Cd Painting Quotes

He got the impression she might be a bit fucked up, but that had always been his type. The kind that would break your headlights, egg your house, spray paint ASSHOLE on your garage door.

It’s like I’ve always had a painted musical sound track playing background to my life. I can almost hear colors and smell images when music is played. Mom loves classical. Big, booming Beethoven symphonies blast from her CD player all day long. Those pieces always seem to be bright blue as I listen, and they smell like fresh paint. Dad is partial to jazz, and every chance he gets, he winks at me, takes out Mom’s Mozart disc, then pops in a CD of Miles Davis or Woody Herman. Jazz to me sounds brown and tan, and it smells like wet dirt.

The silence was suddenly too much. He hit the CD button on the car’s radio. Brian Jones’s sitar riff opened for Charlie Watts tribal-like drumbeat thundering from the speakers. Keith Richards’ jangly guitar joined in, followed by Mick singing about seeing a red door that he wanted to paint black.

I took one step toward him and he took the sign as if it was in neon paint. Which it was. Neon paint with klieg lights. It said kiss me. Before I could complete the thought, I was against the wall and his lips were on mine. There was a fierceness to his mouth, a hunger that was the opposite of cold professionalism. His tongue fed me and his hands owned me. I could have melted into him so easily. I could have given myself over and loved every minute of it. I wanted to. My body wanted to. Every nerve in my body vibrated for him.

Natasha started to take notice. My sleepiness was good for rudeness to visitors to the gallery, but not for signing for packages or noticing if someone had come in with a dog and tracked paw prints all over the floor, which happened a few times. There were a few spilled lattes. MFA students touching paintings, once even rearranging an installation of shattered CD jewel cases in a Jarrod Harvey installation to spell out the word “HACK.” When I noticed it, I just shuffled the shards of plastic around, no one the wiser. But when a homeless woman set herself up in the back room one afternoon, Natasha found out. I’d had no idea how long the woman had been there. Maybe people thought she was part of the artwork. I ended up paying her fifty bucks out of petty cash to leave. Natasha couldn’t hide her irritation.

I went into my bedroom and noticed for the first time how much my chenille bedspread resembled a medieval tapestry. Every shimmering thread stood out for singular contemplation. Yet, at the same time, I could admire the totality of the weave—while noting every gradation of hue and texture. In a matter of minutes, my aesthetic had accelerated light-years beyond even Mr. Rogavere’s. I sat on my bed and examined the hairs on my arm. They formed calligraphic patterns more exquisite than any Chinese brush painting. Aldous Huxley was right. Beyond the narrow doors of perception lies a realm of wide-screen, big-budget Technicolor spectacles. All that was lacking was Victor Mature in a toga lashed to a marble column.

The CD-ROM's worth of information in the genome really wouldn't be enough to paint a bitmapped picture of an embryo, but it is enough to describe a process for building one. An artist who only wants to paint a picture that looks like a kind of tree has much less to remember than an artist who wants to paint a particular Ponderosa Pine from memory; in a similar way, if some alien's genome had to encode every cell in a body, it would need much more information (many more nucleotides) than our genomes do, because ours specify a general way to build a creature rather than an exact picture of every detail of the finished product. Our genomes are lossy because they specify methods rather than pictures, but it is precisely that lossiness that allows them to so efficiently supervise the construction of complex biological structure.

After I’d posted on my blog, we spent the next two days cleaning up the hotel. The workers had quit for the weekend (it was the weekend), and the Sociologist, João, and I picked up where they’d left off. We concentrated on the ballroom: first, we patched and painted. When we were done with that we scrubbed the floor of its last carpet remnants, buffed it with the power buffer. When we were done with that João went out and came back with a long buffet table, and on it he put a pair of speakers and, in between the pair of speakers, a CD player and a receiver. When we were done it looked like a room that had seen too many parties but was somewhat recovered and ready for another one.