This is different from being off-the-air. When a station is off the air, the transmitter is not active and there is no signal at all. Dead air is where a carrier signal is being transmitted, but there is no modulation of that signal.
....
Dead air can also apply to television broadcasting, generally when a television channel has an interruption to its output, resulting in a blank screen or in the case of digital television, a frozen image, until output is restored or an apology message is broadcast."
This blog is dead air, according to Wikipedia.
In other news, I got my raise. It'll do for now, but everything else is still upside down and my ex has disappeared again. She says I should not always think that she only talks to me when she has problems, but fuck, the exception proves the rule yea? And there hasn't been any.
Not knowing what to think, I have decided to stop thinking.
So, dead air me.
Memory dump:
"Has he lost his mind? Can he see or is he blind?
Can he walk at all? Or if he moves will he fall?
Is he 'live or dead? Has he thoughts within his head?
We'll just pass him there. Why should we even care?
He was turned to steel in a great magnetic field
Where he traveled time for the future of mankind
Nobody wants him. He just stares at the world
Planning his
vengeance that he will soon unfold
Now the time is here for Iron Man to spread fear
Vengeance from the grave kills all the people he once saved
Nobody wants him. They just turn their heads
Nobody helps him. Now he has his revenge
Heavy bolts of lead, fills his victims full of dread
Running as fast as they can, Iron Man lives again"
Also for some reason, I went slummin' in memory lane again and this time I've something to show for it. Here's one of the first stories I ever wrote. For shame:
He was drenched. November rainstorms sneak up very quickly on a person in, well, November. There is much thunder and much lightning, and very often, rain. He smirked off the dew and sought shelter in the vertices of a bus-stop.
The time was now well past three o'clock, and that part of the city was dead. There was an drunken band of men lurching about as they sought to find a way to interstice the giddy world and their leaden feet. Tony thought they were tourists. They talked at the top of their voices, and executed glances backwards every now and then as though in anticipation of a taxi.
Left down past the Farrer Road, into Dunearn Road, he marched on after the rain stopped. Magic numbers were playing tricks on his mind, for when he looked up, he was once again amongst thieves. In his mind, the drunken tourists were the associated lawyers, business executives and government employees who had ripped him off of his inheritance. Their mindless laughter cowered his humble self-confidence and he plodded onwards, mindlessly.
He was soon at a familiar junction. The walls that separated him from his fortunes looked much like those of this particular construction yard. They were building a new condominium he knew. He had walked this road home for almost eight years. The condo that was due to spring up from the ground in less than a year's time had been on his wish list. He could only see the tops of the cranes and the pabulum of tractors and bulldozers over the wall. The bottom parts of the machines were hidden from his view, and he guessed there was nothing but mud and dust behind the boundaries of the wall now. A small door lay partially open at his right.
He inspected the interior, expecting to find only the common sight of an unfinished, un-pristine mud kingdom. Instead, a bewildering spectacle lay ahead of him: not of dust and mud and caterpillared tractors and bulldozers and fractured piledrivers, but an unfinished cacophony of trees, flower beds, neatly trimmed hedges and freshly mown grass, shining with freshness from the shower.
It was a garden of wonderous proportions, a work of art supplicated by an unknown creator. A large pond glimmered under the pale moon getting masked by still advancing thunder clouds, and a symphony of crickets chorused wetly from under a SAFETY FIRST sign.
And the machines, the machines had not caterpillared tracks, but were each perched on eight slender metal insectivoid legs. They had no cabs for human drivers nor operators, just smooth, curved metal where these should be. The instruments at the tips of their hydraulic arms were not huge elongated piledriver bits, nor shovel shaped designed to dig trenches. There were delicate shears, small hoes and riveted metal water hoses. Each of them perched high on those impossible legs, so shaped so as not to accidentally trample upon anything fragile. All of them painted bright yellow in the manner of construction machines, hiding their uses behind the yard walls. They were scattered around the yard, left where they last finished their work, the work of dedicated gardening machines.
He paused at the audacity of the writer, and wondered whether his ill-fortunes were not a blessing in diguise. He turned his back upon the beauty of that garden, to contemplate his fate once more, walking onwards to his home, five minutes away. A good night's sleep was called for.
Other fragments, written when I first got a laptop and realised the grandeur of writing thoughts out as they appeared in my head:
Her first dawn was beautiful. Listening to the static rumble across the channels. She briefly considered performing a channel sweep one last time, wary that the signal she sent out would be noticed by others like her, predatory, with a need for parts to sustain herself as long as she could. She was not fitted with avionics sensors that allowed sweeps of the surrounding desert without bringing attention to herself.
Her name was Beulah. It was, as she understood, the name of a Norse earth goddess, though she had no idea what those meant. It was simply information that was imbued in her through her personality chip. A brief history of her physical being were also implanted here, immutable and permanent. Her clan history, note for note, was a song that she sang to herself to help her remember, one note for every member, the keys and harmonies speaking a codified language that told of the state of existence of each. Some of them lived on in her now, salvaged parts from when they could no longer hunt like the rest of them and had to be dismembered for their better parts. Unless she could get some new parts to bring them all back. She was, as she understood it, the last of her clan.
This is all so geeky but we must not run away from our roots. Here's more from the same vein:
The incessant radio noise of radiation cut her radio links from the rest of the clan. Overhead, grey clouds swirled allowing little light to enter. Only her basic passive sensor suite worked in this gloom; the mist impeded as though solid the pings of her active radar and the rest of her active suite. It did not seem like she had been trekking the invisible line for days, guided only by her onboard gyroscopic guidance systems, for she had system timers which told her it had only been four hours, at an average speed of 37 km/h. Proximity sensors in her basic suite reported anomalies in the ground around her for 10 meters, allowing her to anticipate boulders and depressions in the ground, keeping her stride steady.
She broke out of the radiation belt into a new dawn, the Sun’s rays blinding her electronic eyes momentarily. Automatic dimmers kicked in and she experienced a dimming of the intensity, while her active sensors kicked back into action. The sensors revealed a wasteland of parched sand, rocks and boulders. Just an ordinary Ares desert landscape, like the one she was in before she crossed the belt.
Except for three discrepancies; active sweeps revealed two or three moving objects in front of her, and she was instantly on the alert. Slowing to a halt, she waited for the rest of the clan to emerge from the fog behind, and readied herself for another skirmish. The three machines did not appear to notice her presence and continued their patrol, winding along a circular pattern.
She was, as she well knew, a prototype reconnaisance and speed machine. She was equipped with three sensor suites: the basic suite comprised of passive sensors, including proximity sensors, sound, light, infrared, radio and seismic sensors. The active suite included long and short laser range finders, radars, sonar and motion detectors. This suite was not stealth standard and she knew full well that using any of the active sensors risked exposing her position and presence to others like herself, predatory and in need of spare parts to maintain their own existence. Salvage was the only way of existence on the Ares topsoil. The basic and active sensor suites represented the standard instruments employed by her clan. They were the most well equipped of all clans on Ares, and she the most advanced model.
She knew it was a most privileged position. Her advanced sensor suite was the prototype component she was here to test out. It was a scanner suite which enabled her to listen to the internal signals of another behemoth and discern its intentions before it carried out its actions. No clan as yet, she determined, had devised the ability to camouflage these signals and now she was going to find out what they could gain from it.
Of course it was patently possible that she could be monitored the same way as well, but her clan provided for it by giving her its most shielded armour available.
I had no idea where this story was going:
“Brooding is wrong,” thought Camus to himself absentmindedly. There was not a lot of difference between brooding and daydreaming, he realised. The doorbell rang then.
He greeted the man at the door. Dressed in a blue doorsy shirt and brown crayon pants, he was accompanied by a grey haired great gentleman with a protuberant belly and large curious eyes. The gentleman clung onto a black shiny briefcase that looked bit big to be brief. Come in he said, may I and is this, he read out the address of the door from a scrap of craggy paper.
Here, is my brief exploration of Neil Gaiman-inspired notes:
Lore and Disorder (1st draft skeleton and structure in place only)
The sky red roaring rumbled. Rainclouds dipped and cast their loads onto the thirsty lands. Lightning ripped into the belly of the heavens and made the skies bleed some more.
Ah the tropics!! Behemoth smiled to himself. He did so like it here; the seasons were his and moreover, Gaia said he was needed more there than any place on Earth. Why then, did he feel so unfulfilled? Like he was somehow incomplete. Isn’t it enough to be needed, he thought. To be ruler of the land and skies. But even gods get lonely.
Well. He went through his rolodex. He was slated for the city of singapore next, then back to the tropics a bare fifteen minutes later, and many other places within the hour... Russia, Europe – at this time of the year, he was very needed in Australia as well. Antartica required his constant presence, as did the Artic. It was a busy schedule and he never got a a chance for a vacation, well, that is to say, none of them ever did, but at least his job took him to all sorts of places around the world. That at least made it never boring.
He made his way across the Pacific Ocean, arriving in record time. Along the way, he passed a 747 and a concorde at high attitude, creating eddies of turbulence (of course). He saw frightened faces peering out as he passed. A small girl saw him pass by. He went too fast for comment.
Gaia was there to meet him when he arrived. ‘Surprise,’ she said when he saw her. ‘I brought someone new.’ How did you know, he started to say, but before he spoke, she said, ‘Hush, of course I do, I know everything’, brushed his hair back from his forehead, gave him an affectionate kiss on his cheek and was gone. In her place, a pretty young thing, willowy slim, with eyes dark and green like seaweed.
‘Hi,’ said he.
‘Hi,’ she said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Who’re you?’ said he.
‘I’m your sister,’ she said. ‘My name is Leviathan. What’s yours?’
‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Behemoth.’
‘Did Mother tell you what I’m supposed to do?’
‘No, we only spoke a while. But I think from your name, I can guess…’
‘Tell me… what you guess.’
‘I’ll tell you, dear sister.’
‘But first, how about a cuppa joe?’
‘Why not!!’
After the coffee, they took a walk along the Esplanade. Couples drifted past on the breezy front. Very briefly, he told her what it was that he does. She exclaimed in wonder, then grew serious as she understood her role in the new scheme of things. She was but newly born, a member of the Family. She had much to learn, she confessed, but would be confident in learning much from her brother. She pointed to the dark waters.
‘That,’ she said, ‘is my domain.’
‘Yes,’ he nodded, pleased.
‘And that,’ she pointed to the sky and the land, ‘is your domain.’
‘And the domain of the principalities,’ he said. ‘Not that they affect things much nowadays.’
Together, they watched the sunset. It was beautiful and horrifying at the same time.
Lots of dawns and machines in my stories. Blame it on regularly waking up in parks with dew on my face and my bike next to me. Everyone has to have somewhere to run to.
And now, we return to our regularly scheduled programming: radio silence.
Take five:
But wait. HOly shit. I love the interweb. Managed to crack a password protected file (stupid stupid stupid do not password protect your own files who is gonna steal it?). And here it is for archival records, ey, Filmlab? This *was* my first novel! I keep starting and stopping, enough with this already.
I should keep it going. It reads fairly well, even though I had only just begun.
Nice constellation of dates when I wrote it.
Sometime After Forever
A novel in its first draft, by Vinc Wong
Because I could not stop for Death -
He kindly stopped for me -
The Carriage held but just Ourselves -
And Immortality.
We slowly drove -- He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility --
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess -- in the Ring -
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain --
We passed the Setting Sun --
Or rather -- He passed Us --
The Dews drew quivering and chill --
For only Gossamer, my Gown --
My Tippet -- only Tulle
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground --
The Roof was scarcely visible --
The Cornice -- in the Ground --
Since then -- 'tis Centuries -- and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses's Heads
Were toward Eternity --
~ Emily Dickinson
Prologue
Wednesday, 16 December 0998 AD.
Camus the Great Alchemist knew Time had set an appointment with Death for him. Grimm the Soothsayer had looked into the dregs of his hastily emptied teacup earlier that day and seen Time, hunched and venerably labouring over his daily planner. Inside Time had scrawled in his inimitable spidery handwriting "Meet Death at seven to discuss Camus Goldberg's Ultimate Demise. Remember to be punctual ".
Camus knew exactly what he had to do. One did not become a Great Alchemist without learning a few secrets about the Universe. Camus accordingly scheduled Grimm to meet Death at seven instead; causing Death to miss her appointment with Time. As can be imagined, this completely threw Time off.
As anthropomorphic personifications go, Time was an impatient One. When it was Tick, he wished it was Tock. When it was Tock, he yearned fervently for Tick. This is why Time never stopped. It is this singular attribute which enables Time to keep marching relentlessly on, unlike some A.P.'s who occasionally have to take a vacation or sabbatica.
Not so Time. He had a job to do, and he took it seriously and made sure he did it well. As a result, Time is not patient. Time waits for no man. It's his job.
But then he had to contend with other anthropomorphic personifications, who, knowing their lot in the Universes, were preferential towards taking everything easy. After all, they lived forever, if only in Mind.
Therefore, Time waited. And waited. It wasn't long (of course) before it dawned slowly upon Time that Death just wasn't going to show. 'I'll be damned if I have to stop for Death' thought Time in a tempest, and went on his way, now to meet Fate, who had foreseen the turn in events and arrived herself fashionably and punctually late to discuss Camus' new future.
But even Time has to stop someday. Death stops for everyone. Actually, Death stops everyone, even Mind, though, as Death often liked to say to anyone who'd care to listen, that it was sometime after forever and hard to grasp even by her standards of worldliness.
One dimension removed, Camus considered his high crimes. He had managed to cheat Death and outwit Time. Now all there was left to do was evade Taxes. As an alchemist, that went easy compared with everything else - manufacturing gold took care of that.
The world was his.
Chapter One
'Carpe Diem'. But, on the other hand, 'Caveat Emptor'.
How are you supposed to seize the day, if you don't know what to seize from it?
I'm with you totally, 1999 Vince. 9 years on and still clueless, what the f?
Lets bag a few more awards before I die. Fucking got nothing else to do at the moment. Gonna put the Cardigan's 'Ironman' on repeat. Mantra: let's make FU money.
These were my projects in 2002:
I shall add 'Swipe' and 'Escapade' and the book 'My Boyfriend is a Magician, and other stories' to the list. I clean forgot what most of last few are; for example wtf is 'Son of a Mountain' about? And 'The Girl Who Saw Teddies'???
I do remember 'A Twist of Lemon' though. This one is a play about a guy who was secretly gay. It was so secret that even he didn't know it. The play opens with a shower scene in the army, and I orchestrate 12 simultaneous droppings of soaps onto the floor. The guy is actually married and when he and his wife start 'dating' a neighbour couple, his wife thinks he has the hots for the other wifey, but actually he had a boner for the man. It would have been hilarious.
I was going to write it at a time when it won't hurt anyone (well, me really) in the theatre scene. I'll give it a good 20 years more.
Titles are so important. I love me some titles. Gimme a good title and I'll give you a good book. Lets have some title-lovin', here. Everyone get into a title group hug.
It is 6.26 now and I have been reading and writing my own shit all morning. Stupid liver.
Which brings us to this.
Cam-whoring at its worst, but had severe crush on the girl for the longest time so I'm down with it.
It is now nearly 7am. I do not remember that Nina Persson was ever a brunette. Is that really her? If you can't tell the difference ...
I'll call the care police.
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