Summary of Last Semester

Mainly what I did this semester was take 8 classes and create 3 theses. I also learned how to swim.

For my music thesis I recorded samples and made instruments out of them. Bottles clanking created high percussion and water-filled woks made for sweeping wobble-lines. I got tons of gamelan sounds and focused on lining up the pulsing patterns to create a polyrhythmic structure.

I thought it would be super cool to create an interface that used body-motion to control music, and realized it would be possible with a Kinect sensor, Ableton Live, Synapse, and MaxMSP. At my senior show: "The X Sound Festival" I performed the piece: "Dream Leftovers" using a minimalist dance to control elements of the song. It appeared that I was floating because I was lit by backlight, wearing a UV costume I had made, and standing on one leg to use one foot to pan a track, In the end I rolled off the stage into the audience.

My teacher was powerful mad at me for putting a dead coyote in her dishwasher. Actually she was mad for not having a DVD for the X Sound Festival (the DVD drive in the lab was broken). I didn't realize it was an issue because everything worked fine using my friend's laptop, including preemptive messages I had made such as: "Shake into a New Dimension is an application downloaded from the ether, are you sure you want to open it?" and "The X Sound Festival has unexpectedly quit, reopen? Once I had been scolded for being unprofessional for an hour or so I felt ashamed and have hopefully learned my lesson.

 

Here's the part where I get to brag however: after being thoroughly chided my teacher commented on how impressive it was that I had written two songs and made a music video in three weeks, along with creating a multi-media performance art piece. She commented that I had accomplished more with the Kinect sensor technology in a few weeks than the combined efforts of the technical director of Mills and a graduate student had over the course of four months. 

Once I was thoroughly burnt out on working hard I just continued to work hard. I directed my first large video crew and finished my psychology thesis. I had an average of 3 hours a day commuting by bus throughout the semester and would use it to do research for this thesis. I ended up writing about music as a metaphor for brain function, discussing how cross-cerebral neural oscillation synchrony may be a crucial component for cognitive function. There are many brain disturbances that are correlated with brainwave synchrony abnormalities and I proposed new research within three of these areas (schizophrenia, autism spectrum disorders and Parkinson’s disease) involving a relatively new individualized neurofeedback treatment that transforms EEG data into music. 

Now I’m done with my undergraduate degree. I’ve had capstone educational experiences, but it’s still odd not to be thinking about what classes I’ll take next semester. Now I’m busy trying to find a job and an apartment but also making myself deadlines for individual projects like writing an album, making a few DJ sets, making a line of paintings, creating a fashion line, studying for the GRE, Researching all the neuroscience literature on dreaming and learning basic Photoshop, calculus and physics.

Avocado Kingdom

After escaping the summer-camp of Mills campus living I moved into the Avocado Kingdom in West Oakland.

Construction paper decorations lined the halls of the student apartments on campus. As security guards let me into the building (due to the non-working keys I had been given) I was faced with an army of Winnie the Poohs. The flatmates in my "apartment" had added extra rules to the already middle-school-esque list, such as "No Drinking." Apparently taking out the trash wasn't a rule however, as the place stank like a restaurant dumpster in the sun.

I used someone's cutting board on my first day. The next time I opened the cabinet the entire thing was papered, angry sharpie exclaiming: "DON"T USE MY STUFF W/OUT ASKING!" Every time I entered the space whatever roommate was out and about would scurry away, slamming the door behind them.

Outside of my house.

The Avocado Kingdom is built in Victorian style, is over a century old, has a great view of the Port of Oakland and rent there was less than half price of living on campus. I lived with Vas, a Stanford PHD candidate and teacher focusing his rhetoric on animal rights, his wife Debs who had studied physics and art and works a 9-5 on environmental regulation, moonlighting as a torch-singer, Karem, an anthropology PHD candidate at Stanford, and Tina, a mysterious and shy woman who seemed to work at a school in Oakland. To juxtapose the last group of souls with whom I inhabited shared space, my new roommates would feed me vegan ice cream sandwiches and roll on the floor laughing at my jokes. We rotated who's avocados would be stolen based on which ones were ripe (hence the name of our kingdom) and If they took one of my beers they would buy me a six pack. 

In my neighborhood there’s a liquor store on every corner where there isn’t a Baptist church or a beauty supply store. At one juncture the former two stand next to each other, “True Light Church” is white with black lettering and has the same dimensions as “Sav-Mor Liquor” which is black with red lettering. There are projects, newly developed modern apartments, industrial leftovers and current industry, but mostly there are old Victorians in various states of repair - formerly suburbs for San Franciscans at the turn of the century.

My room through avocado leaves

Whenever I would mention that I commuted from West Oakland people would express their concern over my safety walking home through such a "ghetto" area. At one point I was walking home late at night and a van began to follow me slowly. A middle-aged man rolled down his window and with genuine concern said: “Are you alright walking this late at night?” Once I got to my block a shiny sedan tailed me for an uncomfortable distance. The driver of this vehicle seemed to have more malicious intentions than the first concerned citizen. He said “Why are you out so late at night?” I commented that he seemed to be insinuating that it was dangerous for me to be out and noted that he was responsible for said danger. I commented that if he stopped being a threat there wouldn’t be a threat and continued on my way. I started carrying around a mirror shard so that if something like that happened again I could hold it up and say: “You’re dreaming” but it never did.

Realistically I reckon the Lower Bottom (the title of our neighborhood) is one of the safest neighborhoods in Oakland. Our block is filled with people who watch out for each other, bringing one another food and chatting on porches. Everyone’s favorite neighbor is probably a man who goes by “Pee Wee” and takes it upon himself to weed everyone’s yard and tend the grass at the little park on our block. He does this all for free but whenever we would catch him tending our yard we’d make sure to give him a beer.

Corner of my room

One of the best things about my block is that it dead-ends into a vacant lot that’s filled with big metal pipes. I spent a lot of time recording the resonant properties within the pipes, and stopping by late at night to sing my little heart out. One day I was shooting video in the tunnels and was surprised to see some hipsters on a stoop nearby. Later I found a note on my car saying that I was: “Super cute” and asking to hang out. After I had finished two of my theses I finally had the time to kick it on the porch with fellow skinny-jean wearing, vegan hipsters holding requisite Pabst-forties. It’s too bad I had to leave to NM at the end of the semester, because my new hipster neighbor was himself “super cute.”

The best porch drinking experience I had was shared with my roommates. I came home to tell Vas that I would be heading home at the beginning of the summer and he poured me a third of a bottle of his fancy tequila. When Debs got back from work we broke out my shitty tequila and invited every neighbor who walked by to join us. Eventually I took everyone on a field trip to the pipes, but only Debs made it, as the others became engaged in conversation with Pee Wee. She promptly began torch singing and eventually we discovered that the others couldn’t find us and had encountered some mishaps, so perhaps the tunnels can only be seen by wizards. This point is further illustrated by the fact that one day I saw about 2 dozen people with bikes emerging from the pipes, causing me to infer that it’s a hipster-wizard portal.

My roommates half jokingly offered me free rent at the end of my time in Oakland, and we came up with a money making scheme so that I could continue to live there: A vegan ice cream cart called “Polar Bear Sex” (because it’s cool and ironic – ha ha ha). Our music would cater to our demographic and consist of vintage video game jingles done ice cream truck chime style.

At the end of my stay in the Avocado Kingdom my brother and I infused the neighborhood with our obese beats, taking pictures powered with AA batteries, and getting ice cream for dinner at liquor stores. If only Polar Bear Sex did exist – I wouldn’t have to break my veganism for the sake of irony. 

Two Dogs

I was telling my mom about my reoccurring dreams featuring two dogs, as I sat looking at the two dogs in the vacant lot behind my house. I told her about other recent dreams as the sunset made the world gold.

It was around 6:00 am, my dad was black. He said: "If you get this job we can really be proud of you... make us proud." I saw his words as supportive but supportive of a narrow target, I realized that when we were white I could follow whatever dream I wanted but didn't have to live up to anything in particular, or succeed at all really - I was free to be as motivated or unmotivated as I saw fit.

I put on heart shaped sunglasses and a suit, smiling at myself in the mirror. I was so androgynous that even I didn't know if I was male or female, but I radiated self-confidence because I knew I was something to behold.

In a big empty room with white walls I held a tiny baby and was touched at how soft its skin was. I thought to myself: "This being will never be more perfect than it is now." I looked at the people who had created this additional human in the world, comprehending how mysterious it must seem even after having known the process. I thought about how the child would most likely live long enough to face strife and know beauty and thought: "I never want to procreate."

My mom said she was glad that I had known what it was like to be a parent in the dream, without having to go through a lifetime of sacrifice. She said that it is like how I described, and that being a parent was the right thing for her: “Just imagine being your mother,” she said, I replied that that would be too meta. She said she was glad I knew what I wanted. 

Pocket Friend

A group of us snuck onto the roof and it was all covered in shiny white tile. I found a hidden mosaic of a killer whale and fished in my pocket for a camera. Instead I found a tiny white bioluminescent sea creature. It was translucent and had little feelers like a shrimp.

One of my favorite teachers from high school, Monsieur Antoine, was working reception within the building, which was also covered in white tile from floor to ceiling. I asked him if he would let my pocket-friend and I in, pointing out that my the sea creature was dressed for the occasion in its miniature tuxedo, complete with bowtie.

My office is the dance-floor

I have like 6 posts all backed up from February and early March, but I haven't posted because I wanted to have pictures, but my camera charger is lost. I ordered a new one and it was sent back because they couldn't deliver it. I haven't ordered a new one. Anyway, there went two months or so. I was just writing in my diary and was suddenly like: "I miss my blog!"

As my blog has slipped into low-tide like so many others, I've been waking up at 5 or 6 and working till midnight. I'm obsessively dissolving into a reality of my own creation, and am completely enthusiastic about it - I just don't know where to start describing all the ideas and projects I'm working on!

The reason I though I should write a quick blog post is because I was on the phone with my dad as I rode the bus, telling him about how I am most efficiently productive when I'm on the bus. I've read my entire Music Cognition textbook, and most of my the journals for my psychology thesis on the bus. The other day, as my little body shook loosely within this big singing machine, I got more done on the obese beats I'm making in an hour than I do in about 5 in a quiet room with an almond milk latte. I came up with a music video idea for my Video II group project entirely on the 40-minute ride to school (because I forgot to do so before then) and was personally satisfied with the result. My enthusiasm leaked to the rest of the class and I was selected to be the director of our group project.

When you have to intentionally block out a jangling discord it's a lot easier to really focus. When you have a silent workspace it can be painful to get into, and remain on one task. It makes sense that I prefer to work amidst some kind of chaos - I've always found it easier to sleep if there is a party raging in the background and when I was a baby my mom couldn't get me to sleep without shaking me around to Tom Waits.

My office is the dance-floor, I really can't focus without overpowering beats and strobe lights.

Shell

One day Jack and I felt under the weather and took a nap. I awoke abruptly after speaking with Jack at the foot of an ancient staircase and said: “What did you mean by that?”

At the foot of those stairs Jack had either said she wasn’t in her human form, or that she wasn’t in her real form.

A few days later I asked Jack again what she meant, stating that I didn’t feel I fully knew her, and wanted to see through her polite and protective shell.

She mentioned some darker details from her past and said that when she feels very sad it’s like she’s in between worlds. The space between us was opened and infused with heaviness, sweetness and magnetism.

Google the Flavor

A kitty stumbled off an airplane into Albuquerque. I noticed her far through the swirling glass gate, walking on the front of her feet, leading her dazed swagger with limp-wrists. I showed Jack my hometown, fed her chile, took her sledding and to the spa, went to art-shows and parties, introduced her to my friends, drank a lot of good beer, made a movie, and shaved: "C▲T" into her head just before heading out to Cali.

Emily Montoya asked me which delicious establishment I’d like to visit before splitting town and we met up at Felipe’s Tacos writing: “Wulph Escapes Zooooo”  on the front page of the Albuquerque Journal and adding quotes around the “tight” in “New Mexican Budget Tight” (bro). The natural thing to do next was to walk to K Mart and pitch for a moustache trimming kit, then spend all our quarters on fake gold rings. Kristen (my best friend forever) Noah, Jack and I chanted “BOGO Chikn Sandwis” as we made our way to the "Death of Culture" ceremony, who’s beginning included everyone shaving things into the backs of each other’s heads by the light of a strobe light, and finished with Benji rolling on the floor cackling: “Baby princess mung-bean pony!” Apparently the edited footage will appear at Site Santa Fe soon.

Once we were in California Jack and I drank plenty of 40’s. We had a couple every day the first week or so we got to Oakland - thus we made sure to empty the recycling frequently at Orjan’s place – those 40 oz. of “Fine Malt Liquor” are not very polite and take up room in the recycling bin than I take up space in the house. We had advanced to plum wine and sake by the end of our stay at O’s, but on our second trip to the MOMA we relapsed and partook of the finest forty to ever grace this earth.

The first time we visited the MOMA Jack and I were thrilled and wanted more. We had bought a forty and split it in the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Park, with its magnificent waterfall fountain, lush grass, and frequent visits from security. Jack was surprised by the cheapness of Bandaids in America, after 3 hours or so of walking had blistered her cowboy feet, but was even more surprised by our cheap liquor.

The reason we had walked for so long was because I was trying to find this glass elevator I had visited once before I knew the city. When we finally found the hotel in which it dwelled we couldn’t find the elevator itself, until I asked a friendly woman who directed us toward a place we were not allowed to go. We walked past the concierge and found the elevator, which lifted us above the city, giving us a view of the entirety of east San Francisco. The descent was the best part – like a carnival ride, where the only price was the ability to be sneaky.

At the MOMA there was a lot of stuff that I loved and liked. I wrote artist names on my hands and they washed off before their recording onto a more permanent format. I walked into this one room and saw some pieces that elicited no emotions but were vaguely aesthetically pleasing. Then I realized they were by that guy that made pop-art who I always forget the name of, but I end up looking like him with my white-blonde hair, black-turtleneck and round glasses.

The thing that really sticks out about our first visit was the work of Clyford Still, which brought me to tears. I wanted to take up residency in the room his pieces were placed. Each time I turned to a new painting I would become overwhelmed with a mixture love, sadness and joy.

On our second trip we learned that in the financial district of SF every corner store that advertised liquor only had good beer, spirits, and fine wine. Finally we got to a grungier side street and bought a Mickey’s. We sipped it from its brown paper bag and were speechless at the nuance of the flavor: decidedly different from any other Mickey previously supped upon. The bass on the forty spread out on the base of the tongue. It was stable yet understated, with a hue of palest wheat that held foundation upon which a symphony of flavors balanced. The mids on this beverage were really what made it outstanding – a round and fruity onset landing mid-tongue and reminiscent of lychee. The highs spread out around the palate, sparkling like the smoke of rat-weed which once emitted from Café Jake. After every sip Jack and I united in a repeating sentiment: “Whoa.”

 

Naturally, upon entering the MOMA we had to pee. Jack and I deliberated over which gendered bathroom we should enter. We were both wearing pants, (not triangular skirts), so opted for the Men’s restroom. The last sip of the forty was reserved for this impasse. We downed it, peeled off the label, and propped it up, making a new label for it: “Modern Art.” Well, I don’t want to brag, but the modern art we made had a brief feature at the MOMA.

Hurtling Through Space: an excerpt from a parting letter

This is a picture Jack took of me with a long exposure and a zoom lens

The event of our parting made me think about permanence and impermanence, and permanence within impermanence. I thought about death, but mostly I thought about how magnetic and beautiful you are, and how our fleeting interactions in our fleeting lives are sweet and vulnerable. I feel I've been condemned to love and happiness.