n: vb: the spice of imagination
“From the people who gave you the Internet Archive comes Ourmedia, a place for grassroots media to flourish. Upload anything, maybe a video, some pictures, your custom applescript, and it gets hosted for free, for life. Drupal is hosting the site, and the Internet Archive is providing hosting and bandwidth for the files.”
I’m having a hell of a time signing in properly, but I’m hoping this will be as advertised.
There’s quiet little springs on contentment pooling around my feet. They’re pale liquid and dream of one day being the ocean. Large dreams for little puddles, but they’re happy with them, so I don’t mind. Word on the street is a heavy thing to see when it’s revealing secrets that nobody is willing to voice. Myths of Prince Charming never mentioned that he was always out with the hounds or hunting with too much to drink. Born under the year of the bitch just gives me an in. As I’m cleaning, I’m putting aside the relationship drawer. That first foothold empty space that says you live here too. It comes with a toothbrush and access to the bed.
Tyler and Matthew and I went to a piano recital at the Orpheum last night. We sat in the nosebleed section and watched two small figures bring forth bubbles of powerful notes that pressed through the skin to aerate the blood and stop the heart. Pounding moments of crescendo and false signature changes. I wondered that in among all the rococo gold gilt, cream and tan, we humans somehow managed to make beautiful cages for this sound before we knew how sound traveled, before we could see the waves and their movement. How did we construct these shells without the engineering? The set-up for theaters hasn’t changed anytime significantly in the last two hundred years, I think that’s fascinating. The Orpheum has a few modern additions to design, but they are barely noticeable. Panels hung from the ceiling that bow outward to combat the original design curve upward toward the chandelier, for example. Curiously, minus the clear plastic bounce shields above the stage, the additions match the visible flow which was already present. There’s something marvelous how the original architects must have blossomed these buildings in their minds without tools that we would require. What were the skills then? How were the thought processes different? I imagine thought palaces, dreamscapes of memory of verse locked in mental image. I imagine standing and listening, trying to create the proper shape. Golden Mean, gold lining the casements, red velvet curtains dusty to touch but vibrant under candlelight.