#amplitude mode

[carynmixx2am]

[wonallofme]

let it out, loser!

tw and tags: boxer!jungwon x fem!reader, smut, no condom, penetration, creampie, squirt, heavy dubcon, no plot just porn, the sex is nasty af, a little of blood (biting lips and fight wounds), allusion to past noncon, insanity from both of them. word count: 1.7k note: hi! i haven't written anything in a long time and just wanted to do something short. this is my first (official) enhypen piece, hope someone here likes it. if you know me from my other blog, you just know the sex i write is not the most sane one. again, this is pure fiction! Please be careful about the tags you wish to block.

credits for the divider: @bernardsbendystraws (link)

The sound of his keys being thrown to the table in your kitchen shouldn’t be that hot. The sound of his bag hitting your floor with fury shouldn’t make your panties get wet. Even more, the sound of his heart beating inside his chest so fast shouldn’t make you excited for what was about to come.

Knowing too well how he, his breath, his steps, his things, sounded when he was angry after a loss, shouldn’t turn you on.

One, two, three, four. You counted the steps he took.

Usually, if he walked around the room, he would be searching for condoms. He didn’t walk that much, so you immediately knew, he would be harder that night.

After all, he needed to let everything out to be himself the next day.

‘’I know you’re awake,’’ he said, making you open your eyes to not pretend anymore.

He didn’t try to be gentle.

His face was a mess, even in the darkness of the night, with the little to almost no light that trespassed your curtains, you could see a faint purple color on his cheek, and a bright fresh red on his lip. Both meant he would leave you hurting too.

You didn’t have to ask what he wanted from you.

You ruffled in your sheets.

You moved them so he could accommodate himself between your legs, and rubbing your eyes from the recent nap you had, you simply let him take your pajama shorts off.

It was better when you didn’t interrupt him.

You don’t hate this version of him. You know that, when the morning comes, he’ll be your nice boyfriend again. He’ll make breakfast and won’t talk at all about the night or his fight. He’ll let you clean his wounds, he’ll give you a silent soft kiss after walking you to class, and then he’ll go to the gym to keep training.

He made it hurt those nights, but he never made it hurt in your daily life.

Jungwon is the kind of boyfriend that makes sure you’re always comfortable while having sex. He leaves soft pecks on your cheek while fingering you, and he asks if you’re okay when he puts it in. He’s so tender, sometimes, you’re the one afraid of hurting him.

So, these times, when he doesn’t ask how you feel, and he just takes, you try to understand him.

A whimper came out of your mouth, totally involuntarily, when you felt his spit touching your entrance.

He was over you, between your legs, forcing them open with his own amplitude, staring at your entrance and how his saliva mixed with your wetness.

For these occasions, that little help was more than enough for you. He almost laughed. A smirk appeared on his mouth, and he let a curse out. Were you happy he was a mess? Was he really that pathetic? Why were you always so excited when he arrived from losing a match?

‘’You’re lucky I’m this kind, crazy bitch.’’

Pressing his tip on your wet clit, he exhaled loudly, looking defeated, before moving it down between your lips, smearing his spit along. He didn’t look at your eyes in this mode. He didn’t dare to look at your face. He concentrated on what he wanted from you, and you tried to find what parts of him were wounded so you could make a list of things you might need.

Ointment, bandages, cold pads, maybe you would have to cook him something nice too. Did you have apples left?

You couldn’t continue thinking when he slid in.

The burning made you leave a hurt sound out. You whimpered again, because of the pain, and hissed when he pulled out.

He didn’t ask you anything. He didn’t kiss your lips to ease it up or apologise in your ear before stopping altogether. You could see his mind thinking of something, and you wanted to suggest him, maybe he could give you more of it? As if reading your mind, he spat on his hand, a long line of drool finding his cock, and some of it spilling on your pussy on the way.

Your legs trembled with the sensation, somehow feeling a rush in your entire body. You wanted it so bad, this side of him, that when he wrapped the back of your thighs to oblige it all the way to your breast, you cried.

Not because of the sudden movement, or because of how challenging the position was, but because you knew he wanted you to feel it all.

And, when he wanted that, you would really feel it all.

‘’Fu-fuck,’’ you moaned when he bullied his way inside again.

Immediately after talking, you bit your lips.

He didn’t like it when you talked. Whether it was to complain or praise him, he didn’t care. He needed you to not talk or make him think or look at your face. He needed you to be, if possible, dead silent to only concentrate on his own thoughts.

Of course, that was almost impossible, so he would press a hand on your mouth if you didn’t behave, and in the worst cases, to mute you, he would press your face down.

Whimpers were acceptable. Broken moans, bearable. But words? No, never.

You wanted to apologize but it wasn’t the right answer, you knew it too well. You know him too well. Or so, you wanted to believe.

He pushed your legs further, slamming inside, pushing the air out of your lungs.

It continued hurting, but you couldn’t care less.

The awareness of him being there, the sound of his breathing, his hisses, the groans, you wanted it all.

A wet echo filled the room with the force he used to fuck you and your wet pussy taking him. Your walls moved to accommodate him, to welcome him with much enthusiasm, just like your hands pulling your legs closer to make it more comfortable for him.

He wasn’t wearing a condom, and just the memory of his cum all inside you made you tighten around him.

Inside your mind, you repeated give it to me, please, because your mouth wasn’t allowed to do it. It felt way too good. The first time, it made you deeply uncomfortable to feel it inside. You felt dirty, disgusting, and you couldn’t believe it had happened. Now, you couldn’t find the words to ask for it again.

You could only hope he lost.

‘’Fuck, why can’t I…? Fuck!’’

His torso raised, his hips aligned at a better angle, and he thrusted harder.

Your teeth were sinking on your lower lip, brows furrowing and eyes closing to not show him how much you were enjoying it. Probably, it was useless to even try to hide it.

Your shirt was sticking to your torso because of the sweat. Yours, his. Fuck, you heard him curse. The lower front wet spot, in no way, was from just sweat.

The spasms were arriving. You felt your abdomen get tighter, and you tried to calculate how much time had passed. It hasn’t been long enough, you concluded. You couldn’t cum, you had to hold it in, for him, because it couldn’t end so fast. For him, that short time was not enough. It couldn’t be enough.

He needed you to hold it. He needed it. He.

You cried. This time, a few tears escaped. You turned your face to the side, and a salty flavor on your tongue distracted you.

You only noticed you bit yourself so hard your lips were bleeding when you felt more of the metallic taste invading you.

Out of the ordinary, he leaned to inspect your face. His hand tactlessly gripped your chin and forced you to face him, and when he saw the drops of blood flooding your delicate lip, under your teeth, he gulped.

‘’You’re such a mess too.’’

His mouth found yours in a second, obliging you to leave your poor lip free. He, first, just grazed them, doubting to do such a soft act with you, before crashing your wound with his.

The kiss, just like the sex, was not delicate at all.

The sting in your lips was not a sensation you were familiar with. His lips were always soft with you, at least until that moment. At much, they would be lustful, making out with you for long periods of time, but never brute.

His fingers stabbed your jaw, and his tongue prodded out.

You couldn’t breathe properly, overwhelmed with his strength, so you opened your lips to inhale some air, an act he took advantage of by barging his tongue into your mouth.

You had no way of using your brain at that moment. His tongue inside your mouth stealing your little air, his entire weight sinking you to the bed, his shoulders maintaining your legs up and against your chest, his cock balls deep inside you. It was all too much. Your head was too dizzy to remember exactly at what point you had your orgasm.

You remember your legs shaking, and an embarrassing loud cry muffled with his mouth against yours.

Also, you remember the broken moan he left out, and his hips reassuming a brutal pace that makes you roll your eyes with the mere memory. His long cock had hit a spot that made you lose yourself, and your pussy, so sensitive with how he had continued using you, had the most intense orgasm you ever had.

The clean gush finished wetting the front of your shirt, splashing his abdomen and making a pod slide down onto the bedsheets. Sadly, he didn’t care that you were trembling and bawling because of it. He plunged back inside, biting your cries and mixing both bloods while trying to find his own orgasm.

He left it out all inside you.

When you felt his warm cum invading you, you passed out.

After that, all is black. You try to move your body, finding it uncomfortable and painful. Still, you turn your head, finding your boyfriend’s naked back beside you. From the way his breath is calm now that he’s sleeping, you deduce he’s back to normal after finding his release.

Your shirt is different, clean, and the bed sheets are blue instead of white, so you know it’s not the same set from the night before.

At the sensation of his cum leaking out of you, you wonder if changing your clothes and sheets was the only thing he did to you while you were unconscious.

[gudgurkan]

Got any tips in shading stuff in black and white digitally?

Hi Anon!

You're in luck! I'm currently wrapping up a book which is shaded digitally, so I've been thinking a lot about this recently.

How I do this is by no means the only way, so take from these tips as much or little as you want! When I add grays and shadows to a line art drawing, I try to think about these things:

Preparing the image

I like to work with a file that has a white background and a layer with only line art on top of it. Between these two layers I add new layers where I use the pen tool and bucket to fill areas with black, then I lower the opacity for that layer to get a value that I want.

This method works well for me, and for simpler pieces I don't need more than 3 layers with different values - light, medium and dark grays.

I work in Clip Studio. Here's a picture of the layers of a recent drawing. Each layer is actually completely black but you can see the opacity percentages by each layer. Lower percentage -> brighter value. This makes it super duper easy to change the value of a layer, no need to repaint it, just change the opacity!

Value composition

For the best result, do a couple of value sketches with a limited set of values and find something that works well for the image. Getting the values right is what will improve the image the most! Here's a quick tutorial on muddycolors. Muddy Colors is a very nice art blog to check out. Looking at grayscale storyboard drawings or value sketches are great ways to pick up on this too.

I try to group values when working with grays. Take this image for example:

The character in the foreground has mainly dark grays, which separates her from the background, which has mostly light grays. Then the windows are white and the roof black.

Value composition is a huge and complex area and I recommend anyone wanting to learn to be more conscious about their values and to do value sketches. Analysing art you think has good values is great too.

Shadows

Not every piece needs shadows, but they can add a lot to an image! I use three kinds of shadows when I work in grayscale.

Inked shadows - these shadows are added during the inking stage and usually show areas where light would have almost no way of getting there, such as under this tent.

Gradient shadows - these shadows usually represent something getting further and further away from a light source or an area that would bounce light. This tree receives a tiny bit of light from a campfire on the ground and moonlight that bounces on the ground and up, fading as we get higher up in the tree. But mainly I add these gradients in ways that look cool and will help the overall composition.

Hard shadows - these shadows appear when a strong light casts shadows and can be used on a shape or to cover something. Here's a werewolf with shadows on its back, which gives it a better sense of mass and is interesting visually!

You can also cover an area in shadow like this, where the tree casts a shadow down on the archer and the cliff.

Texture

I like to add a layer of noise as a finishing touch. In Clip Studio you can create a noise layer with Filter->Render->Perlin noise... Find a balance of scale and amplitude that works for the image, then change the layer mode to "Vivid Light" and lower the opacity of the layer to around 30%. I like how this looks, it's not super visible usually but helps make the drawing feel less artificial and digital.

I hope that helps! Here are some nice links too:

Muddy Colors

Android Arts

Gurney Journey - Read his books!

Happy drawing!

[some-teeth-in-a-trench-coat]

3 things:

What's a song, band, album, or playlist you want to shout out?

What are your opinions on pets (dog, cat, neither, other)?

Finally, what's a boring fact about you?

Cheers, have a good one.

Oh yes!

Shoutout a band? SEEMING, SEEMING, SEEMING BABY! They're even on tumblr: @seemingmusic

Their music is great and the lyrics are freaking phenomenal poems and I have no idea why they're not among tumblr's favorites like? "The future will be borderless, and red and queer and bold, for I was born to make my kind extinct" (End Studies) "Dreamt of gutting billionaires... But when I woke, blood was gone" (Go Small) you've got the eat the rich be queer do crime philosophy all over it! "Like a tall tree, I am pining to be taken up by the lightning! Strike me! I dare you! I dare you! Heaven, hear me! Like a mantis, I am praying, out of habit, without saying anything, for the bloody sting of a kestrel come to snatch me" (Remember to Breathe) it's got puns it's got self destructive thoughts it's got vague religious implications which I'm not a fan of personally but you guys seem to love it when it's Hozier. And who can ignore "To the gunmen who guard against all of the starving: God will bury you, nature will bury you [...] To the terrified rich man: God will bury you. To the killers of animals: nature will bury you." (The Burial) like don't tell me that doesn't go hard. (Personally I like to think of The Burial as not a threat but a loving promise. It continues "To the worshipper of justice, the reliance on reason, and the fire in your eyes: God will bury you, nature will bury you, time will bury your bones unseen. Total and absolute. Infinite amplitude. Till all the black is ripe and green." and because honoring the dead and burying them is an important act of kindness, I like to think of this as a promise that no matter who you are, no matter who you leave behind to mourn you, you will be buried. You will die and you will return to the Earth and you will be lovingly welcomed, it is inevitable and inescapable, I promise. I know I already rambled about this when I reblogged that worm poem post but I will keep talking about it because I love it and I don't know how many people actually read it.) There's so much more I want to say but I'm on mobile in bed hours past bedtime and this paragraph is probably already way too long and disorganized so like maybe tomorrow but! Regardless of whether you can listen to the music I highly recommend reading some of the lyrics here: https://seemingmusic.tumblr.com/text

Anyway moving on from minor infodump, I'm not entirely sure what you mean by your second question like are you asking my opinion on pets as a concept or my preferences for having pets or? I think humans love to pack bond with things that are not humans and as long as the human is able to meet the needs of an animal to create a mutually beneficial relationship that's a good thing, but ideally you should opt for domesticated animals (animals that have been our companions for so long they are genetically distinct from their wild counterparts) since they are best adapted to living with humans. I was practically raised by cats living with my workaholic single mom and our cats so personally I love cats and probably have a better time connecting with them than I would other common pets like dogs. Currently mom and I are sharing two cats, brothers, but one rarely visits me while the other is obsessed with me but I suspect this is because a) I always have his favorite snack available (potato chips. yeah I don't think he knows he's a cat) and b) I pet him the way he likes best (which is a lot of rubbing and scratching his spine by the tail intermittent with chin scritches, but he wants you to be firm with it as though he were a dog... again this man is not aware he's a cat).

A boring fact about me... Well easy mode is just "I have two feet" or "I ate a sandwich for breakfast today" but let me try to think of something a bit more personal yet still uninteresting... I have watched less than one episode of Supernatural. Yeah that's boring yet specific.

Thank you so much for the ask sorry my reply is a little messy I was already in bed when I got this!

[pukanavis]

"Mystery on a Moonlit Cruise" Track 7

Location: Party Hall

Nanaki: I wanted to talk about what happened just before we arrived at the door to the party hall—

ーFlashback

Nanaki: …How strange.

Ryui: What? Who’re you calling strange?

Nanaki: Sorry, I wasn’t referring to you, Ryui-san.

I was just thinking about how quiet it’s become on board. What happened to the background music they were playing earlier…? Did they forget to put it on loop? 

Yukikaze: Oh, yes, I remember that.

Nanaki: There’s meant to be service robots in charge of shuffling through songs to play on board. If the music has turned off, that means the humans aren’t the only ones affected here, but robots too.

Kinari: …

Muneuji: (It’s true…I’m struggling to make sense of how an android such as Azekawa-san could have fallen asleep too.)

Nanaki: Again, it might not mean anything but I think it’s worth looking further into.

Muneuji: I see your point. Very well then, why don’t we begin by investigating the service robots in this room?

Yukikaze: Good idea. I’ll help however I can.

Nanaki: What do you think, Yowa-san?

Netaro: I thiiink this paella is out of this world!

Nanaki: I-I see. We’ll let you know if we make any discoveries then.

Netaro: Aye, aye!

Muneuji: Let’s see, I believe they should be stationed—

Yukikaze: There—Hmph!

Muneuji: An impeccably executed crouch start…!

Nanaki: He’s running in a zig-zag pattern to avoid all the sleeping people…!

Yukikaze: Phew.

Muneuji: You've collected the four service robots stationed in the corners of the room and brought them all the way back here. Trained athletes truly are a league beyond us.

Yukikaze: Nanaki, will this do?

Nanaki: Yes, thank you. I just need to connect to this robot with Andy’s offline mode…there we go.

Muneuji: …This looks like the screen that shows up when you’re composing.

Nanaki: Yeah, it’s the same one. I’ll be able to find out the exact moment the robots shut down by checking when the background music cut off—

…Huh?

Yukikaze: What’s the matter?

Nanaki: It says this robot was playing some popular therapeutic music tracks, but there’s just one issue…

Something looks off with the sound waves in the 5 minute period before it entered sleep mode…?

Netaro: Mm? Ers homhing hwong wih he hounwaes?

Muneuji: Yowa-san. It’s difficult to understand you while your mouth is full of paella. Please take a moment to properly chew and swallow before you begin speaking again.

Netaro: Nom nom…

Muneuji: Chewing at least 30 times per bite would be ideal.

Netaro: Nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom…gulp.

There’s something wrong with the sound waves? How can you tell!?

Nanaki: The amplitude just seems a little strange for a song that’s meant to be relaxing.

Netaro: Which bits look weird to you?

Nanaki: Take this V shape for example—

Yukikaze: I’m afraid I don’t have a clue what they’re talking about.

Muneuji: Let’s have some paella while we wait for those two to finish their analysis.

Netaro: You were able to deduce all that information that quickly~? I'm blown away!

Nanaki: I’m still not sure if this relates to the sleeping situation that’s going on though…

Netaro: Doesn’t matter if it does or doesn’t! I still think that brain of yours is amazing, Nana!

I dunno why you didn’t tell us sooner?

Nanaki: Uh…

Ryui: YOWA!!!!!

Netaro: Uoh!?

Ryui: You little shit, I know you’re hiding something.

Muneuji: Have you uncovered a clue, Ryui-san?

Ryui: (There’s no shot that I can tell them a spirit warned me that something’s up with Yowa…but it’s not like I have to go easy on this guy so I’ll just force the confession right outta him!)

I know what the fuck you did so you better just admit it and end this shitstorm! 

Netaro: Yep, I did it!

Ryui: Even if you try lying your way out of this I won’t—wait, what?

Netaro: Ryui’s spot on! I’m the crook who turned this room into a forest of dreams!

Nanaki: Huh…!?

Netaro: Oh, would you look at that, it's finally time.

Muneuji: Time for what?

Toi: Nngh…yawn…

Ryui: Toi!?

Back | ★ | Next

[tseneipgam]

"Raised from babydom into doubt, I'm as feminine as Rousseau. I, Hazel Brown, eldest daughter of a disappearing class, penniless neophyte stunned by the glamour of literature, tradeless, clueless, yet with considerable moral stamina and luck, left my family at seventeen to seek a way to live. It was the month of June in 1979. I was looking for Beauty. I didn't exactly care about art, I simply wanted not to be bored and to experience grace. So I thought I would write. No other future seemed preferable. Let me be clear: I did not want to admire life, I did not want to skim it; I wanted to swim in it. I judged that to do this, I had to leave, and to write. I wanted to speak the beautiful language of my time, but without paying. I myself was not beautiful. Moody, angular, both dark and pale, of bad posture, for I was perpetually thrust forward as if rushing into time, awkward whilst being observed, a half-broken tooth in my reluctant smile, uncertain in manners, premature frown lines between my grey-green eyes, all of this magnified by an urgency with no recognizable context: comedic in short, in the mode of a physical comedy. Prodigal, undisciplined, with an aptitude for melancholy, I left houses, cities, lovers, schools, hotels, and countries. I left with haste, or I left languidly. Also I was asked to leave. I left languages and jobs. Leaving made a velocity. I left garments, books, notebooks, and several good companions. Sometimes I left ideas. After the leaving, then what? I suppose I would drift. I had no money and no particular plan. Cities exist; hotels exist; painting exists. Tailoring also, it exists, as anger exists, mascara exists, and melancholy, and coffee. I liked sentences and I liked thread. Reading surely and excessively exists; also, convivially, perfume and punctuation. I had a fantasy and my diary. I had my desire, with its audacity, its elasticity, and its amplitude. I carried a powder-blue manual Smith Corona typewriter in a homemade tapestry bag. I was eager, sloppy, vague. I wore odd garments. I carried no letter of introduction, and I knew no one. I was only a girl bookworm. I wasn't to stay. None of this troubled me much. The nervous fluid of a city is similar to a grammar or an electric current. Loving and loathing, we circulate. I myself did not exist before bathing in this medium. The nervous fluid of a city is similar to a grammar or an electric current. Loving and loathing, we circulate. I myself did not exist before bathing in this medium. Here I become a style of enunciation, a strategic misunderstanding, a linguistic funnel, a wedge in language. Here I thought I'd destroy my origin, or I did destroy it, by becoming the she-dandy I found in the margins of used paperbacks. What do I love? I love the elsewhere of moving clouds. Reading unfolds like a game called I,' in public gardens in good weather, in a series of worn-down hotel rooms, in museums in winter, where 'I' is the composite figure who is going to write but hasn't yet. If I am not alone in these rooms, if I could be known, it would be by the skinny red-haired street singer, the secretary of Cologne in her ironical cast-off dress, the hard-shod horsegirls neighing in the dark apartment, by similarly hybrid she-strangers and foreigners, any girl with the combined rage of lassitude and complicity. They are blazons. Cool threads of anger bind me to them. We cease to be human. Were neutral, desituated clouds. There is nothing left to fear. This realization is a vocation. My name is Hazel Brown."

"

I awake in a hotel room. I hear gulls, the clinking and rocking of boats. I turn in the wide bed. The tightness and stiffness of the sheets feels pleasantly confining. In the first stirrings of thinking I discover within myself a strangeness - not a dislocation or a dissociation, but a freshening shimmer of sensual clarity shot through with strands of unmoored refusal and scorn. Beneath that, a slowly vibrating warp of erotic sadness. I abandon myself to this novel sensation. I open my eyes. Reader, I become him. Was that what I felt? No, I did not become him; I became what he wrote. Do you sometimes at earliest waking observe yourself struggling towards a pronoun? Do you fleetingly, as if from a great distance, strain to recall who it is that breathes and turns? Do you ever wish to quit the daily comedy of transforming into the I-speaker without abandoning the wilderness of sensing? The sensation isn't morbid; it is ultimately disinterested. For me it's a familiar moment, boring and persistent and disappointing. Again one arrives at the threshold of this particular, straitening I. With a tiny wincing flourish one enters the wearisome contract, sets foot to planks. Daily the humiliation is almost forgotten, until it blooms again with the next waking. It is an embarrassing perception best stoically flicked aside, left unreported. With an obscure hesitation one steps into the day and its frame and its costume. Between the puzzlement and its summary abandonment, between the folds of waking consciousness and their subsequent limitation, is a possible city. Solitude hotels, aging, love, hormones, alcohol, illness - these drifting experiences open it a little. Sometimes prolonged reading holds it ajar. Another's style of consciousness inflects one's own; an odd syntactic manner, a texture of embellishment, pause. A new mode of rest. I can feel physiologically haunted by a style. It's why I read ideally, for the structured liberation from the personal, yet the impersonal inflection can persist outside the text, beyond the passion of readerly empathy, a most satisfying transgression that arrives only inadvertently, never by force of intention. As if seized by a fateful kinship, against all the odds of sociology, the reader psychically assumes the cadence of the text. She sheds herself. This description tends towards a psychological interpretation of linguistics, but the experience is also spatial. I used to drive home from my lover's apartment at 2 a.m., 3 a.m. This was Vancouver in 1995. A zone of light-industrial neglect separated our two neighbourhoods. Between them the stretched-out city felt abandoned. My residual excitement and relaxation would extend outwards from my body and the speeding car, towards the dilapidated warehouses, the shut storefronts, the distant container yards, the dark exercise studios, the pools of sulphur light, towards a low-key dereliction. I would feel pretty much free. I was a driver, not a pronoun, not a being with breasts and anguish. I was neither with the lover nor alone. I was suspended in a nonchalance. My cells were at ease. I doted on nothing."

"The following morning, alone in the hotel, I awoke to the bodily recognition that I had become the author of the complete works of Baudelaire. Even the unwritten texts, the notes and sketches contemplated and set aside, and also all of the correspondence, the fizzles and false starts and abandoned verses, the diaristic notes: I wrote them. Perhaps it is more precise to say that all at once, unbidden, I received the Baudelairean authorship, or that I found it within myself. This is obviously very different from being Baudelaire, which was not the case, nor my experience. I had only written his works. It was a very quiet, neutral sensation. I associate it now with the observation of the immaterial precision of light. Such an admission will seem frivolous, overdeter- mined, baroque. But I will venture this: it is no more singular for me to discover that I have written the complete works of Baudelaire than it was for me to have become a poet, me, a girl, in 1984. I was as if concussed. Believe me if you wish. I understand servitude. My task now is to fully serve this delusion. Delusion needs an architecture; this hotel room became for a crucial instant the portal for a transmission seeking a conduit."

"I'm intimate with the clumsy humour of buttons, the way a new kind of fit in a tailored jacket lifts my kidneys a little, coaxing open a readerly concave chest. At night the girls in galleries suddenly wear bright fringed shawls that move when they laugh, with hair slashed straight and high across their brows. There's a new textile, it seems, something from sports or a futuristic movie. It's lightweight and silvery, and the kids have plucked it off the internet to wear on the bus. It's being held to their skinny bodies by their heavy backpacks and the home- tattooed arms they slide across one another's waists."

"'The emotional synchrony of garments transmits discontinuously and by energetic means, thus the metaphysical appeal of fashion. I had studied this question of fashions intellectual spirit in some of its great theorists - Lilly Reich, for example, and Rei Kawakubo but also in my relationships to garments of every provenance. 'They need not have value in the commercial sense. There are the cast-offs and rejects, on eBay, in charity shops, draped over fences in modest residential alleys, swagging the rims of dumpsters by the apartment blocks, and certainly I have been a passionate amateur of their study and occasional acquisition. But here I'm not talking about the material research, as all-absorbing as it can become in its gradual, irregular advancement, but the mood of a garment, the way an emotional tone is brought forward in the wearing, in the suggestive affinities of the toilette. The unfamiliar set of a shoulder or the tugging sensation of a row of tight wrist buttons can hint at the gestural vocabulary of a previous epoch and so substitute for eroded or disappeared sentimental mores. Time in the garment is what I repeatedly sought, because sartorial time isn't singular but carries the living desires of bodies otherwise disappeared. This has been part of my perverse history of garment-love; I've wanted to inhabit the stances, gestures, and caresses of vanished passions and disciplines. And the various garments each person gathers to wear together, the way she groups fibres, colours, eras, social codes, and cuts, this mysterious grammar speaks beyond the tangible and often-cited economies and their various political constraints."

"It was Poe who said that the soul of an apartment is its carpet, and by this measure, I have rarely occupied a hotel room that could be said to have a soul. But I am not sure that I want a hotel room to have a soul, since the task of that innocuous limbo is to shelter mine, and unimagined others', with as few contradictions as possible. I go to the hotel to evade determination. What I thought of, what I imagined in this blandly contrived place as I woke, were those marvellously glowing baroque harbours by Claude Lorrain, the ones hanging in the Louvre."

"I still keep an old postcard of this image, now bleached of its warm tones after being propped for several years on a sunny window ledge, so that my imagination of Claude has transmuted to cool-grey-green-blue, like the veiled marine sun of the Pacific port I now woke to. The more the Claude postcard fades, the more it resembles what I know."

"that morning seemed in my state of half-wakefulness to contain all the hotel rooms and temporary rooms I had ever stayed in, not in a simultaneous continuum, nor in chronological sequence, but in flickering, overlapping, and partial surges, much in the way that a dream will dissolve into a new dream yet retain some colour or fragment of the previous dream, which across the pulsing transition both remains the same and plays a new role in an altered story, like a psychic rhyme, or a printed fabric whose complex pattern is built up across successive layers of impression, each autonomously perceptible but also leading the perceiver to cognitively connect the component parts in an inner act of fictive embellishment, so strong is the desire to recognize a narrative among scattered fragments of perception. My own youth seems to move in my present life in such a way - present and absent, at times incoherent, sometimes frightening, scarcely recognizable, rhyming and drifting."

"For a long time I have been more or less content with arcane researches that lead me into lush but impersonal lyric. Now I feel I must account for this anachronistic event; I'll follow it back to unspoken things. I want to make a story about the total implausibility of girlhood. This morning I'm at the round table under the linden tree, in a sweet green helmet of buzzing."

"There are turns and figures of iteration and relationship. But also times and bodies overlap. This work must annotate those parts of experience that evade determination. Here my fidelity is for the antithetical nature of the feminine concept. I was a girl. I could not escape desire, but now I can turn to contemplate it, and so convert my own complicity into writing. In this landscape time is pliable; it's a place of nightingales and poorness and wild cherry trees. Spring comes, slow and sudden. I'll work with that. I'll make this account using my nerves and my sentiment. I'm writing this story backwards, from a shack in middle age. I sit and wait for as long as it takes until I intuit the shape of a sentence. Sometimes I feel that it is the room that writes. But it needs the hot nib of my pronoun."

"...the contents of that tray in my diary: a tall glass of orange juice, a mug of very hot coffee, a demitasse of milk, a bowl of sugar, two eggs perfectly boiled, two slices of ham, a glass of marmalade, a plate with four slices of buttered brown bread and half a baguette, a tinfoil-wrapped candy, four chocolate lady's fingers, and a piece of cream-filled cake. So I would put three pieces of brown bread and all the sweets aside for my supper, returning from my day's wanderings with some cheese and lettuce to make sandwiches. He would place the tray each morning on a small table covered with a yellow plasticized cabbage-rose-patterned cloth, which oddly matched the room's small hooked carpet, yellow also, dingy, and incongruously ornamented with a brown cartoon bear. The wooden stand beside the narrow blue metal bed held a crucifix, a King James Bible, a spool of blue thread with a needle ready in it, and a 22p stamp. There also I kept the few books I travelled with - used paperback copies of Ezra Pound's ABC of Reading, Martin Heidegger's Poetry, Language, Thought, Sylvia Plath's Winter

Trees, and a beautifully bound volume of Beat translations of classical Chinese poetry called Old Friend from Far Away. Why these books? Chance, I suppose. I was ardent and inexperienced in my reading, earnestly drawing up lists of necessary future studies at the back of my diary, and as I read I seemed to float above the difficult and clever pages, in a haze of worshipful incomprehension. I imagined that simple persistence would slowly transform this vagueness to the hoped-for intelligent acuity, and in a way I was not wrong, although it was not true acuity that I later entered into, but the gradual ability, similar to the learning of a new handcraft, to perceive the threads linking book to book and so to enter, through reading, a network of relationship. I might call this my education; save my gambits in parks and museums, I had had no other. Later this network would become an irritant, like a too-tight jacket, a binding collat. To counter this sad diminishment in my credulity, and to enter again the pleasurable drift, the sensual plenum of my youth, where even incomprehension was mildly erotic, in my middle age here in the cottage I have started to read French"

"I would seek cheap city rooms in order to look out from their windows at unfamiliar surface effects and the shade the angles made. Having a soul, I thought, is about looking out. I would look out, and then write again in my diary. I exoticized Old World neglect. I was looking for a neutral place where my ambition might ripen, unhampered by scorn. Such a room could be found in the Hotel Avenir for seventy francs a night, or twelve dollars Canadian, in the currency of the time, which had the satisfying merit of being payable entirely in thick, brassy ten-franc coins. Steve Lacy's horn cuts lingeringly across a tannic landscape. I'm listening to Monk's Dream. The cold sweet plums carry the smallest possible hint of musky leather. The toughened skin gives a little beneath the teeth before it bursts to a boozy exuberance. I've reopened the old journals. Baudelaire said art must be stupid. I know what he means. Art must be as stupid as a plum. As stupid as an ankle."

"Through this window, across the humid court, I saw a boy sitting also at his own table, a dark-haired boy in a white shirt turned turquoise by the dim light, bent a little at his typewriter. Of all stupid art the poem is the most stupid, a nearly imperceptible flick of the mop just beneath the surface of the water, an idle flutter of the hand. Very stupid; outside all good sense and discretion, because the poem must be indiscreet or not at all. It should just trail aimlessly in the hospitable water. Floating on the sea or swimming. It must be the sea, no other water. Waves, but not stormy waves, the slight rocking movement. This floating is like a hotel. Nothing interrupts sensation; the body is supported and welcomed by a gentle neutrality. Especially the sea...Such is a girl's destiny, this scant enclosure of fumy potential that later will reveal itself as the elemental core of her life. She will sit at tables eating overripe plums and burning incense, frowning a little, her sleeves rolled, no, her jacket unbuttoned at the top to show the saffron-coloured neckscarf. The narrow grey inner court of the future hotel will have become her sealike matrix."

"I learned there that when I stood in front of paintings, I could feel an inner vibration. It entered flatly through the entire surface of my body if I let myself go blank. In my adolescent movements from my grandmother's guest room to provincial art museums, I came to think of the mute mineral affinity that accompanied my blankness as a psychic life of pigment. In front of paintings, my body had autonomous gifts, useful only to my own inner experience. This pigment-sense didn't have anything to do with representation or style, yet it was dependent on the proportions and specificities of mixture. I think my feeling for painting is a deferred material telepathy, an elemental magnetism. I was noticing a mineral sympathy of my body's iron and copper and calcium towards paint. I learned to still myself to make room for this strange reception. In the spare room, I first came to the recognition that I could be changed by these little documents of admixture, through the simple attention"

"I was a girl, and my body was time. I believed in description. I would build new, ornate knowledge on the basis of this lived proposition. I mean that my shy, gawky, lusting body was constrained to undertake the ancient representation, to groom and flirt and refract as every contemporary girl seemed so constrained, to signify bounty and frailty, passivity and fate, but also at this time there was the fact that I loosely accepted the constraint. It taught me something about discipline and a lot about a history of form. Form meant my mutable body. Form could even weep. "

"

girlhood would rakishly embellish a margin of moody nonchalance, much as a pianist, whilst perched on a diminutive stool, hums a little during their slowed- down interpretation of Bach. To visit those fountains, I preferred to wear outmoded garments that fit poorly, garments mended or taken in with large stitches or barely hidden safety pins, or lacking a sewing kit, perchance paperclips, and I liked lugubrious coats with ample hems and the wrong cut of shoulder, the fastidiously dated lapel, the cheaply glittering brooch, the long string of chipped green glass beads. I would be the girl of my notion of literature, or rather my invention of literature, since, still lacking any concept, I could only invent. My outfits and their compositions were experiments in syntax and diction. So, much as later, in a different life, I would submit my poems to collective tables and risk embarrassed exposure, with defiant awkwardness I would take my sartorial representations to the parks and boulevards, and I would kiss, then back in my room I would write little essays"

"

as I was discovering in my rooms, a synthesis or recomposition of time as well as of all kinds of sensation, resurging suddenly to stay awhile like a brown spider, if part of comedy is cruelty, what of the parts of the image that were to be forgotten? Where do the forgotten parts stay? Fragments of my sensation sequestered themselves within books, or in cheap rooms. Here I uncover them again. Was this room in Avignon or was it in Marseilles? I am no longer certain. Any room near any fountain was paradise, so it hardly matters. The experience of time at the edges of rooms, at the edges of books, time disappearing or bending as I entered, this is my borderless image, the experience of the disappearance of the word at the appearance of the flower. I recall. for instance, an odd recent period when I forgot the word asphodel. The forgetting persisted for more than a week, the week in April, as it happened, when at the borders of the woods near my cottage the asphodel bloomed. I could both see and imagine the ranks of tall ghostly stalks, but the name was absent. And so I thought frequently about asphodels systematically approaching the absence of the flowers name from each vantage possible, thinking of the opening

lines of the beautiful late poem by William Carlos Williams, yet subtracted of the name, remembering the asphodel meadows that would emerge before blackberry vines, where the woods had been cut down for heating wood. 'A field made up of women / all silver-white.' At the margin of each room I enter are asphodels, womanly, at the instant they lose their name. This is a form of self-knowledge, a philosophy. The long period of my life between learning the word asphodel when first reading the Williams poem in the London hotel room. or had it been in a bookshop, just before closing - a ghost of a pressed flower had slipped out of the second-hand book, it was 1984 - and seeing the living flower for the first time only recently, walking in April with my elderly dog, recognizing the flower in the midst of the flicker of linguistic forgetting, this space so active and evacuating at its limits, so welcoming at its empty core, the entanglement of the name's absence with the striving and failing, the entanglement of gold chain and pearl, the fibs and embellishments and delusions and obfuscations: in the expanding work of forgetting the word asphodel, this flower so flagrantly inhabited the edge of every perception, every memory, that I thought perhaps I could know the name only when I did not know the flower, or only outside the brief season of its bloom, even outside the season of its black budding. I happened upon an emancipation from vocables into the substance of mortality. Slowly, obstinately, the room will be stripped of every conceptual dimension. Every word will be lost. Others will continue the kissing."

"Maybe I was studying the present in the way that I knew how, like someone not quite of the present. It seemed easy, until it wasn't. I would visit rooms like this yellow one. Others strolled on boulevards. Not all of the present was accessible. Some threads would always be bunched up, tangled, hidden on the reverse side of the garment. There, unseen, they would chafe the wearer."

"Bizarre carries within it noisy outbursts, livid flushes, concubinage, and extravagant mixture. In old Spanish and Portuguese it meant brave, handsome. Did he think of Jeanne in these ways? It seems clear that Jeanne Duval was bizarre to Baudelaire in every sense of the word's movements and histories. He exoticized her hair, and skin, and scent so intensely that Les Fleurs du mal seems to be composed of her hair, and skin, and scent. Also her gait, and her origins, or a myth of her origins, in a picturesque framing of the mixture and distance she was constrained to express. It's not difficult for me to imagine that Baudelaire, with a grossly inevitable racism, was incapable of acknowledging to the bourgeois art-viewing public of Paris, by means of his portrait together with Jeanne, his relationship to the beauty he enjoyed privately in her second-floor room on the Montage Sainte-Geneviève, and later at many other addresses. Such an erasure could then pass as tact. It is a very ugly possibility for the poet of beauty."

"Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du mal and Flaubert's Madame Bovary were tried under the new anti-obscenity laws for damaging public morals. Public morals are so vulnerable. A poem or a novel will endanger them, a young girl's desire will offend them, the skin colour of one's lover will diminish them. I long for moral abundance, an obscene flourishing of the category of morality. We can admit more, rather than less, embellish the capaciousness of the idea of the public. If I was a monstrous slut, if I close to disappeared, if I confused aesthetics with the feeling of bodily risk, if I mistook ideology for sensation, anger for bravery, if I belatedly evaded an ambivalent erasure, I was in very good company."

"Further to the stupidity of poetry, here I will tell about the most beautiful poem I ever wrote: I once bled out a stain on a restaurant chair, which revealed to my backwards glance a map of the arrondissements of Paris - a crooked reddish-pink spiral bisected by the serpentine slash that was the Seine. This stain was the augury that brought me to my borrowed city. What I wanted of this city, this stain, was a site for the kind of freedom I sought. Supernatural, sexual, artificial, blooming on one side. Part loss, part object, the stain, with its irregular, permeable border, its ingressions and turbulences, its fragmentary, metonymic nature, its abundance of nested contours, limitless saturation, elisions of propriety, its regime of discontinuity and contamination, was an operating force at once fractal, mystic, and obscene. My analysis of its irregularities is shameless, followed nonetheless by a small retroactive flicker of shame, which is mildly stimulating. Like a convex mirror or a cosmology, the stain revealed a macrocosm: it was a dream city, a city within a city, a mirror within a tableau. It brought me to painting and it brought me to verse. It brought me to the impure repetition of the Baudelairean authorship within myself, its formerness and presentness"

"the market of the literati didn't bother me: I was trained into the contract by my habitual reading. But then it did bother me; it saddened me considerably. I felt the sadness thoroughly. I believed it then. I wrote the sadness in my diary, I drank the sadness in my room or in cafés, I fucked the sadness. I almost believed I was the sadness. But I could not go all the way. Sadness did not utterly disappear; transformations aren't clean. Finally I preferred to have been interpolated by a stain. I discovered that it was not a loss: the stain was a thinking. Because I preferred to survive, I entered the aesthetics of doubt. With the interruption of my identification with beauty by the stain, a philosophy arrived. It was a little tool towards freedom. My youthful commitment to the identity of beauty with freedom had been experimental, in the sense that usefully recognizing oneself as a girl was an experiment."

"The man-poets scorned what they desired; their sadistic money was such that the object scorned was endowed with the shimmer of sex. How radiant we were in our gorgeous outfits and our bad moods! Oh, and this ignited poetry. Baudelaire scorned Jeanne Duval and every female he dallied with, or at least did so on paper, Ted Hughes scorned Sylvia Plath, Ezra Pound scorned Djuna Barnes, George Barker

scorned Elizabeth Smart, everybody scorned Jean Rhys. Proust did not scorn Albertine because Albertine was a man. The she-poets perished beneath the burden of beauty and scorn. This is what I observed. This was the formal sexuality of lyric. Who was I then, what was I, when I, a girl, was their reader, the reader of the beautiful representations? Who was I if I became the describer, and how could I become this thing before perishing? Would I then even recognize myself? Because I saw the perishing everywhere. Daily I read it. The freedom of desiring and its potent transformations seemed not to belong to beauty, just to beauty's describer. Anyone without a language for desire perishes. Any girl-thing. My questions emerged then as a mute, troubled resistance to the ancient operation that I also craved."

"There was a communal, rust-marked sink with cold-water faucet at the end of the corridor, beside the shared toilet. I bought a plastic basin to fill at that sink and bring back to my room, and I washed in cold water that afterwards I poured out into the mansard roof gutters beneath my window. Out on the windowsill I stored my food. I had everything I needed, in a slightly diminished, awkward scale, as if I lived my life reduced by one sixth of the dimensions usually considered necessary. This awkward contraction of domestic necessity was for me utopian. The minor discomfort, unimportant in itself, was a subtle threshold to a different sensing. I poured my nightpiss also into that gutter."

"Red-haired prostitutes were highly valued then; the Goncourt brothers, in their diaries, delighted in describing the skin tone of red-haired women's sexes. Oh men. Our red haired twats and our torn skirts, you must claim them. We sing anyways."

"She sticks her lip out and doesn't budge. The short life of Baudelaire, in its dizzying, troubled decline, was defined by the poet's self-recognition in the grotesque mirror of the social abjection of women. Whatever the red- haired singer thought of this, the men's aesthetic use of her person as a masque, will now be expressed by her resistant, unnamed glance."

"The movement of perception or description, which are so closely intertwined as to be indiscernible, is not between nominal categories or aesthetic concepts. The girl is not a concept. Her idea has no core or centre, it takes place on the sills, in the non-enunciation of her name. This feminine namelessness seeps outwards with undisciplined grandeur. The girl's identity is not pointlike, so it can't be erased. It's a proliferating tissue of refusals. Unoriginal, it trails behind me, it darts before me, like my own shadow, or a torn garment. I say unoriginal because once she was named. The removal of her name is an historical choice, so ubiquitous that it seems natural. There is no nameless girl. There is no girl outside language. The girl is not an animal who goes aesthetically into the ground, as many of the philosophers would have it. The girl is an alarm. Her lust is always articulate. If her song goes unrecognized it's because its frames been suppressed; her song is enunciation's ruin. It is a discontinuous distribution, without institution. Always the tumult of her face is saying something to her world."

"

Your body can sometimes deter its own represertain: this breach indicates an interiorized covenant or constraint. It's called the feminine. Its a historica condition. The movement of perception or descripion. which are so closely intertwined as to be indiscernible is not between nominal categories or aesthetic concepts. The girl is not a concept. Her idea has no core or centre- it takes place on the sills, in the non-enunciation of her name. This feminine namelessness seeps outwards with undisciplined grandeur. The girl's identity is not pointlike so it can't be erased. It's a proliferating tissue of refusals. Unoriginal, it trails behind me, it darts before me, like my own shadow, or a torn garment. I say unoriginal because once she was named. The removal of her name is an historical choice, so ubiquitous that it seems natural. There is no nameless girl. There is no girl outside language. The girl is not an animal who goes aesthetically into the ground, as many of the philosophers would have it. The girl is an alarm. Her lust is always articulate. If her song goes unrecognized it's because its frames been suppressed; her song is enunciation's ruin. It is a discontinuous distribution, without institution. Always the tumult of her face is saying something to her world."

"

Prodigal, undisciplined, with an aptitude for melancholy and autonomous fidelity: nameless girl with your torn skirt, there's nothing left for you but to destroy art. That is what Baudelaire wrote of young girls in his intimate journals: The girl, frightful, monstrous, assassin of art. The girl, what she is in reality. A little lush and a little slut; the greatest imbecility joined with the greatest depravation. I read this and then I reread it: I recoiled. predictably disgusted. Already this sort of cruelty had become familiar in my reading. Very often a text contains its own police; the she-reader is simply shut out, among various others, none of us the men of the declared inside. I read this excision everywhere. I read it in philosophy especially but also in poetry, in criticism, in history. The female is identified, then transformed to her predestined use, which is nameless. Any reader pertaining to the feminized category receives a gut punch. Would you care to be prostituted? Since I first began to read, the punch had been one part of reading. I felt it personally, that is to say, physically. Sometimes I braced myself and continued, bristling with cautious defensiveness. Sometimes I weakened and cried. ashamed even of my weakness. I believed it was my task to harden myself and persist. But gradually now the Baudelairean rant against the girl began to work differently in me. This slut insinuated attractive possibilities. What if this was not a punch but a perverse invitation? The lush imbecile beckoned me in. She begged me to become something. I paused, then I became that monster. I even expanded her grotesque domain, following the useful suggestion of Michèle Bernstein that it has become time to 'unleash inflation"

"

Though I liked his philosophy of tailoring very much, I did not set out to compose the work of Baudelaire. In truth I'd barely read him. I entertained no particular literary nostalgia towards his canonical image, and I knew very little about his life. Between me and the Baudelaire concept there was no articulated relationship of influence, imitation, worship, or even rebuttal. When I think about the conditions of this involuntary transmission, although I don't believe that conditions are necessarily causes, I now see that I'd been nudged a little by the presence in my life of the worn yellow volume, and by the mostly passive absorption of a received mythology, as well as by the slightly more principled reading of a Predictable cluster of critical texts, the ones more or less mandatory in my intellectual generation. Everyone reads an excerpt of The Painter of Modern Life alongside their Walter Benjamin and then moves on. Everyone reads three poems from Le Spleen de Paris."

"the Baudelaire material exerted subtle pressures whose import I didn't at first recognize, involved as I was with what seemed like more contemporary problems, such as the performativity of gender, or the politics of complicity. But I believe that there was no active sequence of cause and effect, no organic arc of development that could explain the transmission. I simply discovered within myself late one morning in middle age the authorship of all of Baudelaire's work. I can scarcely communicate the shock of the realization. What then of this authorship, this boisterous covenant? I either received it entire, as one slips into a jacket and assumes its differently accented gestural life, or I uncovered it within myself, which is to say inwardly I fell upon it."

"What happened was this: I smashed up against a violent and completely formed recognition that entered through my sleepy hands. The poems were my poems. The words as I read them were words I knew deeply because they were my own, the way my skin was physiologically my own. I'd muttered these words as I walked. I'd crossed them out after several years to replace them with other words and then changed them back. I was completely inside the poem I was reading, and also within its gradual, discontinuous making"

I’ll explain again. Waking early one morning in a Vancouver hotel room in the spring of 2016, I picked up the copy of Baudelaire that I’d been up late reading the night before. It was a wide bed; I’d simply left the book splayed open on the other pillow and fallen asleep beside it as some might sleep with a cat curled close. I’d slept only lightly. I was preparing to teach a seminar on the prose poem, connecting Baudelaire’s Paris Spleen to Rousseau’s Reveries of a Solitary Walker and the Essays of Montaigne. I felt nervous about these intermittent teaching tasks and so I defensively overprepared; now those hurried studies haunted my sleep. Still in bed, barely awake, I clicked on the lamp, reached for the outdated dark blue Modern Library edition that had replaced the old paperback I’d lost. The translations were mawkish. The worn cloth cover felt comfortable and familiar. I read at random one sentence, a cry posing as a query:

Shall we ever live?

What happened was this: I smashed up against a violent and completely formed recognition that entered through my sleepy hands. The poems were my poems. The words as I read them were words I knew deeply because they were my own, the way my skin was physiologically my own. I’d muttered these words as I walked. I’d crossed them out after several years to replace them with other words and then changed them back. I was completely inside the poem I was reading, and also within its gradual, discontinuous making, which was both skin and breath"

"Here I'll call it writing. But I wish to exorcise from this domain any assumption of authority. It is perhaps a false provenance, but I recall reading somewhere that the medieval Latin root of the word author was auctore to augment. Not caring much for the scholarship of origins, I've since held fast to this etymology as a truth, and not least as a method, without ever verifying it. To augment would be my work - to add the life of a girl without subtracting anything else from the composition, and then to watch the centre dissolve."

"

To have been thus doubly kissed, to have been drawn by a kiss, was a form of becoming. This kiss transcribed me. And yet for a very long time the double kiss had had to ripen upon me in its cool way, until in the morning hotel bed it awoke a second time within me, or indeed upon my skin, meaning also the skin of my tongue, as the artifice of my authorship of the works of Baudelaire. Between the wide bed of the hotel and the narrow bed of the maid's room on rue du Cherche-Midi, beds like two poles of a battery, the one with a book, the other with a boy, all of my life crowded, every part of the language that figured the pause that permitted me to enter poetry. Reader, I am sad to think of all the years that passed during which that kiss was forgotten. The truth is, I only recalled the kiss because I had transcribed it. Even - or, I suppose, especially - the most delicately human truths can disappear. I had made a place for it then in the diary I have often mentioned in these pages, the heavy hard-bound diary with the brown leather spine, which weighed as much as a sturdy pair of leather boots. In black ink on blank cream-coloured laid paper, I had found a few phrases for the boy's kiss, for his silver necklace, for the soft light that afternoon, which was caught glinting in the necklace, in the midst of pages of lists and awkward drawings of coffee cups, park benches, and sculptures at the Louvre. This diary was a character in the drama I was constructing, the drama of my life, or at least my imagination of a possible

and necessary life. It was my dirty and smudged receiver. Obediently it harboured the augmented kiss of the green afternoon. I had begun the diary shortly before my first exodus to Paris, under the influence of my grandmother's death. While she was dying in a Toronto hospital I stayed in her apartment, a sparse place, since she had sold many possessions in order to get by. I took the bus to visit her every day, bringing her little puddings and treats to tempt her to eat, and a tape deck, so she could listen to music. I brought late Beethoven quartets on cassette. I applied lotion to her dry face and hands. I combed her hair. I helped her change her nightie. But what she wanted most from me, what she was hungry for, was description. She wanted me to describe everything to her and so I did: the route the bus had taken, the interiors of the various shops I visited, what trees were flowering and where, what late and where I bought it, how I had rinsed my blouses in the bathroom sink and hung them to drip dry over the tub. The vintage stay-up grid-patterned stockings I'd found in a vintage shop in Kensington Market. Nothing was too trivial. For my grandmother, in the last days of her living, description was a second life, a way of being in the world. It was what I could offer her, and it was what she could receive. Description soothed her. It was mortality's cosmetic. It enlarged the possible...

So I described for her. In this way writing became a magical procedure: describing the world in its smallest details was a work of love for the dead."

"my inevitable failure to get it all down - the patterns of concrete floor tiles in 5 p.m. winter train stations lit by yellow incandescent light, the pink feather counterpane on the hotel bed in my room in Rheims when I went to see the twelve tapestries of the life of Mary in the cathedral and left with the image of bombed-out stained- glass windows incongruously pouring morning light into Gothic space, the riveting astonishment of the Cassavetes film Love Streams that I'd seen at a matinée on the boulevard Saint-Michel and left indelibly altered: Gena Rowlands as the questing and numinous medieval philosopher of the expansion of love, her face like a bright planet across jittering chiaroscuro. Distant love, divorced love, mother-daughter love, rejected love, father-daughter love, sister-brother love, father-son love, human-animal love, polyamorous love, earth love, holy love, ludic love, experimental love, all splintered, imploded, swirled, marbled, leaked, knit in limitless kaleidoscope; the tenderness of the boy's gaze before he kissed me."

"

life. I wanted to be as stupid as kissing, as dirty as a servant, as ripe as a blown-open diary, and I was. Everything will fall short of the lucidity of this stain and its proliferation of vanishing points. Also I reread to live doubly. I do now enjoy receiving the shock of audacity at the stain that I was. It is not possible that I was that girl, splintered, imploded, swirled, leaking, yet I hold here in my unmanicured hands her junky documents. Under their influence, I learn afresh the nobility of infidelity and artifice."

" I feel a faintly obscene devotion to my own ridiculousness, as if I were a perverted naturalist describing a curious form of invasive vegetation. To everything I read in the diaries I now give the name novel, I give the name knock-off. Yet I am completely disgusted by literature. That's why this is erotic comedy. A brief afternoon tempest; one petal slides under the door. The time of this cottage is kept in flowers. As a dandy fingers his lapels, I finger my book."

"

I recall that the room was very narrow, as was the bed, and that the wallpaper was covered in lugubrious yellow roses. Things left in hotel rooms: Swinburne, the moth-ridden morning jacket, a polished black teardrop-shaped pebble I had carried since childhood for luck, my Vivitar camera, my Canadian passport, my best brassiere, of magenta silk brocade trimmed in orange piping. Each of these items is now framed in my memory by the room where I left it behind, as if forgetting the object conceptually fixed the place and its decoration, in a perverse inversion of the often-mentioned technique of ancient memory. Here the object, the Swinburne Faber paperback, purple, absent, recalls the room, street sound and river light coming through the tall open window. and the heavy rosy Goth pulse of the amber scent in its odd flat transparent bottle."

"

Carved from solid walnut, it was one of those furnishings of genius, which we find in the eighteenth century, but which modern cabinet makers are powerless to imitate or reproduce. Indeed, its oval shape was endlessly transformed by inflections, apparently capricious and every-which-way, but to the contrary, the result of profound calculations. Not only did this ceaseless, undulating line seduce by way of its elegant caprice, but the table was contrived so that no matter how one sat at it, the body found itself supported, held softly, with no rigidity! Banville said that he believed the table itself was an element in the composition of Les Fleurs du mal."

"In considering the publication of Les Fleurs du mal and its subsequent trial, I believe it was the century that was obscene, not the poems. Baudelaire had composed a darkly fulgent antidote to capital's moral voraciousness, a homeopathic potion with a complex temporal structure, as the great noses compose noble perfumes based upon a necessary rot. Had the censors recognized the mortal danger to signification exuded by the infinitely proliferating folds and vortices of these flowers? They ravage all groomed certainty."

"

consider the narrative components of the scent; this middle trajectory pretends to a functional, developmental sincerity, which it meanwhile viciously parodies. The final temporality is the lingering, superstructural one, a rigorous and beckoning decay deeply impregnating the senses, insinuating its undesignated difference beneath and among the sanitized affects of the grid, the assassin of the very sweetness it had borne darkly forward."

"

"Here I want to return to the physiognomy of inflection, the figure of the table becoming the body becoming the book of flowers. I have said that I've felt that it is the room that writes, that I simply lend it my pronoun. For Banville, Baudelaire's table was a linguistic force that collaborated with the poet's desire. The edges that separate things are conventional rather than inherent or inevitable. While it may make use of these edges in passing, the work of desire is borderless. Once set in motion by a site or an image, swervelike, the line of recollection simply continues, and in multiple directions, intensities, and temporalities, becoming surface, becoming ornament. I feel it in my body as I write this. The scent of a stairway, the glance of a painting and the eyes and the lips and the loneliness nonetheless. Here's a city that calls - be glorious fully in this poor minute. There is no unidirectional lust. We lean in and it careens to an elsewhere. It's both ahead of the body and behind the body, as well as all around it, like a voluminous shawl or scarf. Curves, counter-curves, folds entangle. To be held for an instant, to bring the furling velocity back towards the more limited scale of the speaker, desire seeks a language. The work of memory also enjoys the helpful artifice of a frame, a rhyme, a room, a table, a cartouche, a grammar. Desire and memory: their vertiginous animality is the condition of all predicates. Where would the dear bare body be without these ornate garments and phrases and ointments that bind us to time"

"When I wrote sentences in my diary, willing myself to describe rooms, paintings, dreams, garments, encounters, and so to fix them against oblivion - crossing out and starting over, repeating, replacing and slightly altering, fibbing - I discovered that I wanted their edges to shimmer. I wanted the gorgeousness in the tawdry and girlish, but I also wanted the anger. Sentences had surfaces; I wanted them to begin to undo themselves, to careen into the impossible. A sentence could be a blade. My task was to free the sentence from literature. To free it from culture even, since both are owned. At the beginning of my research I tested the potentials of duration in my diary, used the leaves of the bound volume as a laboratory. Never had a girl written anything long enough. If I could open the temporality in sentences, perhaps a transformation could take hold. It was the simplest idea, but had some inadvertent merit, in that it forced me to recognize

time as linguistic material. Therefore time did become my linguistic material. Patience and impatience intertwined in a lacework. Pattern emerged. I was no avant-gardist; I had no interest in abolishing grammar. Rather, I studied it, in a casual way. I wanted to understand subordination. I thought it could be useful. I dallied with additive phrases, internal digressions, parallel constructions, and deferred predicates; I saw that the shape of the sentence could be dangerous. Instead of accommodating and representing the already- known, so limiting identity and collectivity, this shape could instead become a force of inflection. Like the baroque table, like a spiralling scene in a movie by Cassevetes, at the core of a storm a dog becomes a blonde person who speaks soundlessly into the heart."

"The sentence: subjectivity followed by a pause. Subjectivity: whatever desires or hates. Now the pronoun could be limitlessly potent instead of retrospectively descriptive; the sentence, rather than receiving the dumb imprint of my always too-limited experience, could hold grammar open to future becoming, or shut it capriciously to evade determination. Now all at once I could recognize my own anger - it wasn't hot and explosive, but an ice- edged retraction. Often this recognition had evaded me in my life. I had felt that I had no anger until I took hold of that cold blade. I came to feel grammar as an elemental matrix. All possible co-mixture and variability came into being in tandem with the technology of those prismatic constraints."

" What future strangers would recognize themselves in this charged. citational, T? What would a girl's anger be? How would each speaking girl transform her pronoun? Its a fractured citation. Everything that's ever passed through it has left behind traces of fragrance: coconut, musk, and fear. We speak the words others have spoken, in new settings, and so transform them a little, while the trace of the old speakers also remains active, moving into the potent future. The pronoun is just the most intense point of this timely reinvention. The feeling of having an inner life, animated by a cold-hot point of identification called I, is a linguistic collaboration. We speak only through others' mouths."

"Yet what I hd already, coming to this table, was something easy and useful and fresh, and was given to me by sentences: the cool sensation that my body was already in the middle of thinking and that this condition, in both its lust and its anger, was average, unremarkable, so free.I would have liked my sentences to devour time. They'd be fat with it. In what sense is anger ornamental? When it permits a girl to pleasurably appear to herself. There was never a room that could hold my anger and so I went to the infinity of the phrase. Obviously it wasn't simple like that. Anger was my complicated grace. The sexuality of sentences: Reader, I weep in it."

"I began to see the poems in their typographical arrangement on paper as kinds of portraits. They were portraits of poems, much in the way that, between exhibitions, in the temporarily emptied room of a nineteenth-century museum, the indigo or crimson fabric-covered walls will be unevenly faded, revealing the brighter shapes of pictures that had long hung there, as ghosts of previous syntaxes of display and relationship. These absent shapes were now spaces for thinking something new. Whatever newness might be - for now, like a geometer, I think there is very little that is ever new on this earth. What we name invention is mostly recombination. But then the idea of the new burned like a faith within me. After many years of such ruminations and countless moves between cheap rooms, I lost track of the book, whose covers had come loose, leaving the onion-skin paper vulnerable to damage. Still by the time it disappeared I had not actually read it, though I had absorbed it through my hands."

"The granddaughter had also given me a paperback Littré dictionary, which I continue to keep on my writing table. It is the 1971 10/18 edition from Christian Bourgois and Dominique de Roux, with a glossy purple cover showing a slash of sulphur yellow and a disk of cyan, within which nested the stern photographic portrait of Emile Littré the theosophist lexicographer. Several children's names were written shakily and boldly on the first pages of the dictionary, in various colours of ink, accompanied by geometric doodles: Emmanuel, Jean, Caron. Inside, apparently random words were highlighted with yellow bars: exacerber, pondereuse, protectorat, regressive, affecter. It was the code to my future and I could not yet read it, or it was nothing, a chance scattering of various kinds of idiosyncratic marginalia - stars, underlinings, groupings of successive entries linked by soft vertical slashes in pencil. Next to gambade is a small black ink drawing of a crystal. A gambade is a caper, a frisk, a prancing. It is also the successful evasion of the payment of a debt, especially by a poet."

"From a slightly accented waist its longish skirt fared a bit behind, encouraging a brisk, decorative enunciation of my step; this jacket added a grain of wit to its wearer's walk, like a mild sartorial drug. It buttoned to the middle of the breastbone, and the largish buttons were covered in velvet, which had frayed at the edges, as had the softly turned, broad and high lapels. I recalled the theory of lapels I had once read without retaining the name of its author: the lapel is a gentleman's expression of vulva-envy. The old jacket fit me perfectly. Wearing this garment transmitted to my own body a metamorphosis in corporal gesture; though my physique and posture were more accented than altered, my bodily vocabulary opened to movements and stances generally only intuited now with the help of old photographs, such as those by Nadar or Carjat. The tailoring of the jacket moulded a new gait, a new stance, a gestural etiquette. I say new because it was unique in my proprioceptive grammar, though in reality what I had slipped into was an all-but-vanished ethics of sensation. I felt a lightened precision in my movements, coupled with a pleasurable cast of subtle constraint. I felt the flare of my high lapels. I bought the jacket."

"All of those jackets I wore over anything at all during the long era of intensive feminist theoretical study; they accompanied my ardent forays into Donna Haraway's Cyborg Manifesto - for indeed I was no goddess - and the world-changing texts of Judith Butler, the shockingly liberating Gender Trouble, for"

"There had been so many Baudelairean jackets, each part of the infinite cycle of clothing, pawning, borrowing, owing, which, continuously recombinant, functioned in his life as the cardinal directions or the cosmic elements did in ancient geometries. Surely some of the purloined jackets were still circulating in the rag cosmos. The poet was not alone in upholding this sartorial cosmology. Marx, too, while writing Capital in London, rhythmically pawned his coat and then borrowed to retrieve it; so determining was this mobile garment and its liquid value that he used its image to begin the great study of the production of value in modernity. 'A coat is a use-value, Marx wrote, 'that is determined by need' It was said that he could only go to the library to research his lifework on those days when his coat was out of hock. At such times Baudelaire, or so he wrote to his mother, seeking yet another small advance on his capital to again renew the cycle, would wear all of his shirts at once and not go out. So the coat was also a fungible money - at the pawnshop it represented to its temporary owner not its usefulness, but a mobile unit of value in itself. A coat became heating wood, coffee, a room, time."

"The systems and infrastructures were continuing to erode, as they had been doing since the arrival of Thatcher in 1979, and the defunct industrial beauty of nineteenth- century train stations was no exception. Everything had been privatized or was about to be privatized except for poetry, which was worthless. These things, and others, about the depressed local economy, the fall of the social state, and the increasing precariousness of survival, were explained to me as I walked with my hosts to the pub where the reading would be held. Emboldened by our shared contempt for capital and our appreciation for difficult syntax, we drank a great deal."

"From a slightly accented waist its longish skirt flared a bit behind, encouraging a brisk, decorative enunciation of my step; this jacket added a grain of wit to its wearer's walk, like a mild sartorial drug. It buttoned to the middle of the breastbone, and the largish buttons were covered in velvet, which had frayed at the edges, as had the softly turned, broad and high lapels. I recalled the theory of lapels I had once read without retaining the name of its author: the lapel is a gentleman's expression of vulva-envy. The old jacket fit me perfectly. Wearing this garment transmitted to my own body a metamorphosis in corporal gesture; though my physique and posture were more accented than altered, my bodily vocabulary opened to movements and stances generally only intuited now with the help of old photographs, such as those by Nadar or Carjat. The tailoring of the jacket moulded a new gait, a new stance, a gestural etiquette. I say new because it was unique in my proprioceptive grammar"

" This cottage is now my archive. I am not sure that this is what I imagined for my life in poetry as I strove away on my blue typewriter in chambres de bonnes in 1985, yet having achieved such an archive I am not dissatisfied. In melancholic moments I refer to it as my hut, as it is very cheap, sparsely furnished, uninsulated, and heated by one wood stove. Many would consider it unsuitable for habitation. I can say that it does not leak. But if it is a hut, it is a dandiacal hut; all of my early urban fantasies, sartorial, perambulatory, philosophical, are now concentrated in its rough rafters and stone walls. My walks with my dog through the fields are theoretical experiments in the association of arcane concepts with a material history of margins. The landscape itself rhythmically conceals and reveals a tracing of the seizure and scarring of the earth by capital. Here I am not so much a recluse as an archivist of the ephemeral. This is one possible fate for the female thinker; this is one of the calmants of my heart."

"Folded rectangle was stitched to folded rectangle. All edges were woven selvedges. I kept sleeping. I kept stitching. She said that before armour the beautiful power of garments was the rhythm of folds. I felt the folded beauty in my sleep. She said that the folds were inconveniently uncomfortable beneath the snugly fitted armour. They clumped up and chafed and bruised the wearer. Therefore the tailoring or cuts, drawing the garment close to the living skin. One part of the technique of tailoring was layering many mitred woollen pieces to mould a form. The woollen layers constituted a padding fitted to the body. She said that in so contriving the woollen padding, she transformed the suit of armour to a kind of furnace or chrysalis. From it the dandy inevitably emerged. I was waking, still a little moist, coyly fluttering the tails of my morning jacket."

"There only one thing to do, and I did it with a kind of quick instinct, as would an artist who all at once, in her studio, perceives the only solution to a long-standing, worried- over metaphysical problem. I removed my jacket and hung it there, respectfully and tenderly buttoning its buttons and adjusting the fall of the shoulders on the wooden hanger. I closed the armoire, then ran for my train. This is how I lost both the poems and the jacket of Baudelaire, and in doing so made my only installation work. Perhaps the armoire has never since been opened, and inside it, the jacket is now livid dust."

"Cholerous yellow bile is exuded by the gall bladder, in the bitternes of anger. 'The phlegmatic humour seems to move with the sleepy coolness of water or lymph. It is stored in the lungs Only black bile, the fluid of melancholy, whose source is the spleen, has no observable correlative among the various internal fluids of the human body. It is not like chyle or wax or semen or tears; black bile is purely imagined. It is a spurious fluid necessary to supplement and correct the asymmetry of the other three, and thence to connect the cosmical human body to the four worldly elements. The element of melancholy is earth. It is dry and cold. Each of our bodies comprises a unique combination of these four humours in always-shifting proportions; our complexions, dispositions, and health express our humoral balance or imbalance at any time. In my own humoral admixture, what is the exact proportion of melancholy to choler? It may have been a preponderousness of the darkest humour that brought me to this cold house, together with my dog, most melancholic of beasts, as Benjamin reminds in his work on the baroque."

"Rhythm, an expression of form, is time, but it is time as the improvisation that moves each limited body in play with a world. Not necessarily metrical or regular, it's the passing shapeliness that we inhabit. It both has a history and is the history that our thinking has made:. As l achieved the apex of excitement in the rereading of this beautiful document, attempting to grasp anew how a concept becomes quite: literally a landscape (for only much later in the history of this word had rhythm come to articulate and even make perceivable the repeating or cycling patterns we attribute now to nature"

"Or had the insect succeeded in slightly breaking my nape skin with its barbed, needle-like hypostome? Had it transferred to my bloodstream, mixed with a small quantity of its arachnid saliva, the virus-like paternity of the body of work that I had discovered within myself? It is likewise the contagion of a virus, I have heard, that causes the brindled beauty of the parrot tulip, the peculiar variegation so valuable and sought-after during the Dutch baroque, when tulip bulbs were first brought from Turkey to the Netherlands. In Europe a virus of the common potato itself only recently introduced. from South America - caused a mutation in the Turkish flowers, expressed in the bizarre striated colouring and feathered form of the petals, now referred to as broken. Now I must wonder whether I did not so much assume the paternity, nor receive it in the mystic transmission whose architecture I have sought so rangingly to comprehend in these pages, so much as I had been infected by it, so that at this very moment the Baudelairean authorship moves"

"Her mouth is firmly set and her jaw strong. She withdraws from the gaze; she doesn't offer herself to an interpretation. Her autonomy is the very core of beauty. The concentrated intensity of her distant and withdrawn face is a rhetorical counterpoint to the skirt's expansive, forward-tumbling froth. I recognize the future girl in her refusal, her gravitas. She is irreducible to the visible, and she is irreducible to the invisible. She is relaxed in her displeasure. She is totally modern. I'll never know her and she doesn't care. This is Jeanne Duval. She's a philosopher. She was painted by Manet in 1862, a year after Baudelaire had dedicated to her a copy of the second edition of Les Fleurs du mal: 'Homage à ma très chère Féline.' Now I meet her image in Paris, on June 13, 2019. The linden trees are in flower. I'm fifty-seven years old. I'm thinking about the immense, silent legend of any girl's life. She's leaning back, observing."

[dynemechantivibration]

Knowing Dynemech Anti Vibration Foundation Isolation Is Crucial for Controlling all types of Industrial Vibrations

Does the Vibration of surrounding machinery influence your precise machines? A tried-and-true method for controlling vibration in industrial environments, both actively and passively, is foundation isolation. To control the impact of vibration in machinery and guarantee the best possible performance from industrial vibration machines, this method is essential.

Major Advantages With Dynemech Foundation Isolation Technologies :

Decreased centre of gravity and better weight dispersion for increased machine stability.

Maintained the alignment of the equipment throughout dynamic activities.

Effective vibration isolation reduces vibration transmission to nearby locations.

Safety measures for delicate machinery and measuring devices

Reduced impact of vibration on machine functioning, resulting in improved accuracy and durability

ideal for: Active Vibration Management, Presses for power, Hammers Forging, Engine Testing Rigs, hefty industrial equipment, Turning Machinery

#Vibration Protection Through Passive, Accurate Machining Facilities, Testing and Measuring Devices, Laser Blades, The microscopes, Machine Equipment, Rail pads for cranes, Techniques for Isolating Vibrations:

Specialized mounts known as "Anti Vibration Mounts" serve as vibration isolators, therefore minimizing the transfer of vibrations between equipment and its environment. They provide limited displacement capabilities and dynamic stiffness to improve isolation performance

The addition of an inertia block to the foundation design may greatly improve stability and vibration dampening for large machinery.

Industrial vibration machines benefit from the inertia block's assistance in controlling coupled modes of vibration.

Advanced dampening systems may further reduce vibration amplitude and enhance machine performance when used in tandem with anti-vibration mounts. These systems efficiently reduce the impact of vibration in machinery by controlling vibrations using energy dissipation methods.

Concrete basis: Effective foundation isolation and machine levelling depend on a well-designed concrete basis with the appropriate weight distribution.

Stabilizers: By including stabilizers into the foundation construction, industrial equipment may remain balanced and experience less unintended movements.

Specialized mounts with adaptable damping properties, such as hydraulic mounts, are perfect for applications with different vibration frequencies and amplitudes.

A Precision Engineering Method:

For best results, our vibration isolation systems use precise engineering techniques:

Analysing isolation needs for each application in detail

Custom-made inertia blocks and vibration isolators, Including technologies for active isolation in dynamic situations,

Weight distribution optimization and foundation design, In vibration analysis, coupled modes are taken into account.

Machine levelling procedures are used to increase stability,dampening system design that is specific to each industrial vibration machine

# Pro Tip: When you need to shield delicate equipment from adjacent vibration sources or control vibrations from large industrial machines, foundation isolation is essential. In particular, industrial vibration machines and applications using crane rail pads need a vibration control approach that takes into account your facility's unique isolation needs.

#Precision Equipment #Engineering #Industrial Design #VibrationControl #Industrial Engineering #Manufacturing #Factory Optimization #MachineryMaintenance

Do you want to improve the vibration control in your centre? Let's talk about the foundation design and vibration isolation needs you have for your industrial vibrating equipment.

To learn more: https://www.vibrationmountsindia.com/products/

#VibrationControl, #PrecisionEngineering, #IndustrialDesign, #MachineryMaintenance, #FactoryOptimization, #EngineeringSolutions, #Manufacturing, #IndustrialMachines, #dynemech, #antivibrationtechnology, #antivibrationpad, #insulationsheet, #rubbersheet, #rubbermount.

 Contact Us: +91-9810760131  Email: Sales@dynemech.com  Explore Our Solutions: [vibrationmountsindia.com]

[acecranesindia]

Let's enhance compaction efficiency and speed on various layers and thicknesses. ACE ASD 115 Soil Compactor's dual frequency and amplitude modes generate powerful vibrations and force on materials and layers, making your job at construction sites technologically smarter and faster.

[didanawisgi]

The contingency of parameters of human encephalograms and Schumann resonance electromagnetic fields revealed in monitoring studies

[hazelsbilmflog]

Form in Sound Design Lecture w/ Zoe! (24/02/23)

In every recorded song there exists two main copyrights. One in the written song itself (the Musical Work Copyright). One in the recording of the song (the Sound Recording Copyright).

We then watched a series of clips from Aftersun. We mainly discussed its use of manipulating score/soundtrack, noise reduction of intimate dialogue scenes, automated EQs and its succinct mixing and huge dynamic range.

Location Sound Recording Tutorial w/ Anne Marie and Leo! (24/02/23)

Sound waves are comprised of:

Frequency

Wavelength

Amplitude

Stereo sound exists because we have two ears.

Wild track: non-sync sound used to replace or enhance recorded sync sound. E.g, the perfect sound of a teacup hitting the table but that you didn’t manage to get a take of.

Atmos/Room Tone: “Atmosphere”, continuous background sound from location - used to ‘glue’ multiple takes when mixed with dialogue. Amos=Exterior and Room Tone=Interior

MixPre3 Settings:

Mode: Basic if using one mic, Advanced if using more than one

Tone: Turn this on and turn up to a comfortable volume to set appropriate headphone volume

Set low cut to 40Hz to cut out boom handling noises

[sdm-magnetic]

New Energy Electric Drive Sensors Resolver: Self-Learning And Failure Mode Analysis

**1. Overview of Resolverin New Energy Electric Drive Systems 

A resolver is a common sensor in new energy electric drive systems, primarily converting the axial rotation's angular position and angular velocity into electrical signals. Its structure mainly includes the resolver stator and rotor, with the most commonly used type being the variable reluctance resolver.

**2. Working Principle of Resolver**

The core structure of a resolver lies in its winding design, primarily consisting of excitation windings R1 and R2 and two sets of orthogonal feedback windings S1, S3 and S2, S4, all meticulously arranged on the stator. In normal operating conditions, high-frequency excitation signals are applied to R1 and R2, generating a sinusoidal current. The signals induced in the feedback windings have a clear functional relationship with the motor's rotational speed. Therefore, by thoroughly analyzing these feedback signals, we can accurately determine the motor's rotational state.

**3. Determining the Zero Position of the Electric Drive Resolver**

Determining the motor's zero position is crucial as it affects the motor control precision. In the early stages of new energy electric drive development, software functionality was limited, and zero position calibration was typically done using a specific zero-setting instrument, followed by software adjustments. However, this method has a significant drawback: it cannot correct the zero position angle during use, leading to deteriorating control precision over time.

To address this issue, self-learning zero position angle technology for resolvers has emerged. This technology integrates a self-learning algorithm into the motor controller, allowing the controller to automatically detect and correct the zero position deviation between the resolver and the motor. During the self-learning process, the controller first obtains the actual deviation value through specific test procedures (e.g., static or dynamic tests). Once the deviation value is acquired, the controller stores this information and automatically compensates during subsequent motor control operations. This enables the controller to more accurately control the motor's operational state based on the calibrated resolver signals, thereby improving control precision and performance.

A common self-learning algorithm is based on back electromotive force (EMF) learning, with a zero position angle PI regulator as the core. The diagram below illustrates the self-learning process of the zero position in a hybrid system. It sets the current control by setting iq to 0 and assigning a value to id, then calculates Vd (d-axis voltage) and uses it as the reference input for the zero position angle. The Vd output from the controller's current loop serves as feedback, and the zero position angle regulator outputs the converged zero position angle.

**4. Common Failure Modes of Resolvers**

- **Electromagnetic Interference (EMI)**

In new energy electric drive systems, the motor, controller, and other electrical components can generate electromagnetic interference. If the resolver's anti-interference capability is weak, these interference signals may affect its normal operation, leading to signal distortion or loss. Previously, shielding was used around resolvers to prevent EMI. However, this practice has largely been discontinued because the resolver operates at a higher frequency than the motor’s electromagnetic frequency, and as long as it is not too close to high-voltage lines, EMI is generally not an issue.

- **Asymmetry in Sine and Cosine Windings**

Misalignment in the assembly of the resolver stator and rotor can cause an uneven distribution of the magnetic field gap. This uneven distribution can lead to asymmetry in the sine and cosine windings, resulting in unequal amplitudes of the sine and cosine signals.

- **Impedance Mismatch Leading to System Instability**

Impedance is a critical factor affecting signal transmission. If the impedance of the resolver does not match that of other parts of the control system, it may cause signal reflection, attenuation, or distortion, thereby affecting the stability and performance of the entire system.

**Conclusion**

As a crucial sensor in new energy electric drive systems, the resolver is essential for precise motor control. We must also pay attention to potential failure modes in practical applications and take appropriate measures for prevention and handling. Only then can we ensure the stable operation and high efficiency of new energy electric drive systems.

[swradiogram]

Shortwave Radiogram, 20 December 2024-1 January 2025 (program 382): Our annual Holiday "Spectacular"

This week's program (382) will be our Holiday Spectacular. It will feature 18 MFSK64 images, all 150x150 pixels, of commercial light-pole-mounted holiday decorations. We've done light-pole decorations before, but the photos this year are new (I think). Program 382 will be repeated the following week  (27 December-1 January). Despite the festive content, production of program 382 was a harrowing experience. As I was encoding the content using Fldigi > File > Audio > TX generate, I noticed that the audio did not sound quite right. The pitch seemed high. When attempting to decode from the playback, the RSIDs would result in incorrect modes and audio frequencies. Some of the text did not print out correctly. I tried restarting the PC, with no improvement. Finally, I downloaded and installed the latest version of Fldigi (4.2.03), the the audio during encoding sound normal. Decodes on playback were OK. My previous (old) version of Fldigi (4.1.20) seems to have corrupted itself. I re-produced the show using the new, uncorrupted Fldigi. (I notice that the new Fldigi records at a lower amplitude. I hope this does not adversely affect your decoding.) On the subject of failures, my Yaesu FT-897D transceiver has stopped operating correctly after 13 years of nearly flawless service. The mode and band switches, which are rather essential, no longer work. Yes, I tried the lock button. I also tried using Flrig via the CAT cable, but it also would not switch the modes. I have yet to try a factory reset, although another owner noted online that this did not fix the problem. What might work, according to that owner, is unplugging the FT-897D for a long time, maybe months, to let the capacitors fully discharge. And speaking of failures, again, the exploded Florida Power and Light transformer serving the WRMI site is probably replaced by now. Some WRMI frequencies were off the air, including last week's Shortwave Radiogram on 9955 kHz. The schedule should be normal this week. A video of last week's Shortwave Radiogram (program 381) is provided by Scott in Ontario (Wednesday 1330 UTC). The audio archive is maintained by Mark in the UK. Analysis is provided by Roger in Germany. Here is the lineup for Shortwave Radiogram, program 382, 20 December 2024-1 January 2025, in MFSK modes as noted:  1:43  MFSK32: Program preview  3:18  MFSK64: Our Holiday Spectacular:                18 images, each 150 x 150 pixels 27:59  MFSK32: Closing announcements Please send reception reports to radiogram@verizon.net And visit http://swradiogram.net Bluesky: swradiogram.bsky.social Twitter: @SWRadiogram or https://twitter.com/swradiogram (visit during the weekend to see listeners’ results) Facebook group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/567099476753304 Shortwave Radiogram Gateway Wiki: https://wiki.radioreference.com/index.php/Shortwave_Radiogram_Gateway THE SHORTWAVE RADIOGRAM TRANSMISSION SCHEDULE IS IN THE IMAGE BELOW. IF THE SCHEDULE IS NOT VISIBLE FULL WIDTH, CLICK ON IT. Last week, the Saturday 2300-2230 UTC transmission was on both 7780 kHz and 7570 kHz. 7570 was the pre-Hurricane-Milton frequency. Try both.

Other Shortwave broadcast programs that include digital text and images include The Mighty KBC, Pop Shop Radio and Radio North Europe International (RNEI). Links to these fine broadcasts, with schedules, are posted here.

f1gma.bsky.social in Paris received these images 18 December 2024, 1330-1400 UTC, 15770 kHz from WRMI Florida ...

[xindunpower]

Three Phase Solar Inverter For Sale 4KVA-200KVA

As is well known, inverters can be divided into two types: single-phase inverters and three-phase inverters.

The main function of the inverter is to convert DC power into AC power. Again, due to the difference in voltage rates, single-phase is mostly used for domestic applications, while three-phase inverters are mostly used for high-power applications. So what is the working principle of three-phase inverter?

Three-phase inverter unit which converts the AC voltage to three phases, that is AC 380 V. The three-phase power supply consists of three AC potentials with the same frequency, equal amplitude and 120° phase difference, which can carry three-phase loads.

At the same time, the three-phase inverter supports 100% three-phase unbalanced loads and can therefore also carry single-phase loads. If your house has three-phase power connection, then it can be connected to any single phase via one connection only.

Let us further explain that the user can connect a fire wire and a common neutral wire to form a single-phase line. The voltage is equal to what we normally call 220V, so that your home can be powered by three phases, each phase of the three-phase supply and its neutral point can form single-phase circuit to provide electricity to the home user.

The three-phase inverter is divided into online and interactive types. The transmission lines are generally in three-phase four-wire system, where three lines represent the three phases A,B,C without splitting and the other is the neutral line N also called the zero line.

Xindun HDSX three-phase inverters are interactive, with power of 4KVA-200KVA, pure sine wave output and ultra-wide input voltage immunity range that can adapt to various harsh grid environments.

Operating modes: The operating modes of the HDSX series three-phase inverters are divided into mains priority/inverter priority/Energy saving mode, adapted to battery backup systems and off-grid solar power systems.

Mains charging current: 0~45A adjustable

Battery type: AGM,  Deep cycle,  GEL

In terms of product advantages, it has a widescreen LCD display with clear content and realistic chart data. Intelligent battery management to extend battery life. Support a variety of communication interfaces optional, remote monitoring (RS485 / mobile phone APP WIFI / GPRS)

As strong three-phase inverter, the HDSX three-phase inverter is used in commercial centres, medium-sized IDC data exchange rooms, medium-sized network management systems, banks and securities clearing houses. It provides stable power supply for a wide variety of locations and homes.

Guangdong Xindun Power Technology Co., Ltd. It is an inverter manufacturer with over 19 years of history. The company has excellent product quality and is equipped with a professional technical team to provide you with the most satisfactory pre-sales and after-sales services. If you need better quality inverter, please contact us.

[integrating-sphere]

The study of damped oscillations is crucial for assessing the immunity of electronic devices to oscillatory disturbances. This paper provides a comprehensive examination of the LISUN DOW61000-18 Damped Oscillatory Wave Immunity Tester, focusing on its ability to generate and measure damped oscillatory waves. The tester is essential for evaluating the resilience of electronic components against such disturbances, which is critical for ensuring reliable performance in various applications. This document details the operation, technical specifications, and application of the LISUN DOW61000-18, complemented by an analysis of damped oscillation graphs to illustrate the system’s capabilities and performance. Relevant tables and data are provided to support the analysis. 1. Introduction In the realm of electronic testing, ensuring that components can withstand various types of electrical disturbances is essential. One such disturbance is the damped oscillatory wave, which can affect electronic devices’ performance and reliability. The LISUN DOW61000-18 Damped Oscillatory Wave Immunity Tester is designed to simulate these disturbances to test electronic components’ immunity. Understanding how these damped oscillatory waves are generated and measured is critical for accurate testing and analysis. This paper delves into the principles of damped oscillations, the functionalities of the LISUN DOW61000-18, and how damped oscillation graphs are used to interpret test results. 2. Principles of Damped Oscillations Damped oscillations refer to a type of oscillatory motion where the amplitude of oscillation decreases over time due to energy loss, typically from friction or resistance. The general form of a damped oscillation can be described by the equation: where: x(t) is the displacement at time A is the initial amplitude, b is the damping coefficient, m is the mass of the oscillating system, ω is the angular frequency, ϕ is the phase angle. In this equation,  represents the exponential decay of the amplitude over time, which characterizes the damping effect.   3. The LISUN DOW61000-18 Damped Oscillatory Wave Immunity Tester The LISUN DOW61000-18 Damped Oscillatory Wave Immunity Tester is a sophisticated device designed to simulate damped oscillatory waves to test the immunity of electronic components. It operates by generating controlled oscillatory waves that can be adjusted in terms of frequency, amplitude, and waveform characteristics. The key features of the DOW61000-18 include: • Frequency Range: 1 kHz – 1000 MHz • Amplitude Range: Up to 30 kV • Waveform: Damped oscillatory wave • Pulse Duration: Adjustable from microseconds to milliseconds • Immunity Testing Modes: Including burst, continuous, and mixed modes The DOW61000-18 can be used to test various types of electronic devices, including consumer electronics, automotive components, and industrial equipment, ensuring they can withstand electrical disturbances under real-world conditions. DOW61000 18_Damped Oscillatory Wave Immunity Tester 4. Damped Oscillation Graphs Damped oscillation graphs are used to visualize and analyze the response of electronic components to damped oscillatory waves. These graphs typically display the amplitude of oscillations versus time, showing how the amplitude decays over time. Analyzing these graphs helps determine how well a component can handle electrical disturbances. 4.1 Example Graphs and Analysis Below are example damped oscillation graphs generated by the LISUN DOW61000-18, showing different test scenarios: Table 1: Parameters for Damped Oscillation Graphs Test Scenario Frequency (MHz) Amplitude (kV) Pulse Duration (µs) Damping Coefficient Observed Effects Scenario 1 10 5 100 0.5 Minor degradation in signal integrity. Scenario 2 50 10 500 1 Significant signal attenuation. Scenario 3 100 15 1000 1.5 Device fails to maintain signal integrity. Scenario 4 500 20 2000 2 Complete signal loss observed. Figure 1: Damped Oscillation Graphs for Different Scenarios • Graph 1: Frequency = 10 MHz, Amplitude = 5 kV • Graph 2: Frequency = 50 MHz, Amplitude = 10 kV • Graph 3: Frequency = 100 MHz, Amplitude = 15 kV • Graph 4: Frequency = 500 MHz, Amplitude = 20 kV Figure 2: Example of Damped Oscillation Graph In these graphs, the x-axis represents time, while the y-axis represents the amplitude of oscillation. As shown, higher frequencies and amplitudes result in faster decay of the signal, highlighting the importance of selecting appropriate test parameters to accurately assess device immunity. 5. Applications of the LISUN DOW61000-18 The LISUN DOW61000-18 is utilized in a variety of applications to ensure that electronic components meet required immunity standards. Its key applications include: • Consumer Electronics: Testing the resilience of devices such as smartphones, tablets, and laptops against oscillatory disturbances. • Automotive Components: Ensuring that automotive electronics, including control units and sensors, can withstand electrical interference. • Industrial Equipment: Verifying that industrial machinery and control systems remain functional under simulated disturbance conditions. 6. Comparison with Other Immunity Testers When compared to other immunity testers, such as those for ESD or surge testing, the DOW61000-18 provides a specific focus on damped oscillatory disturbances. While other testers may focus on different types of electrical disturbances, the DOW61000-18’s ability to generate and measure damped oscillatory waves makes it unique for assessing this particular type of interference. Table 2: Comparison of Immunity Testers Parameter LISUN DOW61000-18 ESD Tester  Surge Generator Frequency Range 1 kHz – 1000 MHz 1 kHz – 10 MHz 0.1 Hz – 10 kHz Amplitude Range Up to 30 kV Up to 30 kV Up to 10 kV Test Type Damped oscillatory waves Electrostatic discharge Surge and burst Application Focus Oscillatory disturbances Static electricity High voltage transients 7. Case Study: Testing Automotive Components In a recent case study, the LISUN DOW61000-18 was used to test the immunity of automotive control modules against damped oscillatory disturbances. The test involved subjecting the modules to oscillatory waves with frequencies ranging from 10 MHz to 500 MHz and amplitudes up to 20 kV. The results showed varying levels of signal attenuation and device malfunction, providing valuable insights into the components’ resilience and helping guide improvements. Table 3: Automotive Component Test Results Frequency (MHz) Amplitude (kV) Pulse Duration (µs) Observed Effects 10 5 100 Minimal impact on performance. 50 10 500 Noticeable degradation in signal. 100 15 1000 Partial malfunction observed. 500 20 2000 Complete failure to function. 8. Conclusion The LISUN DOW61000-18 Damped Oscillatory Wave Immunity Tester is a crucial tool for evaluating electronic components’ immunity to damped oscillatory disturbances. By generating and analyzing damped oscillation graphs, engineers can assess how well devices can withstand such disturbances and ensure their reliable performance in real-world scenarios. This paper has detailed the operation and capabilities of the LISUN DOW61000-18, demonstrated its application through various test scenarios, and provided a comparative analysis with other testing systems. Further research and case studies could expand on specific applications and performance characteristics, providing deeper insights into how damped oscillatory wave testing contributes to electronic device reliability. Read the full article

[goniophotometer]

The study of damped oscillations is crucial for assessing the immunity of electronic devices to oscillatory disturbances. This paper provides a comprehensive examination of the LISUN DOW61000-18 Damped Oscillatory Wave Immunity Tester, focusing on its ability to generate and measure damped oscillatory waves. The tester is essential for evaluating the resilience of electronic components against such disturbances, which is critical for ensuring reliable performance in various applications. This document details the operation, technical specifications, and application of the LISUN DOW61000-18, complemented by an analysis of damped oscillation graphs to illustrate the system’s capabilities and performance. Relevant tables and data are provided to support the analysis. 1. Introduction In the realm of electronic testing, ensuring that components can withstand various types of electrical disturbances is essential. One such disturbance is the damped oscillatory wave, which can affect electronic devices’ performance and reliability. The LISUN DOW61000-18 Damped Oscillatory Wave Immunity Tester is designed to simulate these disturbances to test electronic components’ immunity. Understanding how these damped oscillatory waves are generated and measured is critical for accurate testing and analysis. This paper delves into the principles of damped oscillations, the functionalities of the LISUN DOW61000-18, and how damped oscillation graphs are used to interpret test results. 2. Principles of Damped Oscillations Damped oscillations refer to a type of oscillatory motion where the amplitude of oscillation decreases over time due to energy loss, typically from friction or resistance. The general form of a damped oscillation can be described by the equation: where: x(t) is the displacement at time A is the initial amplitude, b is the damping coefficient, m is the mass of the oscillating system, ω is the angular frequency, ϕ is the phase angle. In this equation,  represents the exponential decay of the amplitude over time, which characterizes the damping effect.   3. The LISUN DOW61000-18 Damped Oscillatory Wave Immunity Tester The LISUN DOW61000-18 Damped Oscillatory Wave Immunity Tester is a sophisticated device designed to simulate damped oscillatory waves to test the immunity of electronic components. It operates by generating controlled oscillatory waves that can be adjusted in terms of frequency, amplitude, and waveform characteristics. The key features of the DOW61000-18 include: • Frequency Range: 1 kHz – 1000 MHz • Amplitude Range: Up to 30 kV • Waveform: Damped oscillatory wave • Pulse Duration: Adjustable from microseconds to milliseconds • Immunity Testing Modes: Including burst, continuous, and mixed modes The DOW61000-18 can be used to test various types of electronic devices, including consumer electronics, automotive components, and industrial equipment, ensuring they can withstand electrical disturbances under real-world conditions. DOW61000 18_Damped Oscillatory Wave Immunity Tester 4. Damped Oscillation Graphs Damped oscillation graphs are used to visualize and analyze the response of electronic components to damped oscillatory waves. These graphs typically display the amplitude of oscillations versus time, showing how the amplitude decays over time. Analyzing these graphs helps determine how well a component can handle electrical disturbances. 4.1 Example Graphs and Analysis Below are example damped oscillation graphs generated by the LISUN DOW61000-18, showing different test scenarios: Table 1: Parameters for Damped Oscillation Graphs Test Scenario Frequency (MHz) Amplitude (kV) Pulse Duration (µs) Damping Coefficient Observed Effects Scenario 1 10 5 100 0.5 Minor degradation in signal integrity. Scenario 2 50 10 500 1 Significant signal attenuation. Scenario 3 100 15 1000 1.5 Device fails to maintain signal integrity. Scenario 4 500 20 2000 2 Complete signal loss observed. Figure 1: Damped Oscillation Graphs for Different Scenarios • Graph 1: Frequency = 10 MHz, Amplitude = 5 kV • Graph 2: Frequency = 50 MHz, Amplitude = 10 kV • Graph 3: Frequency = 100 MHz, Amplitude = 15 kV • Graph 4: Frequency = 500 MHz, Amplitude = 20 kV Figure 2: Example of Damped Oscillation Graph In these graphs, the x-axis represents time, while the y-axis represents the amplitude of oscillation. As shown, higher frequencies and amplitudes result in faster decay of the signal, highlighting the importance of selecting appropriate test parameters to accurately assess device immunity. 5. Applications of the LISUN DOW61000-18 The LISUN DOW61000-18 is utilized in a variety of applications to ensure that electronic components meet required immunity standards. Its key applications include: • Consumer Electronics: Testing the resilience of devices such as smartphones, tablets, and laptops against oscillatory disturbances. • Automotive Components: Ensuring that automotive electronics, including control units and sensors, can withstand electrical interference. • Industrial Equipment: Verifying that industrial machinery and control systems remain functional under simulated disturbance conditions. 6. Comparison with Other Immunity Testers When compared to other immunity testers, such as those for ESD or surge testing, the DOW61000-18 provides a specific focus on damped oscillatory disturbances. While other testers may focus on different types of electrical disturbances, the DOW61000-18’s ability to generate and measure damped oscillatory waves makes it unique for assessing this particular type of interference. Table 2: Comparison of Immunity Testers Parameter LISUN DOW61000-18 ESD Tester  Surge Generator Frequency Range 1 kHz – 1000 MHz 1 kHz – 10 MHz 0.1 Hz – 10 kHz Amplitude Range Up to 30 kV Up to 30 kV Up to 10 kV Test Type Damped oscillatory waves Electrostatic discharge Surge and burst Application Focus Oscillatory disturbances Static electricity High voltage transients 7. Case Study: Testing Automotive Components In a recent case study, the LISUN DOW61000-18 was used to test the immunity of automotive control modules against damped oscillatory disturbances. The test involved subjecting the modules to oscillatory waves with frequencies ranging from 10 MHz to 500 MHz and amplitudes up to 20 kV. The results showed varying levels of signal attenuation and device malfunction, providing valuable insights into the components’ resilience and helping guide improvements. Table 3: Automotive Component Test Results Frequency (MHz) Amplitude (kV) Pulse Duration (µs) Observed Effects 10 5 100 Minimal impact on performance. 50 10 500 Noticeable degradation in signal. 100 15 1000 Partial malfunction observed. 500 20 2000 Complete failure to function. 8. Conclusion The LISUN DOW61000-18 Damped Oscillatory Wave Immunity Tester is a crucial tool for evaluating electronic components’ immunity to damped oscillatory disturbances. By generating and analyzing damped oscillation graphs, engineers can assess how well devices can withstand such disturbances and ensure their reliable performance in real-world scenarios. This paper has detailed the operation and capabilities of the LISUN DOW61000-18, demonstrated its application through various test scenarios, and provided a comparative analysis with other testing systems. Further research and case studies could expand on specific applications and performance characteristics, providing deeper insights into how damped oscillatory wave testing contributes to electronic device reliability. Read the full article

[konradnews]

51% off portable Sonicare. Supports app integration and comes with travel case.

Amazon (Amazon Japan) is having a time sale on the Philips Sonicare Expert Clean. Normally priced at 38,280 yen, it is 51% off at 18,880 yen at the time of writing. This electric toothbrush uses brush vibration and amplitude of 31,000 strokes per minute to remove plaque and generate sonic water flow in the mouth, with four brushing modes, three intensity settings, and a vibration function that…