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A person who needs no introduction.

Friday, December 16, 2022

Technique: volume on the piano

 A thing about piano playing is that, much like the Earth and everything on it, the sound is constantly dying. When you hear a piano player, you're riding the Relativity Express, and they are running it. 

This manifested itself to me as a dissatisfaction with the tone, that I couldn't keep things smooth enough, and it developed over the source of many thought balloons that if you want to stay the same volume on a piano, you can play each note at the same volume as the previous one started, or you can play each new note at the same volume that the previous one had attained when the next one was played. A sliding scale.

The first of these does seem to keep your melodic line prominent (usually emphasizing the top line), as each new note is a tiny tad more loud than the preceding. This can give an impression of increasing volume. It can bother my ear some, it turns out.

The other solution has me playing a little softer as I go through a phrase (provided I'm not directed to get louder on it), with what seems like a more coherent stream of sound. It's like ending a piece with some repeated chords: If it's not saying to get louder on them, I like to strike each a tiny bit softer, so as not to be louder than the existing envelope of sound that it's being opened in. 

A net effect is that phrases go softer in the absence of any other written directions, This leads to a more ongoing ebb and flow of dynamics, instead of "just playing." Other dynamics still apply, just as a driver continues to pay attention to his location within a lane, even as the road twists. 

Well, it makes sense to me, because I'm a sensitive creative artist, or something. I'll try and post more of this sort of thing, including art and productivity tips, under the "Technique" umbrella.

surprisingly, this was not originally a Twitter tweet stream.
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Friday, December 09, 2022

Middle-aged Man, Made of Meat

Pino rose reluctantly from dreams of magic. His joints seemed to creak, and he remembered the amazing year in which he was born, fresh, a wooden puppet. His joints rattled then, instead of aching.

What if he'd never changed? Would he still feel ancient on this morning? Wood can last an amazingly long time, but it's not eternal. What if a finger had broken off, and been replaced by unenchanted wood? Would it feel like him? Would it be him, if he was replaced entirely, piece by piece? Tantalizing, to think of living forever, a mended, patched life, replacing himself piece by piece, not knowing if he was still the same individual.

About like now, he reflected. Darn near the same. He chuckled at this, took up his axe, and whistled as he went outside to work.

 

originally a tweet

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Good Morning!

 

By the driveway. 10:05 am, 12/9/2022.

Thursday, December 08, 2022

many wrongs make a blog post

Recent tweets (harvested by hand):


Could they make a dog toy that squeaks in a range only dogs hear?
 

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"Turn on notifications or skip for now." For now? For NOW??

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You can't even buy calling birds nowadays. You can only rent a calling bird plan.

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Today I beat Wordle by not playing.

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[photos of decorative apples made of alabaster or onyx] I was looking more for a pomme granite.

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No, I feel okay. I just feel like going outside and eating a bunch of grass is all.

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Woe is me. Murray now believes 100% that any time I whistle, it means I'm calling him to go out, even if he was just out. So now, any time I'm exuberant enough to whistle, I'm gaslighting my best buddy.

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Eric Idle's sortabiography has a story of the aftermath of the attack on George and Olivia by that creep. George was lying on a gurney, bleeding, and the new housekeeper reported for work. She looked on, utterly apalled, and George said "So, what do you think of the job so far?"

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When I buy anything snacky, I take the precaution of figuring out how much fat is in the whole thing. Sometimes unlikely, but always good to know.

Kudos to Dove ice cream bons on that score. I looked at the info, and serving size is THE WHOLE BOX OF, LIKE, TWENTY. Hardcore FTW.

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I sat in an empty room at a con where I was the event, and suffered the social awkwardness of deciding whether to start talking when someone looked in.

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