AudioPest

Fried Boiled Egg

Ahhhh! I set the timer and boiled it for the requisite 4 minutes and then cooled the egg under cold water. The yolk looked about right—still soft, maybe ‘runny’ * in the middle. But some of the white looked the same way, which is disgusting. I decided to finish the cooking by frying it. It got the job done—

 

(download)

 

 

 

*‘runny’ is the word used by the family I grew up in to describe the optimal character of the yolk of a fried egg. Writing and reading it this morning I’m a little put off by the word in this context. 

 

The Best Part of Halloween

Are pumpkins. And the best part of pumpkins are the seeds. Roasted, with a little olive oil and some salt and with some of the pumpkin gut sliminess left on. An oven set at 350°, the seeds on a baking sheet lined with a piece of paper grocery bag, turned over with a spatula every 8 minutes or so until they are dry and heading into a golden roasty looking color. Take them out, eat them hot. Listen to them. As they cool they sing and tell stories.

 

Seeds_recorded
 

Convergence

Working on an audio installation I got distracted. I began layering strings and timpani in linear order and decided to add voice. I have a selection of Dylan Thomas recordings on my desktop and, importing one, dropped it onto a track and suddenly understood the singing speaking voice. Do all things fall into place so easily? Is it any wonder Robert Zimmerman wanted association?

#5 Distraction #1 

I'm amazed at how Steve Job's death has effected me. I'm thinking mostly selfishly. I've used, relied on, Apple products for 20 years. Will they be my tools in the future? Steve Job's ability to organize talents and ideas has profoundly—and I use this word carefully—profoundly changed my life. Thank you Mr. Jobs and all those who were willing to pursue and bolster your ideas. May I be so fierce in my important work.

 

Do not go gentle into that good night, 

Old age should burn and rage at close of day; 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Dylan Thomas