NoiseBored

Daily Drop #010 – Dark Throne
The Zero Collective
12.01.11

Fresh breaks and new beginnings crawling through my head as an aimless wanderer’s path diverges from the comfort and shade of supposed love that, once shattered, has settled to a fine dust that cuts the skin with every breath

Daily Drop #005 – Pulling in Low
The New Deconstruction
11.26.11

Sometimes the feeling of the sky feels better on the floor…

something you should be all about instead of watching mind numbing television or listening to some bullshit-ass radio station cause c’mon lets face it, monopolization takes all the fun out of “music” and we here at NvC would like to invite you to turn your attention to the deep unexplored region of the mind where you can relax yourself into at dreamlike reality. yeah its sounds crazy but fuck it! ok i’m flippin my position… NvC is all about saying f-you to the man and f-you to you as well. First, let’s decide what a ‘robot’ is. In my opinion, a remote controlled car is not a robot since it has no brain of it’s own. It has no way to make a decision on its own. If you want to build a machine that just responds to your remote control, then just use a remote controlled car or other toy. But I don’t think you can call it a robot. Even if a robot has an on-board brain, it can still accept instructions from an operator and be called a robot To be a robot, it should have the ability to think – make decisions. This may sound hard at first, but really any small computer can be programmed to make decisions. Here is an example of a decision that a small robot with a feeble brain could make: IF FRONT LEFT WHISKER SENSOR IS ON THEN STOP, GO BACKWARDS 2 FEET, TURN RIGHT, CONTINUE. This is a very common ‘IF-THEN’ statement. A machine that can perform this instruction is truly a robot. So, the conclusion is that to be called a robot, you really need an on-board brain and a way to program it. im going to build a robot to sell the drugs for me. the cops will be shocked when they find out that the drug drug dealer is a robot. AN ALARM clock that will not switch off until the slumberer has shown they are fully awake has been invented by a student at Strathclyde University. The puzzle clock, created by Liam Hastie for his engineering degree, is designed to overcome “sleep inertia” – the groggy feeling which, scientists say, can impair mental faculties for ten minutes, but sometimes for up to two hours after waking. The wall-mounted alarm clock can be switched off only when its user climbs out of bed, stands directly in front and repeats, by pressing coloured buttons, a sequence generated randomly each morning. If the user fails to repeat the sequence swiftly, the alarm will continue to blare until the task is completed correctly. Research into “sleep inertia” has discovered the pre-frontal cortex – the area of the brain which is responsible for problem-solving, emotion and complex thought – is among those that take longer to operate properly after sleep. Mr Hastie, 23 – who designed a prototype as part of his degree course in design, manufacture and engineering management – was inspired by his own experience of repeatedly pressing the snooze button on his alarm as many as 20 times rather than getting up. He said: “Alarm clocks are good at waking you – what they are not good at is actually getting you out of bed. “Then I read about the concept of ‘sleep inertia’ and decided to invent an alarm clock that not only got you out of bed, but would only go off when you demonstrated that your pre-frontal cortex was actually online.” Dr Neil Stanley, a past president of the British Sleep Society, described the new invention as “a good idea”. He said: “What is interesting is that we don’t know exactly how long sleep inertia can last. Some morn-ings I leap out of bed and others I’m much more sluggish.” I wrote a review for it but apparently most of the people were not very interested: Copyright © 1992, R. Reames All Rights Reserved, Used without Permission I’ve decided upon sleep deprivation combined with regular hits of marijuana and shots of Jack Daniels to see me through. As I write this, I am going into my thirty fourth continuous hour. I don’t know why I decided to stop sleeping, but maybe something new and enlightening will happen to me. You know, sort of, hit the autopilot and see what happens to the craft when the fuel runs out? I feel the numbness. That familiar alcohol distance. And then there’s the pot. But I think the lack of dreams has routed itself in my pleasure zone. I’m actually enthralled with the idea of no dreams. Every night we shut down and tune into some wish fulfillment, alternate reality, that may or may not give insight. PIGSHIT! Is that it, then? Is that why I’m not receiving solace from my REM state? Or that period just prior and just after the window closes? Have you ever consciously explored that transitional phase? You should, for therein lies the hook–the mortal signature. If we could remain conscious during unconsciousness, we would right all wrongs. I’ll take another shot on that one, thank you. My vision is different. My eyeballs are pinched. THC. A burn in my belly and a pinch in my brain. Hooray for external, internal motivators! So on to introductions. My name has no translational significance and I’m the guy in your high school who fit in just fine as far as you were concerned. I’m the product of two innocent lovers who believed in each other the way any real humans should. So why am I sitting in a poorly furnished two-bedroom apartment on 14th and 9th in Manhattan, drunk, stoned, and physically deprived? Well, my fiancée broke up with me, that’s why. Nothing too major. No limbs amputated, no voices telling me to slice up women and wear their pelts. Just a middle class white guy with a broken heart. Shall we all sing a song? It’s the pettiness of it all that rapes me. I’ve worked as a paralegal assistant for a major law firm to a telemarketer for a major rip-off firm–both of which specialized in lies and deceit for a quick buck. Right now I cater in Manhattan to pay the rent-beast. Through the course of slinging drinks and water chestnut fondue to America’s upstanding citizens, I have yet to find one tidbit of information that has any meaning. Yes, meaning, he wrote as he reached sloppily for the whiskey. Ow, my back hurts from this chair. My ex-roommate stole this chair from somewhere. Or he found it. I’m not sure which. You would have liked Steve. He was the kind of guy that was that kind of guy. Loved sports, loved a good hard drink and knew exactly where his place in line should be. He was, in short, a “guy.” Cognizant of deeper thought but much more comfortable skating on the surface. Probably because the surface is so familiar to him. He grew up on the East Coast of a strange little country called America. Now, being the oldest part of the country, the East Coast had the advantage of generational transference. The ties to days gone past were much stronger there. On the West Coast, however, the movie set of my early years, the transference occurred not through the ancestral offspring, but through the newborn societal child, television. I was a pre-pubescent of the mid 60’s to 70’s in the grand old US of A, and proud to say that I am the last of the “Baby Boomers.” Actually, more like the afterbirth of the baby boomers. Which translates as the first to feel the impending firestorm’s flames. Living on the brink of a changing society excites me, but it also fills me with a natural sense of order. I feel like I am the head rat who turns to his friend and says, “I don’t know about you, but I have this overwhelming feeling that the ship is already sunk.” Only I am paralyzed about what to do. I am convinced that “art” is the salvation of a culture, yet I am educated well enough to know that art can only save posthumously. Which means that the only way to redeem our society is to convince the future archaeologists that somebody gave a damn somewhere. Unfortunately, though, I don’t give a damn. I don’t care about you or your world. I don’t care about anything right now, except to build a wall of art around me. My own art. Why sell the stuff? Who else would want it and why? Can’t they do it themselves? It’s not that hard. Besides, when you’ve created a thing of beauty, why in the world would you ever want it away from you? Is our appreciation span so drastically fragile? Is this just a thin metaphor for how I feel about my ex? I blame TV for it all. I know, I know, blaming TV is so passe these days. After all, it provides jobs! But we’re a country governed entirely by short sight. Immediate gratification of all wants and desires. It’s always worked for me. Until, of course, I began to care about somebody else’s existence. But, I don’t care anymore. I’m tired of learning things I already learned before. I just told a woman I have had sex with that, no, I am not her friend. All women want is to be your friend. They love sex, but only when it gets them something. Whereas men can be quite comfortable with just having the sex. So strange my thinking now. So dislocated. I feel invigorated and totally alive within my own standards. Not at all like the person who began this rant so many shots ago. I am becoming that which I used to be, and that which I used to hate–only now, I don’t hate it so much. Rationalization? Sleep deprivation? Alcohol poisoning? You be the judge. Some shadow of the devil, I’ll bet. Ahh, speak of the devil. What a pathetically simplistic notion of the internal complexities. You want to know who the devil is? It’s us when we’re all selfish. That’s all. When we strip off all of the societal bullshit, all of the marketing stimuli, all of the religious tampering, it all comes down to, “yeah, but, what do I get?” Which is perfectly natural and should be sought by literally everyone–only not out loud! If it’s for yourself, keep it to your goddamned self! And remember the most important part of all–YOU GET MORE WHEN YOU GIVE. Yeah, right. What a load. Anybody who has ever done this knows exactly how much horse manure that statement is worth. Of course, it is true in the long run. But that’s so far off, right? (In case you couldn’t guess, I’m having a rather tell-tale internal debate between who I am now, and who I was then. Now back to our program.) Fuck it! That’s what I say. In fact that’s what I’ve said most of my life when the good times came. Fuck it. Time to say goodnight to the poet and bring out the conqueror again. Only instead of women, I think I’ll conquer the known world. Women are far too easy. And I don’t say this for mere petty conceit. Men are far too easy, as well. All of mankind for that matter. I don’t want to believe it’s true, but apparently it is if my friends and relatives are all complaining that they just can’t seem to get out of debt when the country that bore them is in debt three trillion dollars. For those of you who have no idea how much a trillion dollars is, imagine every person on this planet giving birth to over one thousand children, and you’ll begin to see what a royal mess we’re in. The funniest thing about it all is that no one seems to realize that all we’re doing in this lifetime is damage control from the past. Or worse, that there was never any meaning to begin with. No, I can’t swallow that one whole. It just doesn’t ring one hundred percent. But I don’t think it’s simply fear that it all is pointless. The poet inside simply flashes the incorrect vote every time I actually contemplate it. Denial? Possibly. Especially when you consider that all we have are rules and regulations. That’s it. The sum total of any society. My god, I’m ranting like the loon. Prancing tu-rah-goon. Another bowl is all I need. That will set things asunder. The older I get (and I’m talking second by second now) the more I enjoyed the influx of pure chaos. It’s the only sanity I know. Did anyone notice, parenthetically, that I just wrote future tense and past perfect in the “pure chaos” sentence above? I just read it and I’m freaked the fuck out…”The older I get, the more I enjoyed…”? Has the night taken its toll? Well, let’s see. “The older I get, the more I enjoyed…” Grammatically speaking (and shouldnt that always be the case?), it makes no sense, but on a tangential link to the nature of higher selves–it betrays simultaneous time. No wonder Freud loved a good slip (and our government outlaws drugs). “Bartender, the desert’s dry!” Ahhh! Right down the esophageal passage. First discovered in 1882, Lewis and Clark took Saqajawea behind the shed….No, no. OK. Time to eat. End. Carpe nocturnum bitches!

This is the new NvC page; actually, once I get this thing fully sorted, all of our previous albums and whatnot will be available at NvC.NoiseBored.com, as well as any other groups that I end up setting up pages for and cataloging.

This is a step forward, and I’ll give you more info as it rolls out.

Later – Jess