sea of stories

An arts / media project.
Gather random data from the web, possibly a web search with a common word.
If it’s images, select random images.
It it’s videos, select random videos.
Select random paragraphs from web pages.
Create a story.
Make it interactive, sort of like a queue of paragraphs, a queue of photographs and a queue of videos.
Make it so, one can pick and choose segments from the queue, and add to a flowing story line. The segments are not to be editable. They can only be moved around or shortened.
An input box for text that goes into a different queue, a queue for search words. These words are used to further search.
Later, feeds can be added such that it’s not just the web that the data is coming from. Possibly tap into radio feeds and recognize certain words using voice recognition.
This could be looked at as sort of an expansion of webcollage by jwz, and the idea of intertwingularity.
I’m not much of a UI person. Someone better than me would have to come up with the UI design. The programming behind it should be fairly trivial.

Update: Entry title changed to sea of stories, using a suggestion from a user at halfbakery. It was formerly called everything’s connected media project.



As I jiggled the door handle, I caught a glimpse of Shobha stooping next to a table. The door was open. I caught her snorting as I stepped in.
Leave some for me, I shout. Ge your own shit, she mumbles. She walks away to the kitchen, picks up a broom and starts cleaning the floor. She’s pretending to clean.
There’s a little bit of the stuff left on the table. I stoop down and take it in one pull. I can smell bits of masala. The bitch.
What the fuck are you doing here anyway, she says.
The MainMan said I could drop by. Besides, I had a feeling you might be around.
The bitch is dressed like a puta today.
Hey you wanna.. I say as I walk towards the first bedroom.
She cuts me off. She’s already there.
I wanna what? where? she says.
She pulls off her sweats. Just a bra.
Then she smiles, this wicked smile.
You’re high I say. I turn around and head back outside.

golden bull bar

The teenager in the green tracksuit has found her niche. The dude with the
wobbly walk, probably due to his stomache, has found his niche. The
college going, shorts wearing girl walking with her visiting mama has
found her niche. The grey haired athletic looking man, lounging down the
path has found his niche. Even the damn geese quacking and wobbling around
have found their niche.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here drinking. I know I have things to
do, important things, responsible things. But I’m craving some
drinking tonight. Some loosing of my mind, some careless smoozing, some
carefee boozing. Yet, I know, when the bar closes, I’ll make my way to El
Sobrante, my home. I don’t particularly like that place. I have a home,
yet I can’t call it home, if you get my drift.

Some women have unbelievable voices. You hear this voice on your left,
“fucking A, grunt frunt”, “Japanese is totally hard, I’m takin a class
now”. I turn around, thinking it must be some nose-ring toting, long
haired punk. Bu tno, it’s my bartender, just chatting it out with some of
her regular customers. Gorgeous too, really cool. She has a sweat-shirt on
that says “Pretty girls make graves”. That’s totally bitching, man, I say.
It’s the name of a band I used to be in, she says.

This bar is different. You gotta visit it when you’re in oakland. They
have death metal playing right now. To top it off, they have a kickass
movie playing on their screents “Once upon a time in Mexico”. No sports
for me, thank you ma’am. Oh no, wait, that movie’s done. They’re playing
“Dawn of the deat” and the music just kicked up a notch, screaming and
teeth-scratching-on-guitars wise. The amazing bartender with the throaty
voice is telling me this place is not all thrash metal.

She says wednesdays, this place is packed with girls. Hmm, I must’ve sent
her a vibe, Hey yo, lookie here, I’m on the lookout for girls or something
like that. 4 to 1 she says to me.

She proceeds to pull out a smoke and drags on it. Can I smoke? Sure you
can, not legally, but yeah!. I’m in heaven. This place is totally empty
and I’m in heaven. I’m smoking in a bar in
neo-liberal/health-conservative, environment conscious Bayarea. I can’t
believe it myself. Hallelujah for rebelliousness.

It’s called the golden bull. The bar. I believe it’s on 14th street
downtown. Ok, I’m going to the billiards table. I’m not good at it, but
they seem nice.

Some one just worte a paragraph on one of my index cards. This is what it
says in all CAPS.
My friend, it’s the peace that passes within
there’s no cause, and there’s no end!
Repent for my sake
Cause I know not the end.

There’s this guy who’s been tracking customers around the bar. I was
hoping he’d give me some skank for a tenner. But then again, I had a
feeling he’s a copper on the prowl. He shows up. I thought he’d screwed
me, but he shows up. He acts like he’s the owner of the bar, but whatever.
The girl with the gorgeous voice seems put off by the whole deal. She
seemed like a girl one could hang with.

I kinda like this whole japanese-b-flicks with live heavy metal moment. It
flows and gives meaning to the whole evening.

The great grey state

I say, what’s with the learning
and the shovelling of mounds
and heaps of knowledge and
travelling and learning
and then sitting back
in the backyards of suburbia
raising children dreamily
as if in a trance.

Building community.
Building society.
A royal painful fuck in the ass
is what it is..

Go home to your countries,
your villages,
your places of coming into this world,
your barrios and your ghettos.
Build it there.

But I can’t say that
Beacuse I’m one of them
I’m you . I’m us.

We’ve all got mental syphilis
Fucking with our minds,
passing it along
Fucking with their minds
passing it along
Fucking with somebody else’s minds
passing it along

Warts and bruises
and itchiness in the head
Great grey scabs
of browning dirt
in the landscape of the mind.

-by Lex Lapax (6/24/2005)