A DAS Ramble of Sorts

One thing that has come out of these various Digital Audio classes, is an unwavering ability to confuse the Apple techies stationed at London's Best Buy. I know it's probably not what my teacher had in mind when he started teaching the course, but I don't think he expects any less of me.

However, in spite of my unerring ability to screw myself over ad naseaum, I do have some sense of self- preservation and so, I know when my attention is required in classes...generally.

I've recently been down to the school's recording studio…Notes and visuals in class do little to teach you how to actually use the equipment or set up a talk-back mic, which I have attempted to do on several occasions, and succeeded only thrice.

Then there is the audio. Something that I am constantly worrying about, is my lack of musical talent.

“Hello and welcome to the audio and music-based recording class! Go record yourself playing music!!” :)

Crud.

Question:

How do you mic a tissue box guitar?

Because honestly, that is the only thing I can ever hope to play with the amount of musical ability that I possess.

Being deaf in one ear doesn't help very much either.

“Today we're panning audio!”

I guess if I don't hear it in my left than it's panned hard right. You cannot imagine the breakdowns I went through when we did soundscapes. D:

Hmm…

Let’s take a slight detour for a moment, and learn yet another thing about me.

If I’m not interested, and see no point in listening, I usually don’t. Something my younger brother and I have in common, I guess. But I realized something today when I left that abnormally freezing classroom and lesson of advanced stereo mic’ing behind, I’m actually learning. And, I’m learning because I’m listening, and I’m listening because I’m interested.

I guess my point is that, despite me finding this class difficult, I’m still in it, even though I’m constantly failing to do something properly, I’m still trying, and I’m doing it because, well…I guess I like the challenge.

Honestly, I’m never going to work in a recording studio or be a professional in this field, but I get my own small satisfaction when my teacher says something and I actually understand it, or when I manage to finish a half-decent project in ProTools. I have a passion for editing and recording, that’s why I’m so involved in film. And a lot of aspects in audio recording walk hand-in-hand with film production, so that’s probably why I’m so into it at the moment.

I’m also in a video editing class this semester, but it’s a bit of a drag due to the fact that there are no set projects, no rubrics, and I don’t think my teacher knows what he’s doing. There’s structure in my Digital Audio Studies class but there’s still that creative freedom that I love. I don’t know, I guess I just appreciate it. It’s about time there was structure somewhere in my life, haha.

Rambling over.

Conclusion: Dedicated teachers make dedicated students J

-MegaTron Out.

3 Times MegaTron Fell Down The Stairs...And The One Time She Didn't. Part 2

If there is one unnecessary fact you shouldn’t know about my house, it’s that it never has any cordless phones with a charge. They’re all dead, always, all the time. All five of them. Their docks are in five different rooms in my house, but ninety percent of the time, the phones themselves occupy my younger sister’s room, scattered amidst makeup, clothes and a frightening amount of stuffed animals. Impossible to find really, and very frustrating, especially when the phone is ringing.

-------Number 2--------

It was a Saturday evening and I was in the basement getting ready to go to work. The phone rang. At first, I hesitated, waiting for the second ring to confirm that I’d heard it. Then, I was running. (Now, I don’t know how I always find myself in instances where running indoors in necessary, but it seems to happen to me a lot.) So, I was running, and having a hard time of it due to the lack of grip my socks had on the hardwood floor. The phone downstairs was missing, so I turned and flailed with a severe lack of balance, around the corner. I was halfway up the stairs (also hardwood) when it happened.

My foot slipped and..

BANG! SMASH! THUNK! Ow…

Now I hadn’t fallen down the stairs per se, but I’d fallen forwards, landing on my stomach and sliding backwards to the bottom of the staircase via my front. My feet touched the ground gently, (I had lost a fair bit of momentum by this point) and I stumbled to a standing position. My knees ached from hitting 12 wooden steps repeatedly with a decent amount of force, and I’d managed to cut my hand somehow. The phone continued ringing so I hurried back up the stairs (at a slightly slower pace) and grabbed the first phone I saw. Dead. I ran into the living room. No phone. I threw open my Mom’s bedroom door. No phone. I hesitantly peeked into my sister’s room, and could have sworn something alive was shuffling about under the mountains of clothes and preteen mess. I closed the door without even attempting it. Finally, I found a living cordless phone in the mudroom. I picked it up, smiling at my small accomplishment and ability to come back quickly from yet another nasty spill down a set of stairs, made to push the talk button…

And the phone stopped ringing.

I proceeded to throw it very angrily at the couch, (I can’t break the only living phone) and stomp back down the stairs. Oblivious to the lesson I should have learned.

-MegaTron Out.

Writing Vs. Visual Arts

I don't like art. Sure, there is the brief joyous moment that you experience when you finish a painting that is particularly grand. But it doesn't last. Not really. Well, not in my opinion.

“Why then,” people ask me (when I complain about it), “do you draw and paint and create these things?” This statement is usually accompanied by a deadpan glare from me and a wild hand gesture towards whatever I had recently created from the speaker. I shrug. It is a subject I really don't care much for and a topic that is dull to discuss.

But, for those who (for reasons beyond me) are truly curious, here is my answer.

I am a writer. I love the English language. I love that you can take a word that means something, surround it with others and give it a completely different definition. I cherish that small rush you get when you know you've written something particularly amazing but then leave it, reading it again months later while trying not to bask in your own genius. I take note of sentences or brilliant similes in novels and poems that I read, sometimes rereading them three times before moving on. Sure, winning long jump or getting the high score on COD or whatever it is, is something to be proud of. But, leaning back in your seat knowing that you've just created something that no one else could have without your mindset, it feels remarkable.

However, how many people in today's world will sit down and enjoy reading a text? Who goes out and buys a book of poetry for the hell of it?

Exactly.

Art is a quick way to tell a story, to make a point, to share an idea. And it is a universal language. Anyone can look at a picture of an orange and know it's an orange, and you don't need to be literate to understand art. The only barrier is the person's mind. And really if you consider it, that is a common road block in many other aspects of life as well, so no big loss there.

I'll draw a picture, or paint, or CG not because I enjoy the process of it, or because I want to keep that particular visual forever. I create because I am a fan of self-expression. Writing and visual arts are not bound by creative laws and I can do whatever I want with either.

So, I guess I do like art. I enjoy looking at other people's creations, decoding their meaning and appreciating the work and thought put into them, I like the free expression, and how you can surround one colour by a multitude of other’s to portray a specific message. I guess, if you think about it, art is a form of writing, and writing is an art.

-MegaTron Out.

3 Times MegaTron Fell Down The Stairs...And The One Time She Didn't

AN: [The inspiration for this post is brought on by the classic ‘3 to 1’ writing prompt. If you haven’t ever come across this web-famous writing style have no fear, because I’m about to explain it. Basically, you write about 3 common instances where a similar event/thing occurred, and then one time it didn’t. (But this one time has to still relate to the other three). Confused? Yeah, I was too but hopefully you’ll understand when you’re done reading this.]

------NUMBER 1------

The first instance was Monday. It was a Day 1 at school and I thought it was a Day 2. What difference does that make? Well, it’s the difference between having a class, and not having a class, and I thought I didn’t have a class. But, my luck being how it is, I did, and it was Digital Audio Studies. This is a serious matter because if it was any of my other classes I could slip in quietly, avoiding a late slip in the process, in Digital Audio this is impossible and extremely dangerous for a plethora of reasons. (That I won’t list) So… The bell is about to ring, I’m on the opposite end of the school, I realize I DO have class, and if I get another late slip I have detention. (Not because I’m a delinquent or anything, I just tend to go to the wrong classes all the time, making me late for the one I need to be in).

And so…

I ran.

Full tilt down the hallway, which was a dangerous move on my part but it was a desperate time. I reached the stairs, at the top of the staircase was my class, almost home, I continued my sprint up the stairs, got 5 steps up and…

CRASH! BANG! TUMBLE! THUD! Ow…

I groaned from my new position sprawled on the last step of the staircase. My knees and arms were already bruising and I had bitten my tongue on the way down. I sat up slowly, happy my laptop had survived the fall due to it being clutched to my chest, (bones will heal, so save the electronics) and the bell rang. I groaned again, this time in frustration.

I took my time stumbling back up the stairs and paused for a second outside of the class to compose myself before entering. I shuffled to my seat thankful that my knees hurt less when I sat down; my teacher looked up from his Macbook Pro.

“Late slip.” He deadpanned.

Time to justify yourself MegaTron, “But I-“

“Late slip.” Deadpan.

I sighed, dropping my gaze (his was of course unwavering), and stood again,

“…Yes sir.”

And that was the first time this semester that I fell down the stairs. Memorable because of my failure and inability to keep track of my life, disappointing, because it was also the cause of my first detention of the year. Kind of humorous ‘cause I like to laugh at myself like that, and you should feel free to as well. ;)

Stay tuned for the remaining staircase stories.

Something I learned from this experience: My DAS teacher would win every staring contest. Ever.

-MegaTron Out.

An Outlook on Higher Powers

I don't know if it is a recent resentment for a particular person in my life, or a talk about religion we had in 16th Century History today, but I was reminded of this poem I wrote last year. And so, I thought I would dig it up and put it out there for the world to see.
Here you go.

Dismay

Dear;
Father of all things regarding;
Clear.

Please accept this offering of prostitution;
World segregation; &
Fear.

Also take notice of my efforts to please you;
Worship you;
And entice them near.

Near enough to offer what you would presume;
I hold most dear.
My soul;
My duty;
My peer.

I'm contacting you to display why I;
A human;
A solitary being in and from within her temple;
Why we are here;

To fear.
To portray fear.
To one day be feared.

Why we as humans;
Strive for the popularity of being the all-knowing.
To be the chosen proprietary of his majesty;
The tree of knowledge;
To which is always growing.

Embodying you;
Father of all things summoning clarity of time;
Which is in and of itself;
Folding.

Even molding.
Our consciousness;
Truth and Prosperity;
&
...Loathing.
This weakness of knowing.
Your strength of reminding;
&
Showing.

Displaying why we have no choice;
But which to obey.
The indisputable fact;
That we are the prey.

The reasons why incompetence among the masses;
Rules the day.
Laughing at our horrible decision.

Unfortunately well positioned.
Immovable while propositioned.
Charismatic and full of someone Else's visions.

Of a future in to which we will not participate in this play.
Pretend we're considering;
Or even relate to;
' The way. '

Regard you as father;
Or even take note of what you say.
You're an imaginary wall of misdirection.
That perpetuates;
Religious practices of dismay.

To know,
Is to realize.
There is no 'One' ;

True way.

Conclusion: I was a very angry person once.
-MegaTron out.

Sherlock Holmes: The Final Adventure.

A week or so ago my friend who performs at The Grand Theatre in London, told me to enter a contest and win two tickets to an adaption of Sherlock Holmes to the stage. I love theatre and I have a slight obsession with the many adventures of the world's only consulting detective so I truly had to do it.

The challenge was to come up with a theory as to what happened to The Grand's founder Ambrose Small, who mysteriously disapeared on December 2, 1919.

Details provided are here!
Though I did do some of my own research. :) I'm fairly bad at being clever (believe it or not) and extremely unconvincing in this case, but I figured that I should post my submission somewhere so I can chuckle at it in a few months.

And so, without further ado....

"Teresa Small was aware of her husbands various 'escapades' with women,but chose to ignore them. That is until she found various obscene letters addressed to her husband by his mistress Clara Smith. She left them on the kitchen table so that he would know she had seen them, and later confronted him about it and demanded that he stop his cheating ways. He agreed and their lives continued on for the most part. That is, until he disappeared.

Now, when examining the disappearance of Mr. Ambrose Small the most obvious solution would involve his wife conspiring against him despite his promise of dedication or maybe his gambling and multiple affairs had finally landed him in severe debt with 'the wrong people'. These conclusions are incorrect as they are only based on a handful of the facts and every detail has not been brought into consideration.

The first would be that Teresa truly did love her husband and their argument about Clara's letters had no doubt been aggressive but also ended passionately. (How else was he to assure his wife that he adored only her and his cheating days were over.) Despite being of a wealthy and well-educated background, Teresa was foolish enough to believe her husband, and if she hadn't the woman was obviously not capable of keeping some master scheme a secret from the authorities, she was far too over dramatic (most likely a result of too many free tickets to the theatre). Thus, Small's disappearance was not a crime of passion.

However, his vices did have a large role in his demise. Small had made many enemies. His prejudices were well known to anyone who would listen, even strangers. He disliked children, Catholics, the poor and felt that giving anything away to a charity was foolish. His continued gambling and scheming did eventually anger some 'bad people' but it also infuriated Charles Ross Somerville, Mayor of London at the time. Somerville adored his city, he would freely give his time and money to every worthy public-spirited movement or event and wanted nothing more than for it to grow as a controlled and peaceful community. Small was branding the area with a foul image and setting nothing but bad examples for its citizens, he continued to have affairs despite his promise to Teresa and was uncontrollable. The news of Ambrose Small's fortune reached Somerville, and I have no doubt that the man paled instantly (perhaps a sickly shade of green) when he heard. For you see if Small was a powerful force now, he would soon be invincible with such a large amount of money behind him. Somerville knew action had to be taken.

He teamed up with the more shady characters that Small had also angered and together they schemed to get rid of the millionaire. The snow storm on December 2^nd proved to be a convenient twist to the whole ordeal, it provided the perfect cover for the kidnapping, as no one was out and about for fear of the strong winds and biting cold. Ambrose was most likely knocked out by a blunt object, (a gunshot would draw attention) and transported to the local crematorium where he 'disappeared'. Ashes can be disposed of more easily than a corpse and the owner of the establishment was a good friend of Somerville. Though, the threatening shady characters and a decent bribe helped with the situation.

And it was done. Each member in the ploy was paid off for their troubles and everyone was happy, with the exception of Theresa Small who was the unfortunate suspect involving her husband's 'disappearance'. Their earlier argument and Small's continued affairs were no major secret amongst the citizens and Somerville was more than happy to cover his trail by blaming the poor woman. In an attempt to clear her name she had offered a reward which helped little, but she was eventually proclaimed innocent. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who had expressed an interest in the mystery was never asked to assist because the more powerful people involved didn't want to risk being exposed. All in all, no one truly liked Ambrose Small, he is long gone and his wife, the only person who still had faith in him, lost it with the discovery of his fresh lies, she blames her husband's many mistresses for his disappearance, completely oblivious to the real culprit-much like every other investigator who has pursued the answer.

You must consider all of the facts when examining a case such as this, and eliminate the impossible, because whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

And the truth here is obviously murder.

With the best intentions of course."

The Infamous Question

I was lounging on the small couch at my Dad's last night, pressed just so into the corner of the cushions, drowning in the suitably slow, winding undulations of the late-night movie channel-when it happened. My sister's voice overpowered Forest Gump's stutter and even though I pretended not to listen, curiosity provoked my response.

“Do you want a Klondike Bar?” Was the question posed. I paused for a second and was hit with the sudden realization,

I've never actually had a Klondike Bar.

I quickly nodded and reached my hand passed the armrest of the couch, towards the kitchen island a where my sister sat. I swear she handed it to me in slow motion, (Forest Gump's emotional soundtrack added a special effect). I noticed that the ice cream was wrapped in shiny white paper, perfectly square and most likely cool. I suddenly had an overpowering craving for ice cream.

And then, when my fingertips were mere centimeters away from the glorious ice cream bar. My sister pulled her hand away-taking it with her. I straightened, ready to fight for something I've never actually tried before. For reasons beyond my own comprehension, I wanted that bar and I felt as if I'd do anything for it.

And thus the infamous question is posed.

What would you do for a Klondyke Bar?

Fortunately for me, the only action I had to take involved a hug and a secret handshake.

However, I am now aware of the incredible hold the offer of a Klondike Bar can have on a person. And I find it very dangerous.

Here's to Ice Cream and the ridiculous actions it causes.

Conclusion- Ice cream may be my weakness, but in my own defense it is my only one. :)

-MegaTron out.

The Shelf

As you are most likely not aware, my bedroom has shifted both in location and in layout a few times over the past few months. I use to pride myself on my room's ability to describe me in a single glance. Every inch of the walls was either covered with movie posters, (Transformers, Iron Man, Star Trek, Batman etc.) or what I deemed as my 'Yard Sale Vinyl Collection'. Paintings, Mangas, Postcards...it's really hard to describe, there was also a glow-in-the-dark universe spread out across the various surfaces of the room. It was my haven, though come summer time and my parents separation it was taken from me. I took the whole 'fiasco' particularly well, though the loss of my room seemed almost like a loss of identity. I was thrown into the confined, plain, dull yellow-walled rooms of my grandmother's basement, and even though I'd managed to drag a couple hundred comic books with me, it didn't feel quite the same.

The packing away of my precious belongings was symbolic of me packing away my old life. It was slightly depressing to say the least.

However, by Thanksgiving I was back, but there were serious limitations on the layout of my 'new room'. No posters on the walls, no glow-in-the-dark, and sadly no bed. (I have a mattress though.) I did get to pick the colours, and really, it isn't bad- just a huge change.

I found it when they cleaned out my sister's room. A shelf. Plain, dull, wooden, and dusty. Perfect.

A few hours of painting and carrying it down a flight of stairs later, and BAM!! A nice cozy corner to describe myself at a glance. A smaller version of my own room, completely portable and completely fantastic.

I know this whole rant seems somewhat lame and hard to relate to, but it's just the way I am.

Here is the infamous shelf before:

And here's a more current picture:

Conclusion- sometimes, material possessions do matter. :)

-MegaTron Out.