I've just come to the realisation that at the beginning of Vore (first fifteen seconds), along with the scratchy guitar chord, there are chewing and swallowing sounds. The song is quite literally from the point of view of being stuck in the throat of a God.
guess who finally made a fanbot after 2 years in the musical robot fandom
meet Janka!
above: Janka in to versions - a bare mechanism and a 'friendlier' folk attire
created in 1921 and commercialy released in 1936, named after a character in a famous song, Janka was intended to be the first fully inteligent record-playing machine for personal use. With her creator, Stanisław Lasota, basing its design on popular barrel organs, she was equipped with many different accesories to make her blend in with the enviroment. The most popular one was a folk-based look, inspired by traditional clothing of people of Łowicz, but many different options were available, with some owners even sewing it clothes of its own.
above: bare mechanisms, the mask sold to make Janka less 'intimidating', the most popular folk variant, a "night out" variant personally crafted by one of the owners
Although the company producing record players promised all of them would be able to change the songs by the voice command, it seems that only the original prototype of Janka retained that function. That's why, while the other copies went on to become just a fancy gimmick, Janka's value skyrocketed, providing Lasota with a great sum of money that allowed him to retire early and comfortably. After his death in 1937, the original designs were found. It seemed that there were no differences between the commercial versions and the prototype - except for the material that the top of the table was made of. In the original, an undefinable green matter has been used, that studies have not been able to replicate. It is suspected that the substance, mixed in with molten glass, was a gift Lasota brought back from one of his travels.
above: diagram of the functions of certain parts
Once an unique antique, original Janka lost value over time. The amazement over her ability to change music at request and memorising entire symphonies after playing them once disappeared, replaced with annoyance, and sometimes even horror, as it seemed the machine gained a mind of its own.
Owners reported music playing in the middle of the night, suspicious movement and the needle skipping over certain words in song, forming a new message altogether. After the last owner, Jerzy Sójka, claimed "the goddamn machine, [it] has a mind of its own, [it's] the devil! devil is speaking to me!", the fate of Janka had become unknown. Many suspect that it has been abandoned in a basement or an attic, with some even claiming they still hear her song being played at night.
i travel across skies and seas
of endless possibilities
and yet you've caught my eye
like how stars exist to die
my brain was joking about how wells and gin would be a good couple bc they both have scars over their eyes. then i genuinely thought abt it.,, and one thing led to another
wells is my oc
gin!sans belongs to @dreemurr-skelememer
(Mitski - A loving feeling | Bears in Trees - Simply Won't Believe It | Mitski - First Love/Late Spring | dexter - Maybe The Problem Is Me | Ricky Montgomery - My Heart Is Buried In Venice | Orla Gartland - Codependency | Bears in Trees - Seaside | The Walters - I Love You So | Gilbert O'Sullivan - Alone Again)
This isn't really an ask but I saw your post talking about writing a song for Falling Snow and since I was already having a hard time getting to sleep I decided to throw something together.
I based it on some of my own anxieties I have projected onto y/n of not feeling wanted as you are, based on some of the events that have happened in the story (e.g. their friends sacrificing them, coming from a rough home life, Kyle wanting to date them, and now Heaven insisting they lie about their experience in hell). I wrote the song as a ballad depicting their frustration with how they've been treated in the past, finally finding someone who wants them as they are, and then losing that person to be forced to change for others once again.
The lyrics and music are simple and I definitely don't expect this to be a final product since it is just something I put together while sleep-deprived, but I hope they help you figure out what you'd like to do for the character's song.
[Verse 1]
In the quiet night, I’m lost in my own mind
Brush strokes of doubt, colors indestinct.
I see the world through weary eyes,
Hiding away, force to tell their lies.
[Chorus]
I can't be their blank canvas,
To paint with shades of who they want me to be.
I'd be a masterpiece if allowed the chance,
To find myself.
[Verse 2]
Caught in the tangle of expectations,
Hiding behind a mask of false creations.
But deep inside, a fire burns bright,
Longing to break free and embrace the light.
[Bridge]
So I'll pick up the pieces, one by one,
Reveal the truth they’ve been hiding from
My canvas bares scars, stories entwined
Incomplete portraits of dreams, scattered, undefined.
[Verse 3]
Then you came, a shadow in the night,
Embracing me with crimson charm, a mesmerizing sight.
We had Instapoetry as a topic in class, and we had a long discussion about what poetry is, etc., and the professor said, "everything that claims to be a poem is a poem." This reminded me of the book "How poetry means" by John Ciardi, which you recommended a while ago. Having read a lot of Instapoetry, I'm not sure my prof's definition is valid: if everything can be poetry, then nothing is. Just because something's structured in lines and stanzas doesn't make it a poem. What are your thoughts?
Your professor is as wrong as wrong can be. If I claim to be a pencil, does that make me one? Self-identification means nothing if it's not based in reality. If words don't have meanings, they... don't mean anything. So you're quite right. If any particular thing is a poem, poetry is nothing in particular.
The last century's experiment with changing the definition of art from "a work meeting specific criteria for creation and excellence in a given medium" to "this is art because I am an artist" and "it's art because I say it is" is a case study in degeneracy. "Anything is art" is a failed experiment. You can't get anyone to admit it though because it is so tied to a worldview - like all claims about art, it's really a claim about the nature and purpose of human beings and reality. And people get defensive when you question their religion.
The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics entry on "poetry" discusses versification, lineation, and heightened language as essential to this "verbal art." "Prose is cast in sentences; poetry is cast in sentences cast into lines."
Poetry is an art crafted of words that are extremely ordered. As Coleridge said, prose is words in the best order, poetry is the best words in the best order. Contemporary "free verse" like instapoetry, even if it contains incidental rhythm or the occasional rhyme or some other individual characteristic of poetry, is usually a single emotion, thought, or political statement stripped of the very layers of kinds of order that poetry is made of - meter, lines (distinct from inconsequential hits of the enter key,) heightened language, image (concrete, metaphorical, or imaginative), beautiful sound, "an experience irreducible to paraphrase," or even that delicate triangle balance of thought, emotion, and image that constitutes what's considered good contemporary free verse. It's not just about the content, but about what the physical (as it were) words are doing, and - this is where Ciardi comes in - how they do it.
I think the point about lineation is worth coming back to. You said "Just because something's structured in lines and stanzas doesn't make it a poem." Exactly this. Take this paragraph; I could go back through and format it to "look" like a poem, with shorter lines and stanza breaks, but that would not add anything to the content. Poetic lines have actual function in the meaning and experience of the poem.
"True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense."