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Jeremy Richards

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"Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake." -- Wallace Stevens [Jul. 5th, 2028|01:03 pm]



Most entries are now friends-locked. If you're not already on my friends list (and I haven't dropped anyone lately) and you'd like to be added, please drop me a note. Thanks!
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Vacation [Jul. 25th, 2008|03:31 pm]

Monkey Meditates
Originally uploaded by jeremyrichards
You know something? I've never been to Disneyland. I have vacation hours saved up. Should I go to Disneyland?
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Belt and Pillow [Jul. 24th, 2008|06:44 pm]

Belt and Pillow
Originally uploaded by jeremyrichards

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Monty's Lifesuit [Jun. 14th, 2008|02:45 pm]
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Weekend America -- Monty's Lifesuit: Science Fiction to Fact

This weekend, San Francisco hosts the 2008 RoboGames. Last year's event attracted more than 3,000 spectators to see robots and their human inventors compete in races, weightlifting and all-out robo-smackdowns. But one returning champion from Seattle has a bigger mission in mind. Reporter Jeremy Richards has the story.



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The print version is for reference and search engines, mostly. I recommend clicking on the audio link ...
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Wait, is Big Poppa E Obama's Campaign Advisor? [Mar. 27th, 2008|03:26 pm]
John Lundberg on The Myth of the Wussy Poet:
It's not a hard defense to make. While the misconception of the "wussy" poet is common in America, I know from internationals I've talked to that it's a decidedly American misconception, a manifestation of the tired idea that men should only express their feelings while drunk or during football games lest they appear, you know, weak. Sure. Were Wilfred Owen and history's long litany of soldier poets weak? Is Iraq war vet Bryan Turner, who just published Here, Bullet, a book of poems about the war, not tough enough? Tell him he's not a fighter.

It's true, though. We poets can get a little defensive about our toughness.
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When our quick minds lie still ... [Feb. 12th, 2008|11:57 am]
Reading Shakespeare has dramatic effect on human brain
Shakespeare uses a linguistic technique known as functional shift that involves, for example using a noun to serve as a verb. Researchers found that this technique allows the brain to understand what a word means before it understands the function of the word within a sentence. This process causes a sudden peak in brain activity and forces the brain to work backwards in order to fully understand what Shakespeare is trying to say.
It's intriguing, certainly, but Shakespeare seems to be more of a mascot than a singular prompt. Wouldn't any poetic syntax with similar tropes provoke such a response? I've written before about novelty, perception, and the neuroscience of apprehension, and this only seems to confirm the obvious: The unexpected but inevitable will always ring familiar bells with unfamiliar tones, whether it's Shakespeare, Joyce, Bishop, or a particularly good Laffy Taffy--though, granted, the nostalgia of that chewy green apple sensation may send the EEG off the charts.
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It may not be possible to continue normally [Jan. 9th, 2008|02:04 pm]
[Current Music |Chris Walla]


Dear PC,

Unfortunately, you're not nearly as cool or surreal as John Hodgman, your television avatar. At three and a half years, you now qualify for PC Medicare, so I have elected to move you into virtual hospice. This lifespan is typical, I imagine, even with the constant surgeries, the RAM implants, and the futile attempts at rehabilitation. I'm sorry to see you so slow and feeble. You're always putting down files and forgetting where you left them, always crashing and cracking a rib.



Accordingly, I have requested a priest to offer your last rites. Wait, what's your denomination? I always assumed you were a Quaker. Don't mind the feeding tube/external drive. I'm just siphoning anything still valuable and passing it along to your successor, my new MacBook. I think she's a Buddhist.





Dear MacBook,

Here is all my money.
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"All work is the avoidance of harder work." [Sep. 5th, 2007|04:20 pm]
"When a jet flies low overhead, every glass in the cupboard sings. Feelings are like that: choral, not single; mixed, never pure. The sentimentalist may want to deny the sadness of boredom in his happiness, or the freedom that lightens even the worst loss. The moralist will resist his faint complicity. The sophisticate, dreading to be found naïve, will exlaim upon the traces of vanity or lust in any motive, as if they were the whole. Each is selling himself simplicity; each is weakened with his fear of weakness."

-- James Richardson, Vectors

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Whereupon I prove my street cred [Oct. 15th, 2003|11:48 am]
Three years after I quit boxing, I found out my old sparring partner died from a drug overdose. A month later, an old skateboarding friend was arrested for murder. Meanwhile, the friends from high school linked by nothing but the skater identity had morphed into skater/stoners, into drug dealers, into highly connected drug dealers trying to flare up some Compton connection--in Spokane.

So yeah. I was hardcore. Or rather, I was embedded in a pseudo-hardcore environment, all meek and smug with my detachment, proving my worth with kickflips and railslides. And while they were mixing bags and bragging about drive-bys, I was calmly playing Tekken and listening to Sunny Day Real Estate. When someone had to step over the controller wires to reach the pipe, I hit the pause button. It struck me that I was out of place, but I had no one else to skate with, and maybe the residual power was comforting. Some Gortex hood shoves me in the hall, and Kyle mentions that he has a shotgun under the seat of his low rider. Yeah, there's nothing sadder than a puffed up wannabe, but let me tell you, there's nothing more dangerous than a wannabe with a gun.

Then there were the boxing matches. Usually it was Kyle's backyard with sixteen ounce gloves, and not only was I the only sober one, but the only one with any training. Occasionally I took a hit so they wouldn't, I don't know, get paranoid and pull out a stun gun. But I could fight. Though I was never good at chess or Risk, I had some spatial mapping concept of fists and feints, how to lunge with a low jab and chamber a round kick in the same fluid motion, when to lean back and breathe, to put a heel to the kneecap just to prove it could have broken. What was proven here is still uncertain. All I wanted was a justified posture, not to condone anything, but to counter alienation, to observe.

Gradually, I drifted toward theater and found a new crowd. I broke three skateboards, splintered over handrails or broken at the axle, and gave the last one away to a friend's twelve-year-old son. I quit kickboxing to focus on college. Oddly, my discovery of Eastern religion came from the Tao of Jeet Kune Do, which led to Zen studies, which led to nonviolence. I was never violent outside the ring, anyway, but that's what settled it. As for the old gangsta crowd, I heard one went to work in wholesale jewelry, one started and folded an exotic fish shop, one kept dealing, and at least one ended up in prison.

Did I dodge a bullet? Not really. I stepped over a few bullets on my way to the kitchen, but I don't think I ever had the palate for the cult, the soft knuckles of thug fantasies and rolling bass down Riverside. If there is any pride, any proof of cred sifted from all of this, then it's tempered by a vague regret of complacency and a moderate pitch loss in my last audiology exam. I can still hear the N.W.A. beats and the scraping, high-ended lowrider on a manhole cover. We had to get out and push.
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"Life refuses to be embalmed alive" --A. N. Whitehead [Mar. 6th, 2003|12:46 pm]
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This is my undergrad thesis that was published in Aporia. I'm mainly putting this here for archival purposes, but if you're a hardcore Whiteheadian or want to wade through dense metaphysics, you're welcome to read it.

There's some stuff in here about improv that might be of interest, but again, it's mired by the arcane approach that appeals to academic journals.

Novelty, Ritual, and Redemption: Toward a Whiteheadian Aesthetic )
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The Happy Existentialist [Feb. 25th, 2003|03:21 pm]
(Dark stage. On the back wall, a projected quote: "I have never felt a day of despair in my life"--Jean-Paul Sartre. The quote fades as lights come up on Jean-Paul Sartre in a Paris cafe. He sits, smoking a cigarette. Staring out blankly, suddenly he giggles, but stops himself as Simone de Beauvoir and Albert Camus enter.)
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The Diction Lesson (my apologies to Shaw) [Nov. 20th, 2002|12:38 pm]
(Professor Martins and Mary Bayfield stand in a drawing room with a gramophone.)

Martins: Very well, Mary. Your articulation is coming along quite nicely. It is your diction, however, that we need to improve.

Mary: Yes, professor.

Martins: Now. Let's try one of my favorite childhood recitations: "I am a mother pheasant plucker. I pluck mother pheasants. I am the most pleasant mother pheasant plucker to ever pluck a mother pheasant." (laughs) Delightful, isn't it? Now you try: "I am a mother pheasant plucker."

Mary (with perfect articulation): I am a pleasant motherfucker.

Martins: No, that's not quite it. "I pluck mother pheasants."

Mary: I fuck fother measants.

Martins: Ah, closer. Now. "I am the most pleasant mother pheasant plucker to ever pluck a mother pheasant."

Mary: I am the most pleasant motherfucker to ever fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Martins: Hmm. Again you're pronunciation is immaculate. Your diphthongs, clear as crystal. But I think you're having trouble distinguishing the word choice. Are you familiar with pheasants?

Mary: Yes.

Martins: And does the notion of a mother pheasant, the progenitor of other pheasants, make sense to you?

Mary: Yes.

Martins: And the feathers, you are plucking them. Understood?

Mary: Yes.

Martins: So pretend it's your job to prune the feathers of this pheasant, this mother pheasant. "I am a mother pheasant plucker."

Mary (carefully, articulate): I enjoy having sexual intercourse with fancy birds.

Martins: OK. Well. That's a start.

(Fade out)


© copyright Jeremy Richards 2002
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The Amazing Dovarini [Oct. 29th, 2002|10:24 am]
(Fade in. Weak applause from the audience, which consists of small children, very old people, and a few firefighters. Pause. Everyone looks expectantly at stage right. People shuffle in their seats)

(After an uncomfortable pause, The Amazing Dovarini enters, top hat and all, trying to act suave despite a stiff suit, overstuffed with doves. Light applause. No one says anything, but you can tell that the word "applause" makes them think of "apple sauce." Hunger burns in their eyes.)
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Altar [Aug. 27th, 2002|05:00 pm]
(In the feint light, we see a person lying on top of a large rectangle, center stage. From off stage, we hear a shuffling, a key in a lock, and a door opening. A man enters. He turns on a light, revealing a crucifix on the wall behind the altar, where the person sleeps. The man takes off his jacket and adjusts his collar. He his FATHER MIKE. Father Mike notices the person on the altar and is briefly startled, then approaches carefully.)

FATHER MIKE: Excuse me?

(The person, GARY, mumbles something and shifts around. He is scruffy but well-dressed, cradling a backpack in his arms.)

FATHER MIKE: Hello? Young man?

GARY: Yeah? Can I help you?

FATHER MIKE: How did you get in here?

(Gary stretches and sits up, lights a cigarette, takes a drag.)

GARY: Through the window.

FATHER MIKE: Which window?

GARY: The broken one. You know, the one where Jesus was leaning over and accepting the cross?

FATHER MIKE: You broke a stained glass window?
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Yin::Yang/Ping:: . . . [Jul. 20th, 2002|09:39 am]
[Current Mood |delusions of grad school]

James Austin notes that auditory filtering alters depending on the novelty of the stimulus. Expected and predictable content filters through a presumptive measure of judgment before registering. In other words, we're more subjective with cliches and conventions, "as though the brain had been making quasi-mental, reflexive associations at several different levels." We "see it coming," which is an interesting phrase, given that the brain's context for the predictable is primarily within the parietal regions, committed to place--where it's coming from.

With novel stimulus, however, the auditory cue seems to bypass some of the subjective processing, and the waveform actually shows potential earlier. It leaps right up and kicks out the steady, predictable mindset, registers potential primarily within the frontal lobes, and provokes a "what" response as opposed to a "where."

Where Austin leaves off is where I'm interested in following. That is, what about the content that is both unexpected and inevitable? This is a motif in my aesthetic theory, and the neurological angle makes a perfect opportunity to look for facts that support what I assumed all along. OK, so what I mean by "unexpected and inevitable" (a phrase I picked up from a screenwriting book, I think) is that the most striking aesthetic satori makes us respond, simultaneously, "Wow, I didn't expect that" and "Oh, of course, that's exactly what I should have expected." If it merely meets our expectations, we're not impressed. If the content is only novel, with no context of expectation, then it's simply non-sequitur. Granted, I'm a huge champion of the non-sequitur, but anyone who's read Mark Leyner at a stretch knows it can become exhausting. Potato salad.

So when we hear an ingenious joke or "mind-bending twist" in a story, it provokes a visceral reaction, be it laughter, tears, chills, heart murmurs, or spontaneous tap dancing. We feel moved. Meanwhile, inside the brain, I imagine a nanosecond pingpong match between the frontal and parietal lobes, where the predictive and novel stimuli strike, respectively. A sort of, "Ah, wait, what, oh, yes, ha, oh, of course, but then, tada!" all condensed into a split second "awwoyhoocbtt!"
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Every Parent's Dream [Jul. 9th, 2002|06:39 pm]
(An elementary school office. The CAREER COUNSELOR sits at her desk, across from MOTHER, FATHER, and JACOB. Jacob sits silently as Mother and Father talk.)

MOTHER: He's just so quiet all the time. He doesn't seem interested in anything.

FATHER: Oh, it'll pass. He's in the third grade, Maureen, give the kid a break. (To Counselor) We can't expect him to make any career choices yet, can we?

COUNSELOR: Actually, recent advancements in aptitude dynamics and skill assessment can tell us a child's ideal occupation with a 98 percent accuracy rate.

FATHER: Seriously? How does that work?

COUNSELOR: Mr. Corman, what do you do for a living?

FATHER: I'm a--

COUNSELOR:--Wait, don't tell me. (takes out a flash card) What does this remind you of?

FATHER: Paris.

COUNSELOR: How many times has the phrase, "How do you want your eggs" been used in a major motion picture?

FATHER: I don't know, seventeen?

COUNSELOR (scribbling down quick calculations): You are a tax attorney with a suppressed interest in dentistry.

MOTHER (gasps): How did you know that?

FATHER: Is this some sort of voodoo?

COUNSELOR: No, not voodoo. Science. Social science.

(We hear a buzzing sound. Jacob turns his head slightly, then reaches up quickly and grabs a fly out of midair. The buzzing stops.)
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The Critic and the Guard [Jun. 28th, 2002|09:18 am]
(A CRITIC stands in an art gallery, admiring a painting. A young GIRL stands nearby, watching the Critic.)

Critic: The appeal of impressionism, and of Monet's work, especially, is that it evokes the soft resonance of memory, and yet it's at once present and completely vivid.

(Critic looks at Girl. Girl starts to cry. Girl's MOTHER enters to console the girl.)

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