for ideD*FCMKv3 Dr. Wagnaught

And:

'D~xl<P')r'MyJShVz_5$gE}7)"gkOPP4p=4nR]hI’m so sorry, there’s no going back. Today we watched in terror as one of the “glitch pianos” sprung to life, running on its “legs” and slammed into Listpin. jc}.XMt5Yz|wI’w/A16K? Couldn’t help succumbing, searching for relatable human experiences rGYmOy}h:O7{?LR Next thing we knew, he was fused inside the beast, screaming to be let out, choking. We didn’t know what happened inside of him until we scanned later i>P4$o88%AyP’niOX9dQ]fCyd@&,1IYlJI8B7YYic+kETg-`2A’^ was worse than ^(J05N>[M`NZq$H7SJ%huvJ{x-W*\ feared, and as much as I hoped he would pass without pain, this was clearly not the case, as evidenced by gross physical trauma and his obvious reactions

p̸̷̨̝͙̥̳ͤ͒̍͂̾̄̎ͬ̀̽̑̽́͢͝ͅl̗̘̰̖̭̖̠͖̗͍̮͖̯̙͙͙͎͒̍̈́̎ͬ̽͘͝eͨ͌ͮ̏͂͆ͩ̇͏̧̖̪̪̫͎͚̯̖̘̜̱̤̙͈̰̟͖ͅą̷̪̩̫̮̝͈̼̙̞͔̱̥̭̞̳̫́͗͒́͒̿ͦͪ̍̓̍̂̌͢͞͠s̋̉̄̿ͧ́̀͋̆̈̎̋͊ͪ̒͒ͨ̅ͫ͡͏̧̹̠͙̼̣͝ȇ̛ͥ̅̅̎̽̑͂̓ͫ̅҉̻͇̫̭͎̹́͢͢ ̸̺̘̥̤̰̘̱͚̮̞̖̞̫̬̓ͫ̉ͦ̅̽̾ͣ̌̑̂ͧ̎͐ͨ͑̀́̚ͅͅf̴̸̢̩̺̹͎̗̯̞̻̟ͮ͌ͩ̑́͂̊ͪ͑ͪͤͦ̎̈́̂̒͗̊͊͢͞o̷̲̖͎̪͇̱̥̬͉̮͈̹̪̪̗̱̺̜̯ͣ͗̔͗͊ͤ̄́r̶̥͖̳̰̺̪̳̜̟̪̹̝̗̐̉ͮ̾ͫͩ̇ͫ̀̓ͪͤ̐͜͠ͅͅͅg̶̩͍̱̳̦͚͓̮̙̥ͫ̓̈́̈́̐ͯ̆̅ͦ͡͝͡ỉ̶̱̤̝͓̯̹̖͔̰̬͍̬̬̝͖̝̹̾ͫͣ̒̋̓ͪ͌ͫ̈̽̅̿͐̔͑ͪͨ̀́͠ͅv̶̧̨̧̪͇̭̫͓̲͙͔͔͇̙̱̪̘̟̾͋̐͒͞e̵̯͔͇͉̣̫̘̺̲̣̯̬̜͇̭͔̘̳̤ͪͥͤͯͥͣ̅̎̌͊̾͜ ̽ͤ͌͊ͩ͛̋͑ͯͬ̿̀͋͂ͧ̓̆̚҉̵̡̤͉̩͍͜ͅu̴̧̧͚̫̱̖̺̭̻̬̓̒̒̓ͤ͛̅͐́ͅs̭̩͔̟͓̞ͨ͛ͣ̓̈́́̕

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Correspondence from Jake Almond’s homeworld, and don’t forget to pet the pixel-creatures:

Attached is a kind of ‘reprise’ of your track “Dicelectric”. I was listening to your album at the gym (a combination of activities I highly recommend by the way!) and that one stood out as something I wanted to play with.

I essentially took the opening bass-line, chopped it up a bit, and started building a track around it.

To which I responded:

What a surprise, Jake! THANK YOU. I like what you added and tweaked, including the crisp breakbeat loop and the squelchy reinforcement of the bassline (nice solo @ ~0:51 in!). Your remix drives really head-noddingly with clear variation of dynamics (which I’m always fond of)… I’m attempting to discern the vocoded (?) speech, sounds like “space between the notes” at a part?

Whichupon he informed,

The vocoded speech goes along the lines of “it’s not the notes…it’s the space between the notes that makes the music”. I liked this sample as it fits with some of the things I try to practice on a day-to-day basis – namely allowing space between thoughts! Eckhart Tolle has a chapter in one of his books called “You are not your thoughts” which I always remember.

Hold on, I just had a vision of Tolle as a gangsta.

I’ve long believed that remixes are songs from alternate sonic realities. Thanks for sharing your creative perspective with us, Jake.

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From Dream Journal 2

Akimoggie graciously transmitted this quodex through the quantum bytestream:

… could you tell a little bit about what inspired #098 on Dream Journal 2, “Vecsyn”? This one really stands out to me, so I’d really like to get to know it a little better! Or, if that’s a Torley Secret™, would you mind sharing how you got the name?

To which, a response was afforded in accordance with the Energinformation Reclamation Act of 2044 X.D., as certified by Seniors Wager & Probable:

What if you discovered the world was run by a cabal of elite window-washer-spy-stockbrokers? (Closest relatable mainline experience: what if Veronica Mars was the daughter of Gordon Gekko from a view looking outside-in, fast-paced shades of Wanted and Jumper?) (There’s a subtle melodic homage to the Inspector Gadget theme, too.) This cabal specializes in VECtor SYNthesology, an advanced form of science used to correlate importantttt

< < HAVE YOU SEENHEARD THE ENTHUSIASM OF WATERMELON MAN GROUP? > >

ccccreative happenings with global locations. With this purposeful knowledge, they’re able to “predict” paramount events in some way (limited, but far beyond most other beings) and profit handsomely. It’s the most beautiful yet disconcerting combination of art and commerce possible.

< < AN ATTACHED APPROXIMATION OF SUCH A BUILD ATTRIBUTABLE TO MIKEYEXISTS > >

Within Without

< < PSEUDO-DECLASSIFIED > > One of the cabal happens to be a skilled assassin-pipe organist (the sustained chord @ 2:30 is a tribute to real computer scientist Don Knuth, who’ll forever use e-correspondence more effectively than I do), and for about the last minute of the track, I (ref: Torley) thought about decadent living in the 80s (like Patrick Bateman from American Psycho without the gore), timelapse sunsets rushing past mirrored buildings (the sonic manifestation of which is accented @ 3:02), and overall prosperity which includes material wealth, but is definitely and unequivocally not based on such a man-made and flimsily arbitrary construct.

After all, to quantlang enthusiastics, “Emma Si Braun” translates to “PROGRESS THRU PROSPEROUS PROCESS.

Part of the themata here involves my (ref: alt-?-Torley’s) simultaneous embrace and barfles for what is known as various flavors of “trance”. A term that can be deployed “powerfully euphoric” on the dancefloor, but is often vulnerable to the Nation of Generiqua, and hence, “many sound all same” syndrome which has been corrupting the Rencewend Sonic Genome Project. Dogma as applied to genres is disappointing, disgusting, etc. Our booties must be liberated from such fragile shells. That being said, genre-abolishing, melodic mid-90s “tech no” is to be adored.

< < ACKNOWLEDGEMENT > > This sonic artifact wouldn’t have been possible without the legendary Roger Linn’s AdrenaLinn tech (he made drum machines that Prince and others used), which provides much of the rhythmic and hypnotic impetus that reflects the fast-paced lifestyle design of being an elite window-washer-spy-stockbroker. Within, I imagined him more akin to James Bond’s Q. On Earth as you know it, this tech exists in some capacity.

< < Hope this helps clarify. :) > >

< < TRANCEMISSION END > >

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From Dream Journal 2

“Drugs? Almond roca? Rare spicy ores?” The Gessim, eyebrows like clouds clipped by stray blitzwings, impatiently fidgeted over my shoulder as he spook-eyed the waterfall-cascade of inventory pouring down on the fizzy amber phosphor. I gave the ol’ ‘chrome a good whack, and pointed out several new lines.

  • Nectar protein, assorted sampler – For giant honeybees (they love variety)
  • Lakehouse parts – Ship IMMEDIATELY
  • Almond roca – Salted outside, unexpected contrasted texture

“I,” I started. “Can’t stand the food where it’s all a single, homongeous — ahem, I mispelled that — homogenous — heap. My gruel needs pork-fu and crispy bits, every soup deserves a few fresh oyster crackers (unless it’s oyster soup), and even drier food like sandwiches. Take a crisp toast surrounding the liquid eminence of a moist tomato, for example. Can you appreciate the luxury that comes with the dynamic contrast?”

Gessim snorked, “Ever since you committed yourself to highmind lifestyle design, your eating habits have grown in eccentric orbits. You’re unable to relate so you bypass our mundane troubles.”

“You say it as if it’s a bad thing. But it does really render value judgments incoherent and useless.”

“Tell Van Burer to make sure my workbooks have arrived.”

As if in response, the Autotel let out a chimey belch like an unsipilant child, crimson tones rising from its “forehead” as some new items funneled through the door and into the bins laid out in hexachromatic (without indigo) formation on the flooded floor. There’d be treasure, alright.

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Bandcamp (which Torley is on) is limiting free downloads to have a more profitable business model. I doth understand, wish them ongoing prosperous survival for being an elegant resource, and have adapted accordingly. All my albums (what an awkward word) which were free continue to be free, but what I did was download from Bandcamp and upload to my torley.com Dreamhost server and place that link on my Bandcamp page. (A_WORKAROUND.EXE)

Click this to see what it looks like for real.

4982294277_9523c0ce7e_z.jpg

Dreamhost has gazoodles of bandwidth so I don’t anticipate running out anytime soon. It may even be easier if you use a download accelerator… point it at torley.com/files/mp3/bc/ and fire away, pew-pew!

(Feel free to dig around in the directories and download other “interesting” things I have lying around, I expect looking at odd log behavior.)

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From Dream Journal 2

Short-term trips can be damaging; a blurry thought rippled across the surface of my infantile mind as I drooled and looked at the scaly dinosaur-car skitter across the top shelf, then rest as a buffer for the hardcovers that would’ve otherwise toppled. Mustn’t have those short naps that leave me feeling zombified, without a semblance of progress in my soul, gazing blankly from the papasan…

An eminent influence on my studies in this Zone has been Roadside Picnic/Stalker/S.T.A.L.K.E.R.. The latter-latter loosely based on the latter, loosely based on the former. All heavily atmospheric, triumphant exercises in worldbuilding. The game brings to life the horrors of what is described in the written word, but not seen on the silver screen, such as the “meat grinder”. Traps, Saw-like in their startling violence but placed in the great outdoors, a stark contrast to the delectable dynamic weather — godrays included at no extra charge, thankyamam — and the perverse pleasure of sending spawned pixel-creatures to their swirly dooms, bodies windmill’ing about before becoming the parts of their sum.

The collection of sonic artifacts from these Dream Journal travels is, of course, another parallel. A tip to the golden glowing door of that Lost Room, each object imbued with an often-non-sequitur power. And so the mysteries in my music, allusion-references mated with analogy-tropes giving birth to what needed to be beyond words.

Here, in “Damaged Good”, the aftermath of a ruined ultramarket. These worlds don’t collide, they r(e-)mix. The continuation of aurealic progeny, minimal frosting and insistent techno-tribalism surrendering to the melody. After all, “It’s all in the melody… and I’m just full of melody.”

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Dream Journal 2

2010-09-06

LISTEN HERE U+219D.svg

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050 – Glamhammer

2010-09-05

I thought I had something to live for but I was already dead.

Or so, that’s what was on Cranch’s bald mind yesterday. The prognosis wasn’t good — to strip all fat out of words, it outright sucked. The corruption had spread to the extremities of Cranch’s limbs. Even his stubby big toe (one was, one wasn’t). A year to live, maybe more, maybe less — but being the daredevil risktaker he had always been (a shade more subtle now, perhaps), he didn’t want to leave that up to chance. Without hesitation and offered the option by the Docs, he scarfed up the amakielmesef, or as it was more popularly known, the “year-long comfort suicide pill”. Any suffering due to lateral corruption would be completely nullified, in exchange for an irreversibly predictable, inevitably painless death. Unless something else (like a meteorite strike) happened, you’d know your day and minute of passing (what a crap euphemism) a span of months in advance. Given the short-frame uncertainties many were given — Cranch included — this was a superior alternative path to the generic eternal dirt nap. And since he’d tragically resigned himself to never finding the magical milk and eggs he needed to prolong a life well-lived, this is how it must be.

Khwooofaaaphoooooooooooooooooom!

At least a thousand soda pop cans exploded in vocal agony, their turpid frothy insides spewing onto their shoddy paper-box-homes and the contents of every aisle in proximity. “One last adventure fo’ ol’ Cranchie!” he chuffed in a gruff voice, hands manipulating the comically touch-sensitive screen of this incredibly destructive tunnel-drill that had burrowed by the Walin-Peake’s bridge and made its grand exit here, before aghast shoppers in Consumer Central. Cracked checkerboard tile spit into chaotic spirals, recursive diminution freaking out one single mom-and-cub, who, after she was decked in the head by a particularly jagged bit of eggshell-textured textile, decided “GTFO!” was the command of now.

Not something you see at a fucking ultramarket everyday, no sirree. Cranch chomped down on his objube, decked out in an uncharacteristically bland wifebeater with sweat stains on it, the result of the subterranean adventure that had transpired some moments earlier. Time to let my hair down, as bald as I’ve become, he figured.

Just outside, a couple physically-contrasting figures (because that’s what all the great duos are like, right?) watched from their hippy-dippy van while Consumer Central’s neon sign fizzled, then fell, making shopping carts go 2D. That would pess off the Morridge Porridge Empire. The more slender of the pair waggled her beak and turned to her green-and-pink companion, incidentally dressed in the same clothes Cranch was. But they were merely observing; knew it would go down this way, and after nonchalantly watching the self-implosion of franchise #543 all around, they sped off with an oily flame trail into the next destination they needed to hug.

From Dream Journal 1… because 2 is here

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049 – NTLTS

2010-09-04

(This transcript portion has been cleaned up as much as audible. Uncertain passages — pauses — have been left as ellipses.)

V: “And why is it I don’t see you frequenting the Metro as much?”

C: “I feel klempt.” (laughs) “Really however, unlike the trains running on time, there are too many dead ends. Lack of followup!”

(both laugh heartily)

V: “The old wasters’ gossip in circles. Nothing comes of it. But their time circles the drain — explain this new way of life.”

C: “I sense you’re not eminently curious. Still, since I wish to tell, it started when I decided to go to the supermarket when everyone else was at work. It was so quiet, I felt a wash of peace as I picked out eggs under the halo-ringed lights. I began to wonder what would happen if I time-shifted holidays, too. Break the social cycles, the ‘dumb norm’.”

V: “Ayum?”

C: “Never too late to start, yea. But there’s always an escape velocity. I saw ‘friends’ drifting away from me, afraid of what I had become, as if I was a monster — a vampire, drinking time?” (laughs) “In retrospect, I wonder if such a process is easier if we did it together, like group dieting. Friends help each other instead of pushing the tall daisy down. I plainchanted (…) and know this is how it must be, the faults of many.”

V: “Ayes?”

C: “Not being involved, understanding, invested in what they talk about. The old wasters, how often I’d hear complaints about Vrina or Skerbincht, and of course it is easier to yap-yap than catch a rabbit in a trap. My metacognitive abilities had entered this fresh zone. I had become painfully but joyfully self-aware, self-conscious, a true discovery of self. Without the useless guild that usually clouds it!”

V: “Ayux, I can relate. Too much drive-by chit-chat, not enough ‘we’re going on a road trip, who is committed? Who is in and not a ass-bastardly coward?’ But the world knows much fear, which is how we are built. With fragile scaffolding that is confused with quality training wheels. This shield is like an overprotective parent, which does not allow us to experience the world as it really is.” (grim huff) “I’ve always think you and moi like each other, due to independent thoughts we surface like pearl divers, and share.”

C: “Perhaps.” (wry laugh)

V: “There is so much that doesn’t matter, so don’t get into it. As Party says, ‘Chop the slop!’ You don’t know at first, but this rapid knowledge iteration, demands personal inquisition. Never count on the first time to be perfect, but thrive the dirt and tunnel through, that will get you closer to whatever you call this ‘perfection’. I think a-sometimes, maybe I’m a hatir (misanthrope), but I really do love some of our kind. Of course, the ones unloved, they are not kind to themselves.”

(rustling sounds, likely the two gentles ascending the train)

From the Dream Journal

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Earlier, I purchased a Multi-Color E27 LED Light bulb w/ Remote from Amazon and have greatly enjoyed it, but craved more — it simply didn’t shine enough. My creative play-work demands being "in the flow" and mood lighting augments my output superbly, giving a real cinematic feel to even routine tasks like email. Before, I thought playing epic trailer music while pressing Reply would be enough, but clearly, I hadn’t experienced mood lights.

Months ago, I read reviews of LivingColors and am surprised they still seem very rare Stateside (compared to earlier availability in Europe). A curiosity rather than a commercial phenomenon. While part of this may be due to cost, we each weigh our own priorities, right? Still, I hope for widespread adoption of these colors which feel alive, not unlike how every house has common lightbulbs. Since I already had such a good experience with limited mood lighting, I became intent on expanding my palette.

My ownership has only been several (intense) days, but what I tentatively conclude so far is: like cats, having only one LivingColors feels terribly lonely. Even the full-size Philips 69143/60/48 LivingColors Generation 2 Translucent Changing LED Lamp with Remote isn’t enough to really light up my workspace at night, and the dynamics of contrast with another color adds so much value and spice. So, I also have a Philips 818564 LivingColors Mini Changing LED Lamp, White (I actually got it first, since the Gen 2 wasn’t in stock). With the two of them combined, as you can clearly see in this video, there’s a lot of joy to be had.

A future feature I’d add is the ability to program custom lighting sequences. Is an iPhone app for this too much to ask? It’d be a natural extension of the current color cycling option, which smoothly cycles through the spectrum on both the Gen 2 and the Mini, and whose speed can be changed, but you can’t limit the range or trigger events more specifically. This would open up possibilities to sync to binaural beats and other synesthesiac promises, fulfilling Philips’ advertising of really setting the tone in your home. (Or elsewhere.)

There are a few niggles I have as shown in the video, but my chief constructive criticism is I wish these puppies were brighter. While they certainly overwhelm my webcam, as other pictures I’ve taken show, there’s plenty of darkness to encroach upon.

LED mood lighting in the home still feels like it’s an infancy — not that we’d ever advance into a hippy-dippy psychedelia portrayed in so many 60s trip movies — but I’d still consider LivingColors for enthusiasts and early adopters like myself, who consider it an important part of your daily life due to your eclectic proclivities, and not just a casual interest. I just hope they don’t burn out on me anytime soon.

Here’s looking to a brighter future with Gen 3!

Also…

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<a onclick="javascript:pageTracker._trackPageview('/outgoing/music.torley.com/track/048-replacement-family');" href="http://music.torley.com/track/048-replacement-family">048 &#8211; Replacement Family by Torley</a>

"Imparity of the senses, mm?" Dr. Bartok-Hu glid spectrally along the cool marble surface and rapped his fingers on the bass projector, turning to me for further discourse. It was clear at this late an hour, that he was both sheepish and lonely. "Isn’t it funny how these — these headphones here, the popular Veesixes, began manufacture over two decades ago, and continue to be made for the demands of the masses? Almost like some market-dominant sugar water. And yet… the same is unthinkable of any display technology. Sight and sound aren’t equally matched. Which would you rather lose?"

My own thought processes had drifted into some weird zone pondering why sudden shocks in scary movies were always more effective if the jump cut was accompanied by a shrill spike in amplitude, but the Dr. brought me back with his rambling, and proceeded to reel me in further.

"A queer observation, nonetheless a valid one. Observe sound cards in our computers — onboard audio, integrated, is perfectly acceptable for many. And a lot cheaper than these heated beasts," Dr. Bartok-Hu waved bony fingers over a rack of GPUs splayed diagonally, wedged into an open case like ribs fused to a spine. "But what was that saying, sound is half of what you see? How can that be when it advances so much slower?"

"Maybe it doesn’t need to go as fast?" I bluntly interjected, not having another sentence to back me up. Then I thought (at the moment) cleverer of myself and hiccupped, "The speed of light far exceeds the speed of sound, after all."

The Dr. chuckled wry-dryly.

As a result of experiments here, it felt natural to think of what we might grow into someday: I had become increasingly accustomed to migrating old data from one data drive to a bigger, faster one. The same bits, made more accessible through advancing search to cut through all those telabytes. Find what you’re looking for, damnit. My thoughts flitted further, reminded of how a more vibrant display could make the same base computer unit appear more expensive and capable of doing more. Like cosmetic surgery. And all these parts, most of which were perfectly interchangeable. And when patches are no longer applicable, leave the old shell behind as you burst forth into a new body.

We had become so used to doing this with machines, extensions of ourselves. Would we then find it so natural to do it with our own bodies?

From the Dream Journal

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<a onclick="javascript:pageTracker._trackPageview('/outgoing/music.torley.com/track/047-some-are-rye');" href="http://music.torley.com/track/047-some-are-rye">047 &#8211; Some Are Rye by Torley</a>

Dear son,

We wrote this for you when you’re about to die. You don’t deserve a veiled euphemism, so I (dad) will say it outright: I hope after all’s said and done, you’ve done a lot more than you said. And you sure were quite the talker. Life wasn’t always easy for us as a family and I won’t deceive you by saying something idealistic yet shamefully abstract and unrealizable, like "We did our best". Who really knows? But we did a lot together, and in our many moments as a family together, there was a lot of love.

You always had a good heart, reassuring me and your mom that you’d be okay, even when we didn’t have enough money to pay for your treatments. Sometimes I feel guilty because I wonder if we had done something sooner, we could’ve prevented what we felt — but didn’t know — what was going to come. I couldn’t tell if you really were laid back and indifferent to the turbulence in the world… or if it was just your way of coping with dark days ahead, but to those who knew and cared about you, it helped comfort us when we were stressed.

Your sister lives on and she’ll miss you too, even if she did like to sock you in the head as you were strolling by to the buffet table. Sorrows grow into smiles in time, I guess.

See you on the other side of the rainbow bridge. We love you, dad and mom

From the Dream Journal

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Even a time traveler must eat, and the answer to the above question is almost always positive in this fort. A southern (south of Canada, that is) boy like myself is traditionally supposed to heap praise on his mother’s cooking. Alas, I have nothing to say since the Dark Lord Flavorkiller corrupted her understanding of the word “delicious”. Feeling sorry for my sense-addled ma and shaking my fork at the aforementioned Dark Lord, I set out on a life upgrade.

Did I ever find it, hell yea! Ravenelle, ever since the first meal you lovingly prepared that we consumed together, you tantalized me with many enchanted promises that this would be a reliable pattern — not a stranded anomaly. I’ve been grateful for your majestic prowess in keeping me nourished. When it is not with food, it is with love.

Years later, we’ll look back at last night and know that not only was it the time we finished watching the last episode of Veronica Mars (sniff), but also the special occasion you crafted a sublime steak: mushrooms and onions adding an incredible amount of value to the meat, and the fluffy mashed potatoes serving as a “buffer cloud” and mild contrast to the tangy juices. It was tremendously delectable and I look forward to what you conjure next, lover.

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P.S. Brother Zephos, I hope this gives you hope for the future.

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<a onclick="javascript:pageTracker._trackPageview('/outgoing/music.torley.com/track/045-chern-kerned');" href="http://music.torley.com/track/045-chern-kerned">045 &#8211; Chern Kerned by Torley</a>

“If the path to transhumanism is fraught with thorns from those who oppose it on the grounds of morals and ethics, is the only solution to remove our humanity?" -T.C.V.

Ae rocked lullingly in the tepid breeze, tipping her wide-brimmed hat to optimize her shade. Clasping hands together, tenting pointing fingers, she focused on the sparklish projection before her nose, neck motions corresponding with the rotation of the admiral model. She was trying to focus, but then there was that annoying bang! from down the street, so she craned her neck — again, slightly, and wrinkled, flared her tiny nose.

"Lowminds," she knew.

A brusque couple were having a war of words. It became apparent they exited their vehicle like scurrying ants to impose some unfortunate domestic variety of road rage upon each other.

Insects, Ae thought correctly. A ripple coasted down the sidewalk, tugging at the couple. Still, they remained ignorant. Ae couldn’t relate at all to the buffoons — after all, since everyone is equal, everyone had been given the opportunity to be awesome. Few had actualized that path, and reminiscent of some rather polarizing siffys in which their authors expounded unpopular political views of the day, we now had the haves and the have-nots in a daily regimen of disproportional resource utilization. (And it’s always about resources.)

Put them like metal balls in a magninko game and see where they fall, Ae reinforced herself, understanding the perceived (and useless) line for many was that between "work" and "play". Those who exceeded such a limited conclusion and were able to unify their flow had trodded highmindedly upwards. Love doesn’t come from the heart, that’s a vestigial tale from before our enlightenment.

Another series of blink, sharded polygons flying out of the projection and reforming into a variation upon the master theme. As excellent as Ae’s control was, however, the buffoons were approaching. She didn’t like this one bit.

Another blink, and they were nil. Gazing over rows of ripe corn, she smiled in a way that couldn’t be described as a temperature.

From the Dream Journal

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